There are chest hairs in the sink. They’re not mine. They belong to my boyfriend who has just moved into my apartment with his Playboy collector’s edition, framed shrub photographs and a fear of werewolves. Why he thinks werewolves are more likely to attack him in my downtown apartment than in his former abode, a loft in the woods, is beyond me. All I know is that doors have to be double locked now and chains applied. When I tell him that the werewolves could probably get in anyway, he avoids the windows. I always thought I would end up with someone braver than me. Someone who could protect me from the looming unnamable. But sides of the bed have been established, and it’s me who has the outside while Guess Who snuggles safely in the last-to-die spot by the wall.
It’s nice though, having this second person around all the time. We’re on vacation right now, so we’ve been in the house together from wake to sleep for four days running. We have begun to realize, as we wander between our two small rooms, that we are screechers. Before co-habitation, we spoke in normal tones, dialing the telephone civilly and making chitchat. Now, face to face, it turns out that all that time I thought he was sitting peacefully in his apartment meditating, what he was really doing was running around bare bellied in a sarong and whooping like a crazy bird. He says it helps him purge his energy. When purging is taking place, I have to scream louder than he does. Otherwise it’s hard for him to tell the difference between me and furniture.
We’re turning into those crazy neighbors I always wondered about. The folks in the apartment upstairs who made me glad I didn’t know their faces since it was too frightening to picture them as real people who I might actually turn into. Now it looks like the only person I might turn into is him. And him into me, since really, what other choice do two people in an 800-square-foot apartment have?