Everything We Don't Know by Aaron Gilbreath

Author:Aaron Gilbreath
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781940430928
Publisher: Curbside Splendor Publishing
Published: 2016-10-21T04:00:00+00:00

“Uch,” Abby said. “Gross.” She stepped into our bathroom as I stood in front of the sink, getting ready for work.

“What?”

“What do you mean what?” she said. “Using your toothbrush to scratch your back? Nasty.”

I looked into her eyes not face-to-face, but in her reflection in the mirror. “It’s not the brush end I’m using,” I said. “It’s the handle.” She scrunched her nose in disapproval as she lifted her nightgown and lowered herself onto the toilet.

With Wiggy on lock-down, a trait-by-trait critique of my behavior had infiltrated our daily interactions, threatening to become the dominant thread of our conversations. Like when Abby told me, “Don’t do that with your leg.”

“Do what?” I asked.

She placed her hand on my knee to still its bouncing. “Tapping it all crazy.” We were at a restaurant. I had to whisper an explanation.

“I’m a leg-tapper,” I said. “I’m full of nervous energy.” I stopped tapping to spare her the irritation, but when, unbeknownst to me, the tapping resumed, Abby shook her head, and I shrugged. “Sorry.”

I kept tapping. The critiques continued. She disapproved of how I drank our green fruit smoothies straight from the container. “Get a glass,” she suggested.

“Why waste the time getting a glass only to have to waste more time washing and putting it away?” I took a sip and returned the jug to the fridge.

Another morning when she heard a loud honking coming from the shower, she pulled back the curtain and asked, “Are you blowing your nose in there?”

Shampoo ran down my ears. “No,” I said, though I had been seconds earlier.

She grinned. “Good, because that is nasty.” Her sister’s ex used to do that—she called it a “farmer blow”—and Abby said not only did the practice gross her out, it reminded her of that conniving, selfish dirtbag of a man who disrespected her sis. “Not even a man,” she said. “A boy.”

Don’t drum your pen on the desk. The office smells like puppy pads. Being the target of intense reform makes you feel broken, insufficient. “Why are you nagging me?” I’d say. “I don’t nitpick everything you do.” Inevitably that deteriorated into, “If you don’t like it, too bad.” Why, I wondered, did she invite me to New York?

One night, overwhelmed, I stepped onto the street outside the house to call my dad. “Maybe I’m not built for relationships,” I told him. It was scary to consider. Where does that leave you? Destined to spend the next forty-plus years alone and meeting brilliant, caring women you can never love or share experiences with?

“Maybe you are built for relationships,” he said, “just not this one.” He was right.

In Oregon, living apart, Abby and I had such passion, such chemistry. Now I sought consolation in what Abby was—intelligent, energetic, gentle, well-read—and what we had been.

In the chilly winter air, I tugged on my coat collar. “So what’s wrong?” Dad asked.

“Everything.”

“Everything, huh?”

I detailed my grievances. Distance had already replaced emotional intimacy. We were becoming what Abby called “just roommates,” and poor ones at that.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.