The living room

The boxes. She points to them as proof that I leave my messes in the living room.

It depends on the mess and what’s going on. Those came in recently, it’s been raining constantly and I’ve been working and in school so much I’m exhausted. They are boxes. They won’t rot, smell bad, or get outdated just sitting there. I don’t leave dishes or food wrappers out.

Looking at the boxes though, there’s the one for the coffeemaker she told me was so fabulous. I ordered it. The box is mine which must mean the coffeemaker is mine too. I could remind her of that the next time she wants coffee.

I look at the floor. There is the rat’s blanket that Meghan always leaves where I have to avoid tripping over it if I go near the couch. There are bits of foam rubber from the couch. Everywhere. By the couch, by the tv, in the hall by the front door, in the kitchen, in my bedroom, in the bathroom. That is the kind of mess that wanders if you don’t pick it up, so when I said she had to vacuum up after the rat months ago I had a reason. My boxes. Her foam rubber floor covering. Hmmm. The boxes don’t seem to go anywhere else. The coffee table. Today all it has on it is a potato chip bag. She was proving to me that she doesn’t leave her stuff around and she is so blind to it she doesn’t even realize she missed something.

There were pictures but they are on the camera and refuse to transfer. I’ll deal with them when I’ve got more time and am less stressed.


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