I got home from work and found Daniel on the living-room floor surrounded by curtains, bedding, scented candles, decorative baskets, and a sculptural lamp shaped like a cloud.
“What happened?”
He looked up brightly.
“I fixed the bedroom.”
“What was wrong with it?”
“It was depressing.”
I stared at the bags.
“How much?”
His expression changed.
“What?”
“How much did this cost?”
“Why does that matter?”
“Because rent is due Friday.”
He sat back.
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“I have had one of the hardest weeks of my life.”
“You said that last week.”
“That’s not supportive.”
“Daniel, where is your rent money?”
His face closed.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“You only care about numbers.”
“That’s not true.”
“I swear, sometimes I feel like I’m living with my manager.”
“I’m asking whether you can pay the bill you agreed to pay.”
“I work hard for my money.”
“So do I.”
“I deserve to enjoy it.”
“So do I.”
He laughed sharply.
“No, you don’t. You enjoy saving. That’s different.”
I looked at the $300 cloud lamp.
“You spent money decorating an apartment you’re behind on.”
“Stop making it sound disgusting.”
“I didn’t.”
“You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Reduce everything to practicality.”
He stood.
“Being responsible is killing my creativity.”
I remember the sentence because it was so perfectly Daniel.
Being responsible was killing his creativity.
That night, he put his portion of rent on a credit card.
The next morning, he blamed me for “forcing him into debt.”
I did not argue.
I left for work.
A week later, we fought over leftover sesame chicken.
Four days old.
Daniel had apparently been saving it.
I came home late and ate it because I assumed nobody wanted food that had survived four nights in the refrigerator.
He discovered the empty container.
For twenty minutes, the chicken became evidence that I did not think about him.
“You never ask.”
“About leftovers?”
“About anything.”
“I ask constantly.”
“You ask like a checklist.”
“What does that mean?”
“You don’t feel things.”
I stared at him.
That one hurt.
Maybe because I had spent so much time feeling his feelings that I barely had room for my own.
Afterward, I called Ava.
She listened.
Then asked one question.
“Are you happy?”
I laughed.
“That’s dramatic.”
“Sabrina.”
“I don’t know.”
“That is not the answer you think it is.”
I sat in my car outside the grocery store.
People pushed carts beneath bright parking-lot lights.
“I love him.”
“I didn’t ask that.”
I closed my eyes.
“No.”
Ava stayed quiet.
I hated her for being quiet.
If she had criticized Daniel, I could have defended him.
Instead, she left me alone with my own answer.
Thursday arrived five days later.
Daniel’s client meeting had gone badly.
He walked into the apartment already carrying the mood with him.
The television was too loud.
The kitchen counters felt cluttered.
I had not vacuumed correctly.
The apartment felt negative.
I had not asked about his day quickly enough.
Finally I said, “Daniel, you have been home for thirty seconds.”
He stared at me.
“Exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“I can feel how little you care.”
“I haven’t even had time to take my work badge off.”
“Everything is defensive with you.”
I muted the television.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
“You should already know I’m upset.”
“I know you’re upset.”
“Then why am I explaining it?”
I looked at him.
There was no answer that worked.
He paced toward the window.
Then back.
“I need space.”
“Okay.”
“Real space.”