“Listen, I don’t think you went and poked your penis through the bars to her balcony or anything. But I’m telling you what I saw and heard. Youdidtell her you were naked. And you did make a comment about her giving you a boner, which I remember because the comment really upset me. It made me feel sick. It still is.”
“Nope, you’re wrong!” he says, his voice raising, his face twisting into a deeper scowl. “I would never have done that! This place is crazy. They’re trying to come after you with all the noise complaints, and now they’re making things up. Don’t you add to it by believing their stories and making things up yourself. You were just drunk, and you don’t remember shit.”
The force of his denial is unsettling, like he’s not just lying to me—he’s rewriting the truth in his own mind, convinced that his version is the only one that exists. I know what I saw, but the force of hisconviction makes me second-guess myself.Maybe I am remembering it wrong… I did have a couple of drinks before it happened…
I decide not to push it further. It’s just not worth it. He already seems elevated about the whole noise complaint situation, which really is quite ridiculous, and this seems like a bridge too far. Maybe, when he’s calm and this situation has been resolved, we’ll talk about it again.
“Okay,” I say softly. “Let’s just forget about it, alright? How about we go take a shower and go and enjoy the rest of our day.”
He nods, but his body stays tense, his mind still clearly spinning with anger.
His words needle at me, even though the events remain clear in my mind. I remember the tone of his voice, the angle of his dick as he stood on the balcony. Very specific memories. It’s like he’s trying to rewrite history, to fog my mind with allegations that, because I’d had a few drinks, I was imagining things that weren’t favorable to him.
But deep down, I saw what I saw. And I very much remember how the interaction made me feel. Sick, and like maybe I don’t really know who Timmy is the way I thought I did. The way he values and thinks about women. The way he values and thinks aboutme.
As the day progresses,he can’t stop ruminating on the phone call I received.
He turns toward the wall that separates our apartment from the leasing agent’s, pressing his ear against it as if listening for movement. His breathing becomes heavy, and then, slowly, he drags his fingertips along the wall.
His intensity is unsettling, and my body starts to tingle uncomfortably.
“She’s going to pay for this,” he growls. His voice is low and menacing, a dangerous undertone rippling through his words.
Over the course of the day, he just can’t seem to stop thinkingabout it. I try to distract him with TV and movies and food, but he keeps coming back to it.
“I’ll climb the fucking building if I have to,” he seethes at one point. “One balcony at a time. I’ve done it before. I don’t care that we’re twenty-three floors up, I’ll be like fucking Spiderman. And when I get to her, I’ll drag her across the room with one hand, and slit her fucking throat, and enjoy the sight of her writhing in pain for what she’s done. That bitch is going to bleed out.”
A shiver runs down my spine. Surely he’s not serious. He’s just venting. Right?
“Timmy, please,” I whisper. “This isn’t worth it. We can just like… move or something.”
He glances at the wall between my apartment and the leasing agent’s again, his breath ragged. “That bitch is going to get what’s coming to her,” he fumes, his mouth pinched into a tight scowl.
Again, I try to distract him. But his eyes continue to be locked on the wall, his lips curled into a grimace. “She has to pay,” he mutters. “For everything she’s done to you. To us.”
Later, he rages, his upper arms once again pressed against the wall, his ear cupped against it listening for life on the other side. His breath is ragged. “She will not do this to you! I will kill the dumb bitch!”
I shiver. Surely he’s joking, not that it’s at all funny. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen someone so angry, except for in a horror movie or some kind of true crime documentary. Talk about dramatic. This seems like something that can be fixed without what sounds like parkour and murder.
“Uh, thank you for being protective of me but that’s a bit over the top.”
“For all that she’s done to you…” He’s speaking slower than usual, deeper. “Done tous.”
“Babe, calm down,” I plead, my voice soft. “Seriously. Let’s just move. Find somewhere else with better soundproofing. Clearly this building sucks, and we can find something else where people don’t complain at the smallest thing.”
“She has to pay for what she’s done.” His voice is low, guttural.
“Can you please calm down? I’m upset too, but we can’t do anything about it right now,”
“Look at what she’s done, though,” he seethes. “You’ve moved all the way over here, up and changed your life. And she’s set you up. She’s put you in the apartment next to hers, and she’s making noise complaints against you forlaughing?”
He has a point. That is pretty shitty of her. I don’t know what she’s playing at. But it’s nothing worth causing violence over.
In a twisted way, it feels nice to have this kind of alpha male protection, even if it’s also terrifying at the same time.
A more hinged individual would surely recommend complaining to her manager or the parent company. But I feel like, because of his inappropriate behavior the previous night, they now have legitimate cause for complaint. He’s so angry, though, it’s not the time to bring that up. That it’s now his fault we can’t rectify the situation properly. I get why he’s mad, to a point, but now he’s put us on the back foot, weakening our position by dangling his cock in her direction and telling her he was.
“Come on, baby, let’s just watch a movie,” I try to distract him, to change the topic. “Just… relax for a bit, okay?”