that bullet

your house

Out on the balcony on the fourth floor I listen to the laughter of people in the wine bar below. You left it bare, these two square meters of concrete, just some cigarette butts and a clothing rack. Didn’t even put chairs out, so I sit on the dirty floor while I take in the view.

Left: a tied pair of Nikes tossed over a powerline, spinning aimlessly in the wind. Right: the outline of one lone gull on a roof breaking the sea of gray sky behind it. Center: our dog, all seventy-five pounds of him, asleep on my lap.

Well, not our dog anymore. Your dog.

No. My dog.

No, our dog.

You offered to sublet your place to me while you’re off to Asia for a bit. I needed a house and it’s my few months with the dog anyway, so I said yes. It’s a nice apartment; great location, right in the city center - you really helped me out with this one. I thanked you, though we both know: this is just another favor towards a debt I’ll never let you repay fully.

Sometimes I wish you dead and don’t even hastily apologize to a god I don’t believe in. But now that I’m staying at your place I can’t help but picture us back together. This is your house: grimy, hollow, up-too-high. Not unlike like yourself these days. But it felt like my home from the moment I stepped inside. It’s like I can only unwind in the safe haven of our intertwined depression. When you float in my sea of gray. When you push me under in yours.

When I’m in your shower the idea that you probably jacked off in there makes my upper lip curl. That only happens when I think of you, those micro-expressions of disgust. I can’t help it. As I get dressed I wonder if you ever fucked someone on that odd little bench in the bedroom — I know I would. For now I’ve been using it as a step for the dog to get on the bed more easily and feel morally superior about it.

But as I lay down in your bed I weigh who’s the better caretaker and I’m loathe to admit we’d probably tie. When I fall asleep I dream of making that stupid sous vide chicken you kept boasting about and I wake up sick. The next night I kill a man, right here in this bed. I straddle him and shoot him between the eyes, the bullet ricocheting in his skull until it reemerges from an eye socket. The night after that the house burns down with the dog trapped inside. His dying cries are in your voice.

The kitchen cabinet holds a random array of mugs but one catches my eye every morning. A girly one that says ‘shut up’ in a stupid frilly font. I wonder who brought it here - maybe your mother. I vow to never use it regardless. Childish, maybe, but it isn’t jealousy; it’s the audacity of having girls bring you gifts into my home.

Well, your house. But with our dog in it.

One more month before you return from the tropics to your grimy hollow up-too-high place. I cleaned it for you, by the way. You’re welcome. I didn’t do it because I love you; I don’t. I don’t want to be with you. I don’t even want to fuck you. But I want to watch your face when you come in and see me and the clean plinths and the lit candles and our dog perfectly content on the couch.

I want to see your brow furrow, watch that bullet ricochet in your brain until it kills you the way it’s been killing me: the realization that this is home. Our home. We’re like that pair of Nikes, tied together by a dog leash, dangling over the tightrope between love and hate. This is where we find our fix, even if the debt can’t ever be repaid.

I guess we really are that gullible.

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