Page 28 of Bad at Love

We each have our own shelf in the fridge, and anything that is on that shelf isn’t to be touched by the other person. Then we have a shared shelf that we can both use. On it are condiments, butter, eggs, stuff like that. I thought splitting all this up would be too much work, and I suggested I’d pay for all the food, buthe wouldn’t agree. Said he’d handle splitting the cost and just tell me how much I owe. That’s simple enough for me, so I agreed.

“Are you ready to tell me what you do for work yet?” he asks, causing me to choke on my juice. I put the glass down and grab a paper towel to wipe my mouth. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” I clear my throat, trying to ignore the burning of the cranberry juice going down wrong. I toss the dirty paper towel into the trash and say, “I told you what I do for work.”

“Only partly.”

“Look, I appreciate you wanting to know shit about me, since we live together and all, but honestly, I don’t think you’re ready for that.”

He eyes me carefully before pouring a bit of oil into the skillet.

“That worries me.”

“I think what I do will worry you more,” I comment, grabbing my glass of juice.

“Well, now that just scares me.”

I huff out a laugh. “It’s nothing illegal, so you don’t have to worry.”

“Have you met me? All I do is worry.”

Yeah, I guess he’s right.

“I’ll tell you one day, but not today. Is that fair?”

“I suppose. I don’t like it but…” He shrugs.

I go to the kitchen table and browse social media as he cooks. Though he doesn’t let me help him, I like sitting here and watching him work. He’s so precise about things, so particular. And the food is always delicious. Maybe if I watch him enough, I’ll learn something and when I leave, I’ll be able to cook my own food instead of ordering all the time.

Moving around flawlessly, he pulls things from cabinets, chops food, tosses this, mixes that, adds all sorts of seasoning. How does he know what to add to what?

He’s got three things going on at once. Something in the oven, while stuff is cooking in a skillet and something else is boiling in a pan. How is nothing burning? It’s wild that he can just… do that and not get all crazy and overwhelmed about it. Gabe gets upset over the simplest things, yet he can handle cooking like this?

“Can I ask you something?” I say after a long moment of watching him.

“Sure,” he answers as he mixes the boiling pot.

“How do you not get overwhelmed by doing ten things at once in the kitchen, but the toilet seat being left up has you losing your mind?”

I’m not sure we’re quite at the place where I should make a joke like that, but I take the risk. If I push him a little, he may be okay with it.

He doesn’t turn to look at me when he answers, just keeps his focus on what he’s doing.

“Honestly? I’m not really sure. I guess… certain tasks keep my mind busy. I can do them because I can organize everything in my brain. Task after task, I know what needs to be done, so I do it. If things were out of place in the kitchen, it wouldn’t go so well, but since that isn’t the case, it’s easy for me. As for the toilet seat? Have you ever fallen in and had that water touch your ass?” He looks over his shoulder, giving me a look that I can only laugh at. And not just a little laugh, but hysterical. Tears pour from my eyes and my stomach hurts.

“I mean… maybe when I was a kid?”

I pull the hem of my shirt up to wipe my eyes.

“Well, count yourself lucky.” He doesn’t seem angry over my outburst, but isn’t laughing either.

“I guess I can understand why that would bother you then. It’s like trauma. I know about that.”

“Do you?” he questions, more curious than disbelieving.

“I do.”

“Never would have guessed.”

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