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?