I take a tiny sip of my own, the second for the day, maybe the third. They’re small glasses, a couple of ounces at most, and this one has lasted me several hours.
“You’ve drunk more than half of this,” he slurs, holding up the bottle. But that’s simply not true. He’s had half the bottle by himself, easily, and he’s trying to say it was me.
By now, it’s the wee hours of the morning. He starts cooking a steak, and next thing the smoke alarm is going off. The beeping is loud.“Fuck!”He screams.“I’ve overcooked the steak!”
“Oh my god,” I hiss. “Turn the smoke alarm off and keep your voice down. It’s after midnight! Security is going to come.”
“You set the smoke alarm off earlier,” he sneers.
“That was at lunchtime. That’s not a big deal. But you can’t be setting it off now! Eat something you don’t have to cook!”
“Fuck you. I’m having a steak.” He glares at me.
Eventually we go to sleep.
I wake up at 220AM and he’s not in bed.
I sigh. Here we go again.
Me:
Where did you go?
Timmy:
To get a cigarette.
I’ll be back in 15 minutes.
Me:
Completely unacceptable.
You have the impulse control of a cockroach.
Fifteen minutes go by.
Then thirty.
Then an hour.
Me:
I’m exhausted, and you gaslight me about a plastic Tupperware not being up to your standards when I cooked breakfast and lunch for you that day, and did dishes, while trying to manage a book release, 12 TikTok accounts and a book tour.
I get frustrated when I’m trying to post and listen. But please tell me how I am so horrible. Please.
Timmy:
Calm.
Me:
You do nothing.
Timmy:
I’m gonna have one more smoke and come rub your feet.