They didn’t know how it had come to this but there he was, haphazardly pushing tape into the carpet. It was pitiful to watch. The tape kept sticking to his fingers then pulling out the carpet fibers so it’d lose its stickiness. He’d rip off the parts that got too fuzzy and reapplied fresh tape. In the end the line was a messy patchwork that widened and narrowed randomly, but he had successfully created a border to separate her from him.
A scented candle, juniper–her favorite, had been thrown, shattering a porcelain mask from Venice. It wasn’t until the flight home, when, bored, she took it out of her carry-on to examine its craft and discovered it was made in China. Only later did she realize traditional masks were supposed to be made of paper mâché. Hearing the mask shatter was oddly gratifying but she wouldn’t admit that. She was intent on staying fucking pissed.
He had dodged the candle only to stumble into the table. She was yelling something about not fulfilling his end of the bargain and he couldn’t remember when his relationship turned into a business transaction. All he had was a feeling to go off of and apparently what she wanted was tangible proof. But he was never one to keep receipts. He made decisions and never looked back. She, it seemed, suffered buyers remorse at least every other day.
They lived in a small apartment in Brooklyn. She had wanted it because the only window had a ledge just wide enough for her African Violets. Four hundred square feet, the apartment measured 20 by 20 with a door directly in the center of one wall. The tape split the door down the middle. He got the side with the couch–he was angry, but still a gentleman–and she had the bed. They had nowhere else to go and so attempted to create separate worlds with paper and adhesive.
That would be their only rule for now–he would stay on his side, she on hers.
I have a few rules, so does Crispy.
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