person.
Isseeec veel sautee zees undetermined meat over ze stove veeth butter and….
Every few days when the mood is lighter I request a different Isaac cook me dinner. My favorite being Rocky Balboa, in which Isaac calls me Adrian and mimics Sylvester Stallone’s awful attempt at a Philly accent. Those are the better nights—little slivers in between the very bad ones. On the bad ones we don’t speak at all. On those days the snow is louder than the kidnapped houseguests.
Sometimes I hate him. When he does the dishes, he shakes off each one before setting it in the drying rack. Water flies everywhere. A couple of drops always hit me in the face. I have to leave the room to avoid smashing a plate against his head. He hums in the shower. I can hear him from all the way downstairs, mostly AC/DC and Journey. He wears mismatched socks. He squints his eyes when he reads and then insists that there is nothing wrong with his eyesight. He closes the lid of the toilet. He looks at me funny. Like, really funny. Sometimes I catch him doing it and he doesn’t even bother to look away. It makes my face and neck get this tingly burn feeling. He barely makes any noise when he moves. He sneaks up on me all the time. When you’ve been kidnapped it’s never a good idea to be too quiet when entering a room. He’s received countless elbows in the ribs and loose-handed slaps as a result.
“Is there anything I do that irritates you?” I ask him one day. We are both in irritable moods. He’s been lurking; I’ve been stalking. We bump into each other as I come from the kitchen and he comes from the little living room. We stand in limbo in the space between the two rooms.
“I hate it when you go comatose.”
“I haven’t done that in a while,” I point out. “Four days at least. Give me something more tangible.”
He looks up at the ceiling. “I hate it when you watch me eat.”
“Gah!” I throw my hands up in the air—which is completely unlike me. Isaac snickers.
“You eat with too many rules,” I tell him. There is humor in my voice. Even I can hear it. He narrows his eyes like something is bothering him, then he seems to shake it off.
“When I met you, you didn’t listen to music with words, “ he says, folding his arms across his chest.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Why don’t we discuss this over a snack.” He points to the kitchen. I nod but don’t move. He takes a step forward, placing us impossibly close. I step back twice, allowing him room to move into the kitchen. He sets crackers on a plate with some beef jerky and dried bananas and puts it between us. He makes a show out of eating a cracker, hiding his mouth behind his hand in mock embarrassment.
“You live by rules. Mine are just more socially appropriate than yours,” he says.
I snicker.
“I’m trying really hard not to watch you eat,” I tell him.
“I know. Thanks for making the effort.”
I pick up a piece of banana. “Open your mouth,” I say. He does without question. I toss the banana at his mouth. It hits his nose, but I lift my hands in triumph.
“Why are you celebrating?” He laughs. “You missed.”
“No. I was aiming for your nose.”
“My turn.”
I nod and open my mouth, tilting my head forward instead of back so I can make it harder for him.
The banana lands directly on my tongue. I chew it sulkily.
“You’re a surgeon. Your aim is impeccable.”
He shrugs.
“I can beat you,” I say, “at something. I know I can.”
“I never said you couldn’t.”
“You imply it with your eyes,” I wail. I chew on the inside of my cheek while I try to cook something up. “Wait here.”
I sprint up the stairs. There is a metal chest in the carousel room at the foot of the bed. I found games in there earlier, a couple of puzzles, even some books on human anatomy and how to survive in the wild. I rifle through its contents and pull out two puzzles. Each one has a thousand pieces.
Isseeec veel sautee zees undetermined meat over ze stove veeth butter and….
Every few days when the mood is lighter I request a different Isaac cook me dinner. My favorite being Rocky Balboa, in which Isaac calls me Adrian and mimics Sylvester Stallone’s awful attempt at a Philly accent. Those are the better nights—little slivers in between the very bad ones. On the bad ones we don’t speak at all. On those days the snow is louder than the kidnapped houseguests.
Sometimes I hate him. When he does the dishes, he shakes off each one before setting it in the drying rack. Water flies everywhere. A couple of drops always hit me in the face. I have to leave the room to avoid smashing a plate against his head. He hums in the shower. I can hear him from all the way downstairs, mostly AC/DC and Journey. He wears mismatched socks. He squints his eyes when he reads and then insists that there is nothing wrong with his eyesight. He closes the lid of the toilet. He looks at me funny. Like, really funny. Sometimes I catch him doing it and he doesn’t even bother to look away. It makes my face and neck get this tingly burn feeling. He barely makes any noise when he moves. He sneaks up on me all the time. When you’ve been kidnapped it’s never a good idea to be too quiet when entering a room. He’s received countless elbows in the ribs and loose-handed slaps as a result.
“Is there anything I do that irritates you?” I ask him one day. We are both in irritable moods. He’s been lurking; I’ve been stalking. We bump into each other as I come from the kitchen and he comes from the little living room. We stand in limbo in the space between the two rooms.
“I hate it when you go comatose.”
“I haven’t done that in a while,” I point out. “Four days at least. Give me something more tangible.”
He looks up at the ceiling. “I hate it when you watch me eat.”
“Gah!” I throw my hands up in the air—which is completely unlike me. Isaac snickers.
“You eat with too many rules,” I tell him. There is humor in my voice. Even I can hear it. He narrows his eyes like something is bothering him, then he seems to shake it off.
“When I met you, you didn’t listen to music with words, “ he says, folding his arms across his chest.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Why don’t we discuss this over a snack.” He points to the kitchen. I nod but don’t move. He takes a step forward, placing us impossibly close. I step back twice, allowing him room to move into the kitchen. He sets crackers on a plate with some beef jerky and dried bananas and puts it between us. He makes a show out of eating a cracker, hiding his mouth behind his hand in mock embarrassment.
“You live by rules. Mine are just more socially appropriate than yours,” he says.
I snicker.
“I’m trying really hard not to watch you eat,” I tell him.
“I know. Thanks for making the effort.”
I pick up a piece of banana. “Open your mouth,” I say. He does without question. I toss the banana at his mouth. It hits his nose, but I lift my hands in triumph.
“Why are you celebrating?” He laughs. “You missed.”
“No. I was aiming for your nose.”
“My turn.”
I nod and open my mouth, tilting my head forward instead of back so I can make it harder for him.
The banana lands directly on my tongue. I chew it sulkily.
“You’re a surgeon. Your aim is impeccable.”
He shrugs.
“I can beat you,” I say, “at something. I know I can.”
“I never said you couldn’t.”
“You imply it with your eyes,” I wail. I chew on the inside of my cheek while I try to cook something up. “Wait here.”
I sprint up the stairs. There is a metal chest in the carousel room at the foot of the bed. I found games in there earlier, a couple of puzzles, even some books on human anatomy and how to survive in the wild. I rifle through its contents and pull out two puzzles. Each one has a thousand pieces.
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