Laundry

We’re passive-aggressively doing laundry these days. My flatmate has taken up camp in the kitchen, all-day-long unless showering at awkward times or laughing to France in her room. Our washing machine, when on the drying part of the cycle, shakes the whole room. Her laptop, sheets of scripts and books must vibrate for a good twenty minutes each time. We just want our dining table back. In the evening sun, we’d take the mini purple speaker and I’d cook. He’d try and help, chopping so slowly it grated my patience and made me feel like a bad person. And then he’d hug me from behind as I stirred, passing over a beer in one of the fancy glasses. I’d turn around and we’d say the good things. She’s got a desk in her room, we all do. If she’d just say, ‘Look, I need more space, I’m fed up of my room’ then I’d understand. I think. I’m jealous of her concentration levels. Every time I go in to make tea her eyes never leave the screen, although she’ll sometimes reply ‘Hi’. She works late into the evening, we perch on the side and shovel pasta down. No small talk. When we do the sound reverberates and I sound like a cartoon villain. Shattering the peace.

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