— Hey, when you’re with me, it’s my way or the highway. Or you want me to call the neighbors so they can see what a spazz you are? C’mon, what kind of jock gets mocked by the locks? Next time you ring my bell, I’m going to ignore it. You think I like it when you ring my bell. No, I don’t like it when you ring my bell. If you’ve got keys, why don’t you use them?
— Because you’re inside. Why can’t you open the door when I ring the bell?
— Because it pisses me off to be inside, hearing the keys fumbling in the lock and hoping with all my heart that you’ll open it yourself, with all my heart, a jingle-jangle later, you give up and start ding-donging, as if I were sitting around all day just waiting to let you in. Suppose nobody is home. Suppose I’m reading. Why do I have to get up to let you in? Do I look like a doorman? Besides, you have keys and they fit. They sure do. You just have to learn how to handle them. It’s no big deal. You’re always making a fuss.
— Shut up.
— You shut up. Step aside.
— Gladly.
— Watch and learn to handle the locks, effortlessly. The rusty one for the bottom hole, a jiggle to the left, and this skinny one for the top slot. You do this just to annoy me. And you do. You certainly do. Never. You hear. I’m not in love. It was never the case. Get it through your head. I don’t love you. You got that? Sometimes I say I love you before I go to bed at night — the intimacy — when I see you snoring as sound as a basset hound, I say — how could I have been so mean to him? Maybe it’s then that I forget what I’m missing in life. But of course, it’s like seeing a corpse, of course, all the good things appear, and I breathe heavy and murmur deep into your ears: I love you. And you roll over in your sleep and wrap your legs around mine, breathing heavy, up and down, with your thumb in your pucker like a lollipop sucker, like a big fat baby, a big lazy oaf. I shake my head no, no, no, no, but I love you, I guess I do, at least that’s what I feel and think when I see you sleeping. Maybe it’s a way of convincing myself that I do. Jabalí had something, a pushing something, a driving energy, even with all his shortcuts and lies. But you, my buddy-buddy, busy-body, are indulgent with me. Sweet and complacent. Why do I always have to throw a hairy conniption to provoke a reaction? If I had another room, if I could close myself away from you, if I wouldn’t have to hear you snoring, lights out, dozing dog. I don’t have the energy to sit at my desk and write two simple words. I crawl back in bed, breathing heavy on your cheeks. When I see you dead like that, I realize how much we have in common. Where is my aspiration? To feel inspired one must aspire. What do I aspire to be: to be inspired, or at least to have a freehold set of mind, free from mental blocks. A house too small, a bad excuse but one nonetheless. Nothing on the road so keep walking, bad and good times, anxiety raining on me — don’t get upset by the downpour, drenching the brain, think clear — but I can’t. The problem comes when I realize I’ve done nothing and I’m still in bed rocking, waiting for Godot or a change of climate. I get so angry at myself that I stand up and write my rage and feel good again, and I change, and I change, and I change, but I never really change. Oh, I skim through the book, and I say it’s growing. So strong. So beautiful. I forgive myself momentarily as I do when I look at my big nose in the mirror. If I stare at it long enough sometimes I can fix it, or at least accept it, depending on my mood. I would like to see myself in the mirror always the same, or maybe like a stranger in the street at whom I smile and stare because I see in him something I see in myself. I always stare to make sure I’m not lost. Do you recognize me? You’re staring at me and you smile. Why? Do you like me? I’d like to ask you a question. Would you smile at me the same way if you knew who I am? Would you still smile so sweet? And you know what it does to me when I get up in the middle of the night, first, suffocating from the heat, I turn off the heater and go to the bathroom only to find the closets open — what’s worse — the sheets hanging off the shelves, the incarnation of my nightmare — the risen dead — and not the good ones. I try to close the door and it derails — and the ghosts are hovering. I’ve asked you, please, clean out the closets. The stench of your sneakers and skanky sweatshirts. I go to the kitchen because my throat is dry, damn, you know the heat, I open the fridge, and my water bottle, where is the cap to my water bottle? Don’t you know the germs get in and the fizz goes out, and I don’t want my water smelling like your chicken curry sandwich. You ruined it. Now nobody drinks from this bottle. I forbid it. I’m throwing it out. I go to the sink and what do I find in the dishwasher? Stacks of dirty dishes, sitting there for eons, with carrot peels and globs of brie stuck on the rims. I’ve had enough. I can’t take it anymore. Your damn keys locking and unlocking my locks. And during the weekends your insolence is unbearable. At least during the week, I’m happy when I hear you leave at eight. Liberty — I say to myself with my eyes half open. I can read in peace. And if I see Bloom watching Gerty from a cliff with his hand on his crotch, all I have to do is draw the shades and let myself go if I feel like it. How sweet. Not to see your face. But now if I don’t wake up, you don’t wake up. You set the alarm for what? To piss me off and snore some more until ten. Because I have an alarm inside, that’s for sure. When I wake up, you know you’re in trouble and you say:
— Breakfast? Orange juice? Croissant?
— No—I say—today I want fruit and bacon.
— Okay—you say—coming right up.
And then you go and take an hour to make me feel guilty for sending you out by yourself. I hear sirens and dread:
— He crossed the street to bring home the bacon and got run over by a bus. Now what’ll I do? I’ve only got enough in checking to cover next month’s rent. Then I’ll have to sell everything and move. Now what?
And worst of all, I’m in the dark, sitting, rocking, fearing your death in the dark because it doesn’t occur to you to turn the lights on. I have to admit I’m relieved when you come back, but as soon as I see, I mean, hear, the keys fumbling in the door, in the dark, in the damned dark, I want to kill you, but the smell of coffee holds me back. Bless his heart — I say — after all, he risked his life for me.
— Breakfast—you say with a smile on your face. You open the white paper bag, and out of the rustling comes…
— What is this?
— Chocolate. Oh, it’s too late for breakfast, chipa. It’s lunchtime. No bacon. No eggs. Have a chocolate bar. Quick energy. I brought you vitamins. Take a swig. They’re good for your bones.
— Where is my orange juice?
— No orange juice. Vitamin C. It’s the same thing.
— Not to me.
— No seeds. No pulp.
— I want my orange juice. Juicy red with its pepas.
— Seeds.
— And I want fresh squeezed. I don’t want chocolate. It gives me grains.
— Pimples.
Why? Tell me, why do you insist on bringing me breakfast in bed when you can never satisfy me? I’m sure that there are oranges and bacon and scrambled eggs out there. It’s just that you’re too eager to disappoint me. As if I couldn’t walk to the corner on my own two legs and buy my own breakfast. It’s a pleasure for me to wake up in the morning, alone, find five dollars and my keys in the kitchen, dress up, brush my teeth, wash and dry my face with a towel, open the door as my stomach growls, ride the elevator, check the bills in the mailbox, relieved that I don’t have to pay them, buy the Post at the nearest newsstand, head to the Greek, read the gossips with the pleasure of a toasted bran muffin with melted butter and a cup of coffee, relax, come home, and start working. Good old times, not so old after all. But here you are, again, interrupting my creative process. And when you take me to Toritos after I’ve been dieting all day long, the first thing you do is open the menu and clear your throat.