I walk into my apartment in Ocean Beach. Everything is slightly dusty, like I’ve been gone awhile. I’m back from a trip somewhere and I’m supposed to call Renard to tell him I’m home. Instead, I drop my bags on the ground and start to tidy the apartment. It’s so fun to clean and focus on everything being exactly how I want it. I’m calm and happy. The parrots are yammering on.
I get sidetracked by my television, which is hung landscape mode and I want it hung in portrait mode. I start to move my furniture around to better suit the apartment with the new orientation of the hanging but can’t hang this TV on my own. I wonder if I should just get rid of it since I never watch TV. Suddenly, Tim is there. I haven’t seen him in 15 years. My apartment manager lets him into the apartment to help me. I’m confused and irritated and relieved. Is it because I get to see him again or is it because I really need help hanging my TV? As he’s moving my stuff he chats me up, telling me he would try to date me again if given the chance. I feel 18 again. I say we would’ve needed to date in the first place. He smirks, acquiescing that he never dated me as I deserved. I know he’s silently apologizing for getting another woman pregnant while “not dating” me. I feel better but think he’s a coward for not saying the actual words.
As he’s hanging the TV, he provides a lot of judgment on how I wasn’t hanging it right, so I dig my heels in and insist on hanging it how and where I want. I don’t even want a fucking TV.
After the TV is hung he starts looking around at my home, seemingly impressed with the adventures I’ve gone on and the life I’ve lived. Pictures of me and Brandi in our emo era are hung on the window. Tim has written in marker on the window pane what he remembers of me telling stories of me as a teenager, lining up and writing next to other pictures of other friends. As he’s looking over the written memories, he nods to a shimmering window that shows his room, his memories, and mentions that he’s divorced now. I can see her name and oddly, her picture still hung in his room. I say nothing but feel dark pleasure in knowing Tim is suffering the judgment he used to heap on me for having a failed marriage. I also know he’s still in love with her and he somehow fucked up his marriage. I realize he has fuller hair than in real life and looks like he’s experiencing the post divorce attempt at looking better. I wonder how he can fix his hair and think maybe he’s gone to Turkey but god no, he couldn’t travel if his life depended on it.
Tim lays down on my bed and I’m irritated that his outside clothes and shoes are on my clean bed that I just made. He’s leaning on his side with his head resting on his palm. He’s got the smarmy look of thinking he’s back in my favor. He’s settling in like he thinks I’ll lay down next to him. I realize I still haven’t called Renard to tell him I’m home and safe and it’s been hours. I glance at my phone and realize he’s not texted me either so I decide not to call in a bitter attempt to be in control. I realize what I’m doing and how childish it is but I can’t swallow my pride to call. I know he is patiently waiting for me to call, almost like his own test of my fidelity. I glance at Tim. Then focus on my gray and white swirly rug. Why haven’t I called Renard? Or mentioned to Tim how happily coupled I am? Why the fuck is a man on my bed and I can’t tell him to get the fuck out? My eyes focus and unfocus on the rug. I am disappointed in myself. There’s a charger plugged into the floor near the carpet. I see it start to catch fire, melting the plastic cover. I run to it, try to extinguish it, and the fire spreads. I scream. My landlord and Tim take my rug to a secret room. The fire is out. Everyone is gone. I’m alone in my apartment.
