Chapter 7
He doesn’t complain
Dina
Martin, Ashley, and I grew up together. In fact, we were inseparable all throughout middle school and up until Martin kissed me and not Ashley. She liked him. Instead, he chose me, and little Ashley couldn’t get over it.
I rejected Martin’s affections, and for two years, we didn’t speak, until one summer, we met at a police station to give a statement about our mothers, who went on a cruise together and never returned.
To this day, we have no idea what happened to either of them.
My dad stopped looking, said that taking care of a child didn’t leave him with the resources to go around the world searching for his missing wife.
He is a teacher, one of the most important professions humanity will ever need. Unfortunately, it’s also a profession that is often dismissed and disrespected. My dad’s yearly salary equals that of an average half-witted sex worker. I know the exact number because it was said on the news.
The sex workers interviewed about their jobs were profoundly offended to be called porn stars, even though they used a good portion of the interview as an audition for those types of films.
One of them felt very strongly that her profession demanded respect and that most women weren’t feminists because they pointed out her job is to show her butthole to random men on the internet.
For a moment, her strong opinions and the opinions of others who called themselves feminists shamed me.
But then I remembered my dad’s salary, the tips I get from clients for not showing my tits and doing their hair instead, and decided my feminist agenda aligned with my own values, and I shouldn’t let others shame me for those.
My eyes tear up.
I wipe them with my sleeve. “It’s the onion,” I explain to the man who’s sitting across my kitchen bar with his leg elevated on the other bar chair in front of him. The man who likely witnessed the humiliating altercation with my ex.
“The couch is more comfortable,” I say. “If you want to move there.”
“You shouldn’t have gotten the ice packs,” he says.
I frown. “The frozen veggies weren’t enough.”
“I’m aware. If I wanted you to buy the packs, I would have asked for them.”
I point a knife at him, about to give him a lecture on being more grateful, but something tickles my nose. I sneeze into my sleeve. “Pardon.”
“I can chop onions,” he says.
“Oh yeah?”
He nods.
I pass him the board, and he continues chopping while sitting down. I wash my hands and say, “I have a leak in the shower, if you know how to fix that.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t.”
“Are you not good with tools?” I tease.
The man looks up, eyebrow lifted.
Oh, maybe that sounded sexier than I intended. Eh, now I have to own it. “I really do have a leak, and my dad is a math teacher, so he’s no use.”
“I’m only good at one thing.”
When he doesn’t tell me what the one thing he’s good at is, I rub salt on the steaks. “I want to ask what you’re good at, but I have a feeling that you’d have told me if you wanted me to know. Maybe I’m better off not knowing?”
A short nod confirms my suspicions.
He passes me the chopped onions.
“Do you like allspice?”
“Sure.”
“Or do you prefer plain steak?” I ask.
“I’ll eat whatever you season it with.”
“That’s nice. I’m not used to that.”
The man taps two fingers on the bar. “I watched the argument you had with that guy downstairs.”
I oil the pan and, once it’s hot, add the steak. I dump the onions into the chilled bowl of cut and salted tomatoes and add fresh cheese on top. The potatoes are baked already, waiting for the steak.
“Cooked well done?” I ask.
“Sure.” He bites his lower lip, then releases it.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.
“It’s something.”
“I am also better off not knowing about your life.”
“We don’t ask. We don’t tell. We can be like inmates.”
“Inmates?”
“Yeah. Don’t ask. Don’t tell.”
He frowns. “I’m afraid to ask how you know that.”
I laugh. “It’s a comedy show.”
“I see. Yeah, well, unfortunately, when I don’t know, I start speculating.
I speculate that the guy with whom you’ve had such a passionate exchange is your husband.
Or as you call him, ex-husband, even though you’re still married on paper.
And I presume he lost something, and he’s really pissed about it.
If he’s having money issues like you are and driving that kind of car and wearing the kinds of shoes he wore today, his money troubles are a hundred times the size of yours.
We’re talking millions he stands to lose if this divorce turns on him. Am I right?”
“You’re right.”
“He looked dangerous,” the man says.
I rest the tongs on a plate beside the steak pan. “I married a dangerous man. It’s what I’m drawn to. Good guys don’t do it for me. Just ask Martin.”
“Who the fuck is Martin?”
“My friend. The police officer the store manager called when he saw Sergei and me arguing. Martin usually takes care of our disputes.”
“This happens often?”
“Only when I don’t answer my phone and Sergei needs to talk to me.
He comes here all lit up and lays into me.
I fight back because I don’t have to take his shit anymore.
The neighbors all come outside to their terraces and balconies and watch us.
” Yup. Everyone knows we’re divorcing. “I’m pretty loud,” I add.
The man’s eyebrows shoot up. “You?”
I nod. “Sergei is loud too, but I don’t have to fight back. Not on the street, at least.”
“No?”
“I can walk away.”
“You can?”
“Yeah, and I probably should. At least that’s what my dad tells me.
My dad is afraid that one day, Sergei won’t be able to control himself and that Dad will have two empty graves to visit at the cemetery because Sergei would hide my body.
” I take the steak off the burner and the potatoes from the oven.
With the food on the bar, I grab our plates and utensils.
“I’d love to eat at a table, but I never found one that fits in this apartment. ”
Since there are only two bar chairs and he’s using both, one to sit on and the other to elevate his foot, I move to the couch.
The man follows. He cuts his steak, looks at the blood in the middle, and says nothing. I don’t eat well-done steak, but I wanted to see if he’d comment or really eat whatever I put in front of him. He eats without comment.
I taste the potatoes. They’re not salty enough. He doesn’t mind. I do, but I’m too lazy to get up and grab the salt shaker.
We eat in silence mainly because he eats like he’s never had a meal before, and I don’t know what to talk about without oversharing about my life. Which I shouldn’t do.
“What kind of table are you looking for?” he asks.
“A round one. Natural wood. Two natural wooden chairs and a small bench.”
“Benches don’t go with round tables.”
“That’s why I’m having a hard time finding the set.”
“You won’t find a set.”
“Then I’ll eat from the bar for the rest of my life.”
Silence and then, “A curved wooden bench on one side of the table. Two chairs on the other would go with the round shape.”
“It really would.”
“You’ll need a custom order.”
“Probably for the best. I should custom order my entire life. Write it down on paper so I can remember what I want when the going gets hard and I want to settle for buying just any kind of chairs for my table. I settled for Sergei when I got pregnant with Chi-chi, and look where that got me. It’s a four-day weekend and I’m sitting on the couch with a homeless man who has thirty-five grand to burn. ”
He finishes his meal and sits back. “Thank you.” He wipes his mouth with a tissue from the box on the table. “I’m not homeless.”
I pick at the rest of my steak. “It’s okay if you are, you know. It’s okay if you stole from Crossbow and ran away and right into my car.” I look up, seeking his eyes to see if I hit close to the truth.
“I’m not homeless” is all he says before retreating to the bathroom.
He never returns. I go to bed and lock my door.
Before sleep, I get on my knees and pray that taking in this man instead of turning him over to Martin was what I was supposed to do.
He needed help. I helped him. Bought him ice so he could cool the swelling and get better faster.
If he’s not homeless, as soon as he’s better, he’ll return home.