Becoming
I keep a Keurig machine plugged into the wall by my mattress. While it brews – coffee, black, in my favorite travel mug – “Made in Boise” – I take my time dressing for the day. It’s a ritual: boxer briefs and compression tank first, beneath a checked button-up and black denim jeans. It’s a becoming, as I rub a dollop of gel through my curls, styling by feel alone. The gel smells like vetiver, and was a Christmas gift from Thom. The little silver tube looks expensive, and although I don’t recognize the brand, I suspect she spent more for my vanity than any grunt surviving on government salary should.
I snag my steaming travel mug and take it with me into the loft. We share a bathroom. It’s not a problem. I only use the space to brush my teeth and shower and to take a shit or piss. Thom sometimes uses it as a retreat, when she needs privacy or time away from her murder wall. The bathroom’s got a lock. Thom sleeps on a futon in the main room, lives out of a closet near the kitchen. I can walk in on her any time. I think it must be like living in a fish bowl. She never complains, but on bad days she logs an hour or two straight behind the locked bathroom door.
At the moment, Thom’s a lump on the futon under a pile of mismatched quilts, blissfully unaware of the daylight creeping into the loft, puddling on our floor. The police scanner on the kitchen counter is silent, shut off. The perfume of freshly brewed coffee permeates the room, oozing from my apartment. It’s a peaceful scene, if I keep my back turned to the chalk map and polaroid photos on the north wall.
After I brush my teeth and use the toilet, I find my boots by the door where I left them and try to stamp them on without spilling coffee or waking my roommate. Then I tip toe out into the hallway, locking the bolt behind me. Thom’s not the vulnerable sort, but an unlocked door in the city, even in a secured building such as mine, is just asking for trouble.
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