Guest Room

I woke up and descended the spiral staircase. There was no one in the apartment. “Hello?” I said aloud, then texted the word to Louise. I stood in the living room for a minute, doing nothing. Then I went back up the spiral staircase to retrieve my piss mug, which was dangerously full. I carried it with caution down the spiral staircase, then dumped its contents in the bathroom toilet. I washed the mug with soap then dried it with my pajama shirt. I brought the jar back upstairs and put it on the desk where it belonged. The spiral staircase had seemed at 3 a.m. to be an insurmountable obstacle. I had found the mug and peed into it, sliding it under the bed afterward so I wouldn’t accidentally kick it over when I got up.

I heard the front door open downstairs.

“Hey,” Louise called up to me.

“I’m here!” I said.

“We were just grabbing some stuff from the old place,” she said. “You sleep alright?”

I started to descend the stairs again. Through the metal steps I could see Louise and her boyfriend William setting a wooden coffee table down in the center of the living room.

“Pretty,” I said from above, ignoring the sleep question. I had recently read a self-help book that warned against complaining about insomnia. “Complaining only reinforces the negative identity,” the book had told me. I needed to believe that I was well-rested. That was the first step. I was well-rested. I jumped over the last step of the staircase to prove it.

“Careful,” William said, annoyed. “The neighbors.”

“Oops,” I said, and smiled at Louise, who raised her eyebrows. The neighbors were fine.

“Nice, isn’t it?” Louise said about the table.

Before I could answer, William spoke. “I’ve never liked this thing.”

“I like it,” I said. “I’ve always liked it. Remember how I wanted to steal it from your old place?”

“And put it where?” Louise said, “In our guest room?”

“Good one,” I said. I was living out of my car.

“You’re here for how long?” William said to me.

“Two days,” I said. “Maybe three, if I end up going on this date.”

“The musician?” Louise said.

“The comedian,” I said.

“I really hate this table,” William said. He was kneeling on the floor, inspecting its underside. “It’s going to scratch up the hardwood if we don’t put pads on the feet.” He said this to Louise, as if the scratchy feet were her own.

“Well,” Louise said lightly, “It’s not like a coffee table moves around that much, right?”

“Have you ever interacted with a coffee table?” he said.

“Alright,” Louise said, her tone now forcefully light. “I’m going to do some work now.” She ascended the stairs and I was left alone with William.

“It’s a really nice table,” I said to him.

“I wanted to leave it at the old place,” he said. “It bothered me every time I saw it there, and now it followed me here.”

I went into the kitchen and filled the kettle. I stood there, waiting for it to boil, idling in the way of houseguests. I looked at the dish rack and considered putting the clean dishes away but I didn’t know where they all belonged. I imagined William in a few months’ time, searching for a ramekin, not finding it in the correct cupboard.

William was sighing at the table, adjusting it carefully into a new position. I stood with my back to him, watching the kettle as steam formed on the little plastic window, thinking vaguely of chemicals. The kettle was loud enough that I couldn’t hear William’s sighing anymore. Then it switched off and I poured the water into a mug.

When I turned around, William was gone. The table was in approximately the same position as before. I sat down on the couch with my tea. I didn’t want to interrupt Louise’s work to retrieve my book from upstairs. I picked up a magazine from the coffee table where William had already fanned them out. I scanned the table of contents. I heard the toilet flush. William returned. I smiled politely.

“I kind of like the table now,” he said.

I was careful with my response. Everything was new and fragile. “It’s alright,” I said.

_____
August Lamm is from New Haven, Connecticut. Her debut novel, Lambing Season, is forthcoming from Dialogue Books.