I don’t like these shirts, the ones I have to wear to the office. They’re garish, falsely cheerful. They remind me of the uniform I wore when I pushed burgers as a student. They remind me of TV talent show contestants, humiliated but still smiling.
I own six shirts: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, plus a reserve. The reserve’s a happy accident, the result of only buying two-for-one deals. I like to think having the extra shirt makes out like I thought about it. I like to think it makes me look professional.
I’m ironing them. The shirts. It’s late Sunday afternoon. I feel like a traitor, letting my working week slither into my precious free time. ‘Precious’ as an adjective denoting value through scarcity.
Out the window, it’s a beautiful day. I should go for a walk.
I’m not good at ironing, that’s the other thing. Through my efforts, all I manage to do is press the creases more deeply into the fabric. People in the office joke about the thirtyish guy who lives alone and can’t iron. I laugh, but in a jagged way, in a way that says: watch it.
Sarah from next door is weeding her garden. I feel bad for her whenever I see her because she’s so old and her back is hunched, but when she’s gardening it kind of works out for her, I guess. I hang my creased shirts off the ironing board, and tell myself, “One day I’ll be old.” The thought doesn’t connect, just dangles in my brain like a spider in a warehouse.
I can tell it’s warm outside, but it’s cold in my unit. Wellington houses. I zip up my hoodie and flip the hood over my head, walking three steps to the sofa. I fall like a dead tree, hands in hoodie-front-pocket, and pull the fuzzy blanket over me with my feet and knees. My mum gave me the blanket before I moved to Wellington. I think she might have bought the iron as well. I wake up the laptop on the coffee table by nudging the trackpad with my chin. I don’t have a TV, but I watch downloaded movies. I tell people at work, “TV’s dead,” and I say, “I don’t own a television.” I say it in a way that’s casual and cool, so they know I’m not being a dick about it.
“I’m good with people.” I say this aloud, I don’t know why. I’ve only been in Wellington three months. Nothing’s downloaded yet, so I look at the roof and wonder why Wellingtonians are so hard to get to know. Maybe because it’s so much smaller than Auckland, Wellingtonians have fewer social circles. In Auckland, the city’s so big that you need different groups all over. In Wellington, you only need one or two. It’s a socio-geographical fact: Wellingtonians are less open to meeting new people. So.
I let the theory bounce around my brain. It feels sound. It gives me the energy to get off the sofa, blanket draped over my head and shoulders, and step into the kitchen. I push bread into the toaster, finishing off my third loaf in a week. After dinner, I’ll go for that walk.
Crumbs. I see them in the yellow late-afternoon light. Under the toaster, across the bench, on the floor. I realise this with a little surprise, because it’s, like, a lot. They must have been building up for—a week? Longer. A month? I step up and down, crunching the little bits under my slippers.
I click my teeth together rapidly, something I guess I do when I’m a bit unsure. I walk from the kitchen to the bathroom clutching the blanket at my breast like an old Italian woman in mourning. I stand and look, and in a horrible moment, I see. Thick black hairs curled on the tiles, dried toothpaste on the faucet. I peer into the toilet bowl. How long has it been like this? Have all my visitors seen this?
Visitors. The last one would have been Joanna, the librarian, the one time she almost stayed over (she caught a taxi at the last minute, saying that she didn’t want to rush into anything she’d regret. It seemed cute and a little coquettish at the time). That was a couple of weeks ago. No, wait. That was February. February was six weeks ago. Have I really had no visitors for six weeks? Also, what happened to Joanna?
I grab the toilet brush, holding the blanket in place with my other hand, and scrub against the scum of the bowl a couple of times; it moves like wet paint. I think it’s normal not to have visitors that often. It’s just modern life. In New York they build apartments without kitchens now. And that’s New York, so.
My toast pops. I collect it, scrape on peanut butter. If I used a plate, there’d be fewer crumbs. Good thinking. I even take a moment to grab a cloth and brush a bunch of crumbs into the sink—I don’t get them all, but it’s a good first go. I’ll get the rest later, after my walk.
Back to the sofa, blanket over head, toast in hand. The movie has finished downloading, but I don’t want to watch it anymore. I wonder: is it worse to steal something you don’t actually want? I stare at the corner where two walls meet the ceiling, chewing my toast, thinking a whole load of thoughts. Nothing important.
Tens of minutes pass, I guess. My toast is gone. Out the window, Sarah’s back, and now she’s got a whole tray of bulbs. I’m surprised—it’s almost 5pm, why would she start a new job? She should relax, make the most of the evening.
I’m underneath the thick blanket, still, leaning forward like a wildlife photographer. My teeth are clicking up and down, but it is cold, so.
Outside, Sarah’s grey hair looks golden.