my roommate was moving out.
the idea of having a stranger move into my home was exhausting. it was san francisco so it’s pretty much the norm to be well into your 30s living with people don’t know so you can hold onto your rent controlled apartment until the day you die.
but i was done. i was no longer willing to learn the hard way the strange social ticks of another human being. jeff lived alone in a three bedroom shotgun a block away from a sunny park, a fancy grocery store and the best ethiopian food in the city. he had a back porch lined with plants and I had imagined setting up a hammock for reading outside on warm days. i had to convince him i was a good deal. who doesn’t want to cut their living expenses with someone they’re sleeping with?
“I’m fun!” was the first thing i had said. i’m not sure if it was the best lead in, but that’s what came out. “I’m so much fun! i own half the amount of shoes other girls own, i like cleaning, i’m good at reading the room so i know when to leave it, give you space, let you do your own thing.”
it was then i realized how good i am at being small how that was the take away from all my past relationships, what those i have loved loved about me.
“you’re barely there,” greg had said once. “you pop in. do something nice and then leave like cinderella running away from the ball. what is that? that’s not normal.”