Naja Aidt - Rock, Paper, Scissors

Already at 7:00 A.M., he hears her shoving moving boxes around. Groggy with sleep, he has almost forgotten what happened, but then it returns, a storm raging through his body; his stomach clenches, his throat constricts. The bedroom is dark, he can’t remember closing the blinds. Maybe she did it. Maybe she was in here while he slept. He sits up in bed. The bed is moist with sweat. He stands in the living room doorway, buck naked. Patricia glances up at him, then continues stuffing books in a box.

“Don’t take my books,” he says.

“Of course I’m not taking your books.”

“Why are you doing this to me?”

“I’ll be picking up the rest of my stuff on Saturday, once I get the keys to my apartment. Luke promised to help me move.”

“Luke?”

She looks at him. “Yes, Luke. And one of my colleagues.”

“Whose name is?”

“Whose name is Kamal.” Briefly she scrutinizes his nakedness. “Aren’t you going to get dressed?”

“No.”

“Oookay.” She grabs another stack of books off the shelf.

“So that’s just it?” he asks. “Is that all you have to say to me?”

“What should I say, Thomas?”

He turns and goes to the kitchen. He starts the coffee, drinks a glass of pineapple juice. He lights a cigarette. Smoking, naked, he returns to the living room and stands right in front of her. “For one thing you could tell me if this is only about the pregnancy, or whether you stopped loving me a long time ago. And you could tell me whether you’re seeing someone else. Is there someone else? Where were you all those nights?”

She sighs, then sits on the edge of the sofa. “It’s very simple,” she says, surprisingly mild. “It’s been hard for a long time, and when you assaulted me at the office, that was the last straw. I couldn’t forgive you, however much I tried, because it was violent, Thomas — no matter how you look at it. That became totally clear to me after I was raped. What you did to me was an assault. And no, I’m not seeing anyone else. I’ve been out having fun, I’ve met different men, but I’m not seeing anyone. And I’m not interested in having a relationship with anyone. I want to be alone. I have this great need to be alone right now.” She leans back and drapes her arms across the spine of the sofa. “I’m not actually mad at you. I was yesterday because it was a stressful situation.”

“So what is it?”

“I said it was simple. I want to have this baby, and you don’t. So we can’t live together. And besides,” she looks up at him, “I’ve also realized that we’re two very different people. You were raised in an entirely different environment, and, to be totally honest, I think there’s some kind of cultural divide between us.”

“A cultural divide ? What the hell are you talking about? It’s low of you to bring my childhood into this. That’s really punching below the belt, Patricia.”

“Call it whatever you want then.” She props her legs up on the sofa and wraps her hands around her knees. “That we’ve ‘grown apart.’ Or that you have something inside you that. . that I can’t deal with.”

“That you can’t deal with ?”

“Bottom line is, I’m moving out, and I’m going to have a baby, and you aren’t.”

“And what if it’s mine ? If I’m the father?” He hears his voice, hoarse and all-too shrill. Aggressively, he ashes his cigarette on the floor. “What then? Huh, Patricia? What will you do then?”

She stands, and continues packing. “I’m taking the sofa,” she says. “You can have the dining table and the chairs.”

He snorts and walks out of the living room. Irritably puts on his clothes. The espresso machine sizzles and bubbles on the stove; he pours a cup and drains the coffee in one mouthful, though it burns his throat. He has no appetite anyway, only anger. But then he remembers what he’d decided last night, to relax ; he stares at the river, focuses . He thinks about the store, the store, the grand opening, Alice , and soon he feels better. He calms down. He doesn’t want anything to do with that baby she’s carrying. That’s how he’s got to think of it, as an impossibility , it’s impossible for them to be together, and it’s her decision, that’s the reason, he’s got to hold on tight to that. He brushes his teeth. He returns to the living room and says, “Don’t take all the towels. And I want the bed.” She nods. They glance at each other. A brief second of something that reaches all the way down inside them, a togetherness, but also distance, as though they’re standing on opposite shores of a lake, recognizing with sorrow that they cannot cross it, no matter how much they might want to. “Where are you staying now?” he says tiredly.

“With Jules and Tina.”

She bends down and closes the box. He says, “Take the cat with you. I’ll put it down if you don’t.” She sighs and yanks tape across the box flaps. “I really will.”

It’s not until he’s down on the street with his keys in his hand that he realizes his bicycle is still wherever he left it yesterday. He can’t even remember the name of the street.

Although he tries to resist, the thoughts still slip through when he plucks a package of letter paper from the basement a little past lunchtime. Did Patricia call Luke because she wanted him to help her move? Or is there another reason? And what does “I’ve met different men” mean? What the hell does it mean? How many men has she met? And did this begin a while ago? Has she been unfaithful to him before? He’s never heard anything about this Kamal. What the hell, why would she end their relationship just because he made one mistake, forcing himself on her that day? Didn’t he have a right to? Weren’t they living together? Fucking stuck-up bitch, pampered whore, she didn’t have what it takes. He’s about to boil over with a black slush of hatred and jealousy. But also: Hey! We’ve been together for five years. Isn’t that worth something? He swells with indignation. He wants to deck her. To punch her in the belly, smash that fucking demon that’s growing inside her, a parasite in her flesh. Slap the shit out of her, put her in her place. His nostrils quiver, his breathing constricts. He tries pushing the thoughts away, the same way he pushes boxes from one place to another. Back to the actual: that he’s blameless. But the baby. The cause of their break-up. A small, stubborn blob of mucus in Patricia’s uterus that is stealing her from him. He stands silent, completely drained, empty. Ashamed of his violent fantasies. And yet a moment later, with all his might, he wallops an empty box with his clenched fist. His hand pierces the cardboard, leaving a hole. He kicks the box. Then Maloney sticks his head through the hatch and asks if he’s hungry. Annie’s going to bring sushi on her way back from The Other, which is what they’re calling the new store. “The food’ll be here in twenty minutes.” Once the boxes are organized, Thomas crawls up the steep stairwell and plops into the boss’s chair in the office. Maloney’s on the phone with a salesman. When he ends the call, Thomas says:

“Patricia’s gone. And pregnant. She wants to keep the baby. And I was at the emergency room yesterday. With heat exhaustion. I can’t remember where I left my motherfucking bike.”

Maloney looks at him without comprehension. “What are you saying ?”

“Patricia’s moving out.”

“But why ?” He sits on the rickety chair opposite Thomas. “What happened?”

Thomas shrugs. “I suppose it’s because she wants to keep the baby, whether the dirty fucking rapist is the father or not. She’s packing her things. She’s rented an apartment.”