OnlyFeet

Rafi

It's been 48 hours since our fight and I know I'm being a dick, but I can't help it. It's a central nervous system response. Part of the flight or fight section of the brain that says I am the type of animal that runs when it sees danger. It's a sobering thing to realize, but important to acknowledge. I avoid confrontations whenever I can, but life has a way of making them unavoidable. And when it happens, my flight instinct gets backed up by an old friend: passive aggression. I go quiet and withdraw into this sulking version of myself that no one wants around. The worst part? I'm fully aware of it while it's happening, and yet I'm helpless to stop it.

Usually, it takes something outside of me to snap me out of this funk. Kat will push me to talk, usually over dinner, making me confront whatever's eating away at me. She'll pull it out of me like a weed from a crack, forcing me to admit how her choices affect me, how they wreck my ego. Today, though, it's different. Today, the external spark is the news I got during my shift: I got the job. I _got the job._

"I'm about to tell her right now," I say to my mom over the phone as I walk into the apartment. "Yep, I'll negotiate, don't worry. Okay, love you, Mom." I notice the bedroom door is closed, which means she's at work on the project we don't name. I walk over and knock gently, but there's no response. Normally, I'd wait in the living room, but I can't hold in this news. I knock a little louder and crack open the door. She's seated at her desk, cross-legged, in a crop top and tiny shorts, a burlesque mask covering half her face. The only light is coming from her monitor and a ring light, illuminating her like some kind of one-woman show. She turns to look at me. "Hey, I have some news," I say with a grin. She doesn't smile back.

"Can we talk about it in an hour? I'm literally about to start a livestream." Her tone is missing the typical undercurrent of regret she shows when she lets me down in any way. I know I created this. All the snide remarks, ignoring her when she talks about her day. She's near her breaking point, but so am I. I've imagined what this looks like when she's doing her streams, but now that I've seen it, the thin shield I built around the disgust is penetrated. I'm laid bare in the dim room, and instead of facing it, facing her, my flight instinct kicks in. I nod and back out. Before I leave, she says, "Those extra parts you needed for the table came, by the way. In case you have some time to finish it. Sorry about the timing. I'll be out soon."

Let the world burn. I'll light the match myself. But first, I'll start with this fucking table. I close the bedroom door, stoic, and grab the box by the front door, ripping it open. The sides tear off, and I toss them across the room. I bend down, ready to finish this table off once and for all. The last time I tried to assemble it, the manufacturer had sent two identical pieces instead of mirror images, making it impossible to attach the lift-top. Frustrated, I'd almost destroyed it then and there.

I grab the parts, double-check them, and start hammering one into place, way harder than necessary. The loud thump probably got Kat's attention, and the aggressive flip I give the table frame definitely did. I'm driving dents into the tabletop, tearing at it like I'm punishing it. Suddenly, I hear her voice. "What the hell?"

I don't look at her. "What's it look like? I'm putting this together. Like you asked." I hammer harder, slamming a few extra dents in the tabletop until she tears off her headphones and chucks them at me. They hit my shoulder, but I ignore her and keep hammering until I've had enough.

"We need to talk," she says, but I ignore her. I squat and flip the table again, but only halfway this time. It slams into the floor, bending one of the newly installed pieces. "Okay, okay, enough," she says, but I don't stop. I give it one last heave and flip it onto its legs. It creaks and splinters but doesn't collapse. I'm a little shocked it held up.

Finally, I turn to her, ready to unleash, but I can't be the one to start. I slump down against the wall, waiting. She kneels in front of me. "Hey, look at me." She lifts my face toward hers. "Talk to me."

"I know you aren't looking for a job anymore."

"How do you know that?"

I ignore the question. "How long do you think you can keep doing it?"

"What does that mean?"

"It means... you like it. You always did."

"It's easy money for not a lot of work."

"Well, you don't need to do it now. I got the job." I force a smile, and after a beat, her eyes widen, and she beams.

"Oh my god. You did? That's incredible."

"You mean it?"

She playfully hits me. "Stop."

"You stop." I take her by the shoulders. "We're covered for months. And thanks to what you've made, we have a cushion. Let me take it from here. You can push hard to get the ad agency dream job you really want." I move to kiss her, but she pulls away, her gaze shifting as her smile fades.

"I haven't told you know how much I made last week."

I want to tell her how it makes me feel. That it's not her, it's me. That I'll never be able to handle it, no matter how much she makes. Instead, I lash out. "Just admit you enjoy it."

"So, what if I do? I'm making more than I would after twenty years in advertising." She backs out of my grasp and stands up.

I join her on our feet. "So, you're okay with being a... whore. Cool." I immediately regret it, but I don't show her. I stay rigid. She flows through several emotions. Shock. Shame. Anger. She holds on to the last one. The lines in her face point in toward pursed lips. I screwed up, but it's too late to apologize. The tension builds, and I know I've gone too far.

She laughs—cold, sharp. "I can't do this." She shakes her head. "You're right. I'm the problem. You're right—I'm a whore."

"Babe, I didn't—"

But she's not finished. "I'm a whore. You're right. But at least I have the courage to take a risk, to jump on an opportunity. You? You always wait. You're too scared to finish anything because if you fail, it'll crush you. Just like that damn coffee table. You'd rather smash it than complete it."

I look at her, feeling the truth of her words as much as the pain they bring. I want to explain, to answer her call. "I wish I was strong enough to share you," I admit quietly. "But I can't. I just...can't. If this is what you want, I won't stop you. But I can't stay either."