It’s a small house to be trapped.

Context: There was a friendly challenge to write a story about two characters in six hours. I hadn’t written in over a year. Happy I wrote this no matter how bad it is.

There is no getting used to sleeping on the couch. I’ve learnt to fall asleep on demand; it’s a mind over matter thing. If I don’t think about how uncomfortable it is to fold my legs, then sleep comes easily enough. I don’t think it will be possible to think myself out of feeling the pain in my back. Perhaps I will learn to like it. Or if things change soon enough, I can go back to sleeping on a bed.

These wishful thoughts are the kind of thoughts that fill my mind when I wake up in the morning. I stretch the stiffness out of my joints quietly. Mornings are quiet in the house. They have always been but even more so now that I make an effort. I walk on my tippy toes into my room — her room — the room. I am not sure what to call it these days, used to be our room. I try my best to open the door without making too much noise, but this door is a squeaky one. I was supposed to have it fixed — called someone to fix it.

I step quietly into the room even though I know she’s already awake. She has always been a light sleeper. I used to think that just my eyelids opening was enough to wake her up. Today, she chooses to pretend like she’s still sleeping. It is probably for the best. I walk across the room to where the bathroom is, open the door, sit down and pee. I could go to the guest bathroom but I like this one, it smells better. When I am done, I fetch water into a bucket and slowly pour it into the toilet bowl. It makes less noise than flushing. Before stepping out, I wipe the splashes of water on the seat. I would have made a much better husband if I did all this before things got out of hand. My tracksuit is hanging on the handle of the wardrobe. She put it there for me the night before. Probably so I don’t cause a ruckus trying to get it out in the morning. I change out of my pyjamas and into the tracks secretly hoping she sneaks a peek. She probably didn’t.

When I get back, she’s in the bathroom so I step into the kitchen and make two cups of coffee. I place one on her dresser with a saucer to prevent it from staining. I drink mine at the dining table. She’s just stepping out of the bathroom when I reenter the room. She has two towels, one around her bust and the other wrapped around her hair. Our eyes meet for a second before she shifts her gaze and walks to the wardrobe.

“Good morning,” I say

“Morning,” she mumbles without looking at me.

“I am just going to shower,” I say.

“That’s fine,” She says.

I don’t spend too much time showering. I intentionally spend too much time getting dressed. I don’t want to meet her in the kitchen. When I come out, she’s sitting in the sitting room watching tv and eating. There are some french toasts and orange juice waiting for me in the kitchen. I eat at the dining table and yell ‘thank you’ when I am done. She looks at me and nods then returns to watching tv. After washing the dishes, I settle down at the dining table to read a book. It’s not very comfortable but there aren’t a lot of options in the house. It’s a small house to be trapped in with someone you hate. We don’t talk to each other for the rest of the day, the less we talk the less we fight. Fighting makes cohabiting harder than it already is and it’s really easy for us to get into a fight.

I also take my naps on the couch. They are just as painful as when I sleep at night. When the post-nap confusion fades away, I remember that I have to do a supply run tomorrow. It’s been 10 days since the last one and we’ve started to run low on a few things. She’s in the balcony now so I should probably go get out my clothes. That’s what I do. I pick out a shirt, a pair of trousers and my sneakers. I hang the clothes neatly on the wardrobe door and put the sneakers right in front. There’s one last thing I can’t find: my blue striped boxers. They are not in my half of the wardrobe. I think of checking her side, perhaps they got mixed in.

‘That’s a bad idea’ I think to myself. She will know, she will get pissed, we will fight.

I should ask her if she’s seen it.

‘That’s a worse idea,’ a voice in my head says.

Well, it’s probably better than searching through her things. Also what if we don’t fight?

Let me spare you the suspense, we fight. It gets ugly.

She was in the sitting room with a glass of wine when I came out.

“Have you seen my boxers?” I say like a wounded child. I know she probably didn’t hear my actual words but she definitely heard me speak. She didn’t act like it. I clear my throat and ask again.

“Did you see my boxers?”

She looks at me.

“The blue striped one,” I explain. “I can’t seem to find it.”

“Have you checked your wardrobe?”

“Yes I have”

“What about the clothesline?” She asks.

“I haven’t washed recently” I answer. Being stuck in the house doesn’t give me the motivation to change clothes. I wear the same thing every day.

“Check the wardrobe again”

“Can I check your side?” I ask. Finally reaching the point I was aiming for all along.

“You can’t”

I could have guessed that answer. I walk back to the room and check my wardrobe again. It isn’t there. I could drop the matter and wear any of the other underwear I can find. But something in my head wants to have a conversation with her.

“It’s still not there”

“Maybe it’s in Becky’s house,” she says. Her tone was plain and maybe even a little bitter. She wasn’t trying to help. This was my cue to stop. Head back to safety. She probably had a similar wise voice in her head telling her to back away.

“Why would it be there?” I ask feigning naivety.

“Maybe you left it there,” she says.

“I don’t leave my underwear in other women’s houses”

We aren’t thinking about our responses. We are supposed to. There’s a voice telling me to calculate my response.

“Well you leave other things in their houses”

“I haven’t even left the house in ten days. At what point would I have gone to her house and left my boxers there — ” I could have ended the sentence there you know. Minimum damage. I hadn’t said anything provoking yet.

“That doesn’t even make any sense.”

Now I have. She stands up from the couch. Between us, there’s the centre table and another chair.

“What doesn’t make any sense is you asking me for your boxers. That doesn’t make any sense. Why would I know where your boxers are?” Her voice has gotten a bit louder. So I make extra sure to keep mine lower.

“Well, it could be on your side of the wardrobe.”

“Why would it be in my side of the wardrobe? Do I wear boxers?” She could have stopped her sentence there. She hadn’t said anything provoking yet.

“Do you want me to share your boxers with me? The way you share my bed with other women?”

Now she had.

“That never happened. You know that never happened.” We are in a fight now

“I don’t know what happened. Like you’ve said multiple times before.”

“I can tell you what happened.” No, I can’t.

“Okay tell me. Where did you guys have the sex?”

I really can’t tell her. You know why I can’t tell her.

“You are being ridiculous. We were talking about my boxers. If you don’t know where it is, that’s fine.”

“Oh, I’m sorry for being ridiculous. Thank you for your feedback.”

She has been walking closer to me since the fight started. Now the only thing between us is the couch.

“Can I say that I feel like you do this a lot?” I should stop.

“Do what?”

“You turn every conversation into a weapon against me,” I say.

“I do what now?” she asks astonished. She raises her hand with the glass cup. This question is not a question, it’s a dare.

“Turn every conversation into a weapon against me”

She walks briskly towards me raising her hand higher as she does.

“What the fuck does that even mean? Are you calling me a bully?”

I take a step back.

“I’d like you to stop there. I don’t feel safe with you coming closer.”

She stops in her track, now on the same side of the chair as I am. She looks at her raised hand holding the cup as if she’s going to throw it at me. She lowers her hand slowly.

“You don’t feel safe?”

I shake my head.

“That only happened one time. I am not violent, that only happened one time.”

I don’t respond.

“You are making me look irrational. Making me look violent.”

I don’t respond.

“I am not going to throw this at you damn it.” she takes a step closer.

“Quarantine,” I say. “I don’t think you are violent. We are meant to maintain six feet”

“What fucking quarantine? We touch all the same things” She says.

“I disinfect,” I say.

She sighs and under her breath says I suck.

“What? I didn’t hear you.”

“You suck.” She shouts it right at my face.

“Because I am responsible? I suck because I am good at taking care of people and I don’t mind doing it. That’s why I suck.”

She laughs hysterically.

“What’s so funny?”

“If you really wanted kids so bad, you won’t have married me.”

“I would have married Becky”

“Fuck you”

***

We fought again the next day before I left. This time orchestrated by me. She asked me about my mum; if I had heard from her. It was probably a peace offering. I spat on the offering.

“Why are you asking?” I said.

“I wondered how she was. If she was in good health and if she was staying away from people. You know, with everything going on.” She explained

“Hmm. What do you care?” I asked.

“I care about her, I’ve always liked her.”

“She’s never liked you.” I lied.

“Okay.”

There was a brief silence in the room and if we maintained it long enough, peace would have returned. I didn’t want that.

“You know what, my mum never wanted me to marry you,” I said.

“Once this lockdown is done, we can finalise things and it will be like you never did.” She said.

“That would make her very happy,” I said and she didn’t answer — not immediately.

“Pity, I always liked her.”

I wanted to disagree but there was no point.

“She was so warm and she made the best pepper soup”

She did.

“I will have to remember to pray for her”

I hissed.

“What?” She asked, “Do my prayers annoy you?”

They actually didn’t but -

“It’s just kind of ridiculous don’t you think. Saying empty words to no one.” I said

“Okay,” she said. She was fighting hard to keep the peace and I hated that. We sat in silence, tense silence. I knew she was obsessing over what I had said. Her body became increasingly uneasy. Just when she was going to speak. I got up to leave.

“Where are you going?” She asked

“To get supplies,” I said and closed the door behind me. She was angry and she would have nowhere to let it out, that made me happy.

There was a queue at the supermarket but everyone stood six feet apart. We entered the store five people at a time. I held my breath as I walked in because of something I read about the virus being airborne. I bought the essentials; toiletries, non-perishables and some spices for pepper soup. I got ice cream on the way out, strawberry because that’s her favourite. She was sleeping when I got home so I went about my cooking. Yam and pepper soup, not as good as my mum’s but pretty good I might say. She had woken up by the time I finished, I dished hers and served it on the dining table. She sat across from me and we ate in silence. When she finished, she looked at me and said thank you. I nodded. We washed the plates together. I know what you are thinking. My argument is that It’s all soap, no much need for disinfectant. Besides, it’s a really small house to be trapped with someone you love.