work in progress


This is a work in progress, unfinished, so, yes, I already know that. Any ideas or suggestions or comments are very appreciated!



My Roommate Listens to The Cure

He flicks his black bangs out of his eyes with the first two fingers of his left hand, pinky sticking up like little girls playing tea time, his right hand never leaving the PowerBook. A fit of huck-ing laughter erupts as if his voice box is attempting to escape through his nasal passages. He says I sound like windshield wipers when I laugh.

I respond with my should-be patented side glance and repressed smile.

The laughing continues and I know it can’t possibly be as hilarious as he’s making it out to be, but he is an odd bird. I wait for his lungs to take in enough air to respond, and ask, “Gonna share?”

His eyelashes hold back the laughter-induced tears, and I continued the script by shaking my head and returning to the Boston Metro and the latest Big Dig interruption to normal life. He repeats the joke or story or Manga comic whatever, I never paid too much attention because I know I was going to think it was funny, too, and we both got another chuckle out of it before he retreats into the blue glow that unflatteringly highlights his Italian nose.

“Did you eat yet?” I ask because I know I have to.

“No.” He flicks his bangs again and clicks the mouse a couple times, navigating via favorites to the US Tennis Association fan page.

“Are you going to?” I let the paper fall to my lap and it makes a louder sound than I intend due to the extra pages of government scandal someone felt the need to report on. He’s sensitive to gesture. He looks at me then lets his eyes swirl around as if the correct answer has gotten caught in my aura.

“Eventually,” he says, drawing out the “n” longer than necessary. He tries to squish himself further into the corner of the couch. He puts one hand up to his face and tucks the other into the new fold of his elbow, still staring at the laptop no doubt warming his thighs through his straight-legged jeans, unless heat needs fat to conduct itself.

“You need to eat something.” I refold the paper to the music section, pretending to care who is playing at TT’s this weekend.

“I know, Mom.”

“I’m nicer than your mom.” No effect. “How much do you weigh now?” I ask because I know I can.

“One hundred-twenty.” The hand on his cheek moves upwards as he grins.

“And you’re proud of that?” I have to consciously stop myself from saying more. He just kept grinning. “Do you eat ramen anymore?”

“No, the fat content is too high, and the sodium in the flavor packets is 33% of your daily value.” My mind starts whirring at this, examples of his obsessive behavior flitting across my mind’s eye like a TiVo’ed commercial; the hospital corners on his bed, the multitude of remote controls balancing in order of length on the arm of the couch, the perfect alignment of all the newspaper clippings on his walls. My stomach turns over.

I know I can’t say the word “anorexia” because I see him eat, it’s not that exactly. It’s dieting to the extreme, an attempt to control every miniscule fact of his life. The task is proving more difficult than he’d like, but being one-month-graduated from undergrad will do that to a person.

I pick a piece of parsley out from under my thumbnail, grimly remembering the obnoxious couple at table 53 whose steak was just not cooked the way we like it. (If you like it so much that way, go home and do it yourself, lady.)

“How was work?” he asks, briskly, like he has to.

“Fine. Obnoxious couple, manic manger, hilarious kitchen staff. The usual.” I wonder what he’s getting at. An expectant pause follows my statement until he clears his throat and slides the computer a few inches closer to his belly button.

“Are they still hiring?”