Page 14 of The Quiet Tenant

You’re wearing a skirt. Edward Norton mourns his sofa, his stereo, his nice wardrobe, and your boyfriend pushes two fingers inside your underwear, then quickly, before you can even realize, inside you. Something you have never thought of until now: skirts mean easy access, especially in the summer, without tights and layers of wool weaving boundaries between you and the world.

Your boyfriend’s fingers get to work. You can deal. You take a breath and tell yourself to relax.

Brad Pitt is in a basement, explaining the first rule of Fight Club. Your boyfriend pulls your underwear down your legs. You have never felt so naked in your life. A laugh comes out of your chest like a cough. Your boyfriend responds by kissing you harder.

There is an escalation here that you can’t quite process. Edward Norton’s face splits open against the concrete floor. You and your boyfriend are both naked from the waist down.

People told you to say no. They never said how. They made it very clear that the world wouldn’t stop for you and that it was your responsibility to make it slow down, but no one ever gave instructions beyond that. No one told you how to look into the eyes of the person you love and say you want to stop.

Ideally, your sweet boyfriend would understand without you having to say it. He’d notice that your arms have gone limp, that your teeth are chattering. But Edward Norton emails poems to his coworkers and your boyfriend reaches for a condom. You had no idea he kept them in the inside pocket of his backpack. No idea he had a system for those things.

Brad Pitt delivers a monologue about how advertising destroys the soul. You watch as your boyfriend enters you. It’s your first time, and it happens because you were too afraid to say no. Because the boy who did it forgot to look into your eyes.

The following week, you leave him a voice mail. You tell him you’ve thought about it and it’s better if you two end things. You hang up and cry.

Years later, you will type his name in the Facebook search bar. His profile will be locked, a gray square where his picture should be. You will not friend him.

In the meantime, you survive. Of course you do.

You have sex again. Sometimes bad sex. Sometimes boring sex. More often than you would like, you find yourself coming back to that moment.

You don’t forget your first. You never forget the boy who taught you how to survive as a stranger in your own body.

CHAPTER 10

The woman in transit

Every night, you ask him when, and every night he refuses to tell you. “You’ll know soon enough,” he says. “What’s the rush, anyway? It’s not like you have anywhere to be.”

He says they’re not done packing. How much stuff can they possibly have? He’s not a wealthy man. His clothes are neat but worn. He has mentioned chores in the past, the floors he has to mop, the laundry he needs to hang. The weight of the world on his shoulders, and no one, certainly no paid help, to provide relief. But they have lived in this house for years, and now they have to excavate the contents of their family history, every scrap of paper, every gadget tossed aside. They are going on a journey, and they need to decide what’s staying and what’s coming with them. They need to leave and settle somewhere else.

Then, one night, he walks in and says, “Let’s go.”

It takes you a second. When you understand, you freeze. He yanks you to your feet and starts to work on the chain. There’s a key—there was a key all along—and a couple of tugs. The chain slips off your foot with a thud. You feel impossibly light.

Without the chain, your balance is thrown off. You steady yourself against the wall. Already he’s pulling at your arm, trying to get you outside as fast as possible.

“Come on,” he says. “Move it.”

In a few seconds there will be grass underneath your feet and no walls around you.

“Wait.”

You take a step toward the back of the shed. His hand almost slides off you. His grip finds you again, tight, the strength of a man who will never, ever let go. Your left arm twists so suddenly your vision blurs. His weight presses into your back.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

You gasp and, with your free hand, point to the books. He brought you a plastic bag a long time ago, to protect them from humidity. He wanted to show you, you figure, that he knows how to take care of the things he owns. There are also the trinkets on the crate, all the things he took from others and passed on to you.

“I just wanted to get my stuff,” you say through gritted teeth. “I promise. I’m sorry.”

“Fuck’s sake.”

He walks you over to the stack of books, your left arm nudged against your hip. His feet get caught in yours. You trip. He catches you, sets you upright.

“Go.”

His body moves with yours as you crouch to retrieve the plastic bag. You drop it inside the crate, along with the rest of your things.

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