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"i'm trying better"
it's your day off, cleaning day, and you're making slow work through your bedroom. you share it with keith and every weekend is made a little more difficult by his food wrappers and dirty clothes scattered like mines across the room. you grumble to yourself as you pull a dirty sock from its hiding place by the nightstand. if he was with you at the moment you'd give him your usual talk, but he escaped this morning to spend time with john.
you finish and move into the kitchen, desperate to find whatever has been making that horrid smell for the last week. with a careful, searching hand, you discover a half-eaten finger sandwich, green and molded, shoved behind the lazy susan.
"oh my god," you blech in disgust and immediately throw it away. you wash your hands vigorously, the water on full blast and steaming. you almost miss the door opening and closing and the patterned steps of your husband.
turning around, hands dripping water, you glare at keith. his previous wide eyed gaze turns slack and he shrugs his shoulders at you.
"what?" he asks.
"what?" you mock and wipe your hands on your already messy skirt. "you want to know what was making that smell?"
"i don't know. a dead rat?" he kicks off his shoes by the door and pads to the sofa past you.
"no, a moldy sandwich. left out by you. do you want our roach problem to come back?"
he places his socked feet up on the coffee table and you smack them off, sitting down right beside him to better articulate your point. he watches you and speaks up:
"i didn't leave it out. maybe pete."
"look, it doesn't matter. it's just the fact that i'm not your mother and i shouldn't have to be your maid. we're supposed to be a team, right? that's what i told you from the start."
he seems clouded, out of it, and your instinct causes you to take his hand in your own. what's wrong? the question flowers on your lips, but you quell it down and clear your throat.
"are you listening?"
"yes, yes, i'm listening! there's a lot going on right now." he waves his hands around and leans forward to pick at a dog-eared page of your fashion magazine. "i'm going to try better. i'm trying better."
"then help me with something. get up and do something instead of just lying around." you stand as an invitation for his help, but he merely folds his arms over his knees and looks at the carpet. "fine," you say at last. "sit there and sulk."
none of this is new, you think as you leave him to find the vacuum. keith has been on a downward pull, the effects of which he only shows to you and sometimes the band. never in public, though. he's soft-shelled, hiding with his jokes, antics, and outfits.
when you return to the living room, he's poured himself a drink. you don't have anything to say. you avert your gaze and pretend you're alone, only acknowledging him when you have to vacuum beneath the coffee table.
this is no where near the worst it's been between you two, but at the beginning you didn't imagine yourself weighted with keith's insecurities and guilt. you sigh and turn off the hoover, turning around.
"hey," you suggest. "do you want to take a nap with me after i'm done?"
brown, huge eyes and his pouted mouth meet you. he nods, soft, and twists the glass of alcohol between his fingers.
"alright, just a couple more minutes." you've turned maternal again, without even realizing it. you partly scold yourself, but imagine the heat of keith's body, curled into your arms as you play big spoon, and turn the thoughts away.
