Just Dishes

I don’t know how this started. I don’t even know when it’s going to end. But I know who started it, and it definitely wasn’t me. It was my illustrious, saint of a roommate, Maximus Walter Bennett. Or Max, to his friends. But in this argument? I’m using all three names.

“So, are you going to do the dishes?”

Those were the words that started a cacophony that slowly descended into the screaming match that’s probably keeping all of our neighbours awake. I feel sorry for poor, sweet, old Ms Rosie next door. Hopefully she has her hearing aid turned down.

The way things began, you’d think I’d never done a dish in my life. But I do, I do them exactly when I’m supposed to. We have a perfectly planned out schedule that makes sure everything is evenly disturbed amongst the both of us. Matter of fact, I’m the one that crafted the whole damn thing. So why is Maximus Walter Bennett jumping down my throat? I swear he’s been acting up since he found out Desmond and I were getting serious. It’s not like I’m going to abandon him. Not yet, anyway.

“Then there’s the vacuuming. Why haven’t you got on that?”

“Because you literally did that three days ago, I’m not doing it again!”

What kind of weirdo vacuums again after only a couple of days? Complete waste of precious energy that could be spent on the real world. Like taxes. Well, maybe not taxes. Why was that the first thing that came to my head? Probably because the last time I argued with Max, it was about how we were becoming ‘real adults’ that had to stop acting like children and think about our future. We got really drunk that night, I honestly barely remember what happened.

I’m trying to be the calm one in this situation, because it’s always been me that’s had to be level-headed in every miniscule conversation we’ve ever had. How long should we stay out for? When should we cut off our drinks? Would it ruin the friendship to start dating? Maximus Walter Bennett had always been reckless, but it had always been me to talk him off the ledge of unadulterated insanity. The idiot introduces himself using all three names, what’d I expect?

“I just really need you to start pulling your weight.”

“I’ve bought all our groceries for the past month! Does that count, you turd?”

The name calling was probably unwarranted. But was it deserved? You bet your bottom dollar it was. He’s being completely unreasonable. Honestly, the last time he was this unreasonable, he was trying to convince me his boyfriend cheating on him was just a simple mistake that had already happened five times. I love the guy, but he needs to learn to let people go sometimes.

Maybe that is what this is all about. Maybe he is afraid of me moving out a leaving him behind. We’ve known each other for eight years and have lived together for six. This could all just be chalked up to a little pre-emptive abandonment issues. And yet, it’s not like he thinks I’m leaving. It’s not like he knows about…

“This has absolutely nothing to do with Dumb Desmond.”

“You really need to stop calling him that. He’s going to be a doctor.”

“Oh wow, a doctor? I didn’t know that. It isn’t like he hasn’t brought it up every single time we talk!”

Trying to follow his train of thought is like trying to understand my mother after a few glasses of white wine. You might understand some of the words, but they don’t make any sense shoved together. Max…I mean, Maximus Walter Bennett has never been Desmond’s biggest fan, but he’s never hated him either, not as far as I could tell anyway. In fact, he’s liked all of my past partners, said so himself. But this is supposed to be about the chores, so why is he bothering to bring up my boyfriend?

“You’re the one that brought him up, Jack. Not me.”

“Yeah, well…I’m not the one that called him ‘Dumb Desmond’, am I?”

“What does that have to do with this argument?”

“Why are we having this argument in the first place?”

He keeps avoiding the question, like there’s something holding him back. He always gets to just the very cusp of his thinking, giving me hope that I might be able to peel back the layers of his anger like an onion. I’m trying my hardest not to make a Shrek reference right now, but I know that’ll just set Max off, and start us down a long, winding road that will inevitably lead us to another argument around who the best Disney princess is. It’s obviously Elsa, but I’ll let it go.

Things used to be so simple between us. We used to have that kind of relationship that was basically dating without all the stupid romance and sex involved. I’ve lost contact with so many people over the years, but he’s always been there for me and vice versa. We’ve shared dating war stories. We’ve shared family disasters and losses. Come on, we’ve seen each other naked. How much closer could we get without bumping uglies? It is in this moment that I regret that choice of words, and would ask to move on from this unfortunate situation.

“Pick up your clothes, I’m not your maid.”

“First of all, this is my bedroom. Second of all, I’ve been home for an hour. It won’t be the end of the world if my sweaty clothes don’t go in the hamper.”

“It’s not that difficult! It’s right there!”

“And it’s overflowing with all your clothes, if you haven’t noticed!”

Score one for Jackson Connor Campbell. If Maximus Walter Bennett wants to use all three names, then why don’t I steal his thing? See how he likes it.

In truth, this was probably all a long time coming. Arguing with him like this, as we weave in and out of our tiny, two-bedroom apartment? Makes me notice things I didn’t before. The early morning wake up calls, by banging pots and pans in front of my door. The rushing out of the apartment after fixing himself some breakfast and leaving me to fend for myself, instead of sharing the load. Coming home at all hours of the night, claiming to have ‘enjoyed a night of ravenous, passionate and downright scandalous time at the club’. I think he keeps expecting me to care, or get jealous or something. But why should I care if he’s enjoying his life? Does it make me feel weird that he’s having fun with other people? Sure. But I’d never tell him that.

On the plus side, maybe this will be a good thing. It could make things easier, when it’s time for me to finally move out. Better yet, this whole argument could be the perfect opportunity to finally tell him the truth about what’s been happening with Desmond. I could finally tell Max that we’ve reached the next milestone in our relationship. He proposed.

“I don’t care.”

He doesn’t seem surprised.

“Why should that affect me? You were already on your way out the door.”

Why doesn’t he seem surprised?

“You know what? I’m happy for you. Really. If you move out, I can finally get a roommate that knows how to wash a damn dish!”

Wait. Did he know? Did this little bastard already know?

“Where did you get that idea? How would I know?”

The only people that know are Desmond, myself and…

“Okay, yes, your mother told me. Chardonnay shoots right through her, it’s kind of scary.”

That’s what this has all been about, hasn’t it? Here I was, thinking Maximus Walter Bennett was being his usual moody self after a bad day, but he was actually jumping down my throat about moving out. Here we are, going back and forth over who needs to do the dishes, or who needs to do the laundry. The utter audacity of this man.

I’m not sure exactly when I decided I needed to dramatically storm out of our apartment, but I know it probably has something to do with him telling me my cooking needs improvement. I don’t know exactly when I pick up my jacket, wallet and keys, but it’s definitely sometime after he tells me I can do better than Desmond. I can’t quite place the moment I run for the door and storm out into the hallway, but I know whatever Max thinks he can say to stop me, won’t stop me. There’s isn’t anything he could say that will stop me from coming back to an argument that started because I didn’t do the dishes.

“I love you.”

Well, shit.