A Flatmate

As I get home, my eyes begin to scan the kitchen for a disappointment so inevitable it has become part of a desperate choreography. A stained stove, a dirty sink, and crumbs of stale bread spread across the floor. I let out a frustrated sigh and angrily lower my bag to the ground. Irritated by the unpleasant smell of the scrambled eggs she made earlier, I soak the sponge in water and soap and begin my angry scrubbing. I don’t like her. A thought I dare not say out loud because it feels wrong and inappropriate. But, Lord, is it true. I scrub and apply more pressure, trying to remove a stubborn stain on the counter, scrubbing so hard as if to scrub off her scent, the mess she’s left behind, and maybe even her presence. Once my hands are dry, I rush off to the bathroom, where I keep my incense paper, and light one on fire. What was then a ritual for wellness and relaxation has now become a compulsive habit of avoidance, necessary and executed consequently whenever the smell begins to penetrate the entire apartment, giving me a sense of threat in the very place I call my home.