While his apologies and presentation of accountability felt real enough to believe, as always, the cracks appear quickly.
Two days later, as I’m rinsing dishes in the sink, Timmy wanders over, picks up a plate, and inspects it like a health inspector on a power trip.
He finds the tiniest speck of food stuck to the back.
“You can’t even do the dishes right,” he sneers. “You’re useless. You fucking suck.”
I freeze, the words stinging like a slap.
One: It’s just a plate. Rinse and move on.
Two: I had a perfectly functioning dishwasher at my old place before he got kicked out.
Three: Is this man seriously the dishes police?
It’s not like he’s a dishwashing savant. Yet here he is, suddenly a pro at degrading me over something so trivial. Getting on my case and making me feel like shit.
LATER THAT NIGHT
Me:
He couldn’t do it, could he?
Alice:
Do what?
Me:
Not run away.
Alice:
He’s run off at least once a day for like the past 2 weeks
Me:
Yeah, it’s absurd.
Alice:
I’m sorry friend, but this is the standard
Me:
Yeah, it’s pretty dumb.
If I didn’t have the runaway pickle to send you I’d probably just cry.
But I’ve made a decision.
I’m not letting Timmy’s chaos derail my writing dreams anymore.
THE NEXT DAY
Timmy is mad again, though I have no idea why. It feels like he’s itching for an excuse—any reason—to justify running off to the tents again.
After spending time organizing the back room that he’d messed up in a rage days earlier, he returns to the living room. “Can’t you just be unconscious?” he sneers, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re so much better when you’re unconscious.”