Scuffmarks

Scuffmarks

a story by mjk

I’m not that far gone. I judge this by my apparent ability to string together words into coherent thoughts. At times, I am startled to see my apartment as through the eyes of a stranger, awed at the pathetic squalor of it all. Other times, I sit and stare at the scuffmarks on the floor.

I don’t take comfort in them; rather, I find them a nuisance. Black, sooty stains pock marking the cheap plastic tile that infests the whole apartment. When we moved in, I had marveled at how easy it would be keep clean. Cleanliness used to matter to me. Now those scuffmarks just grow in number.

I know there’s a mop somewhere; I brought it with me from the last place, but it has yet to make an appearance since the move. I can’t remember how long ago that was. It happened while I was still writing in the notebook before this one, so it must have been somewhat recent. No matter where Jo and I move, there are always boxes left unpacked, so it’s useless to measure time that way. Jo doesn’t like calendars.

I suppose I don’t really care, although some part of me obviously does otherwise I wouldn’t be obsessing about it in my journal. Maybe it’s my sanity, trying to nail me down to a reassuring routine, a cycle of actions repeated in an orderly fashion. Sometimes I think Jo has brainwashed me, his thoughts and my thoughts jumble together until I don’t know if there’s such a definite distinction between our lives. I doubt he feels the same. It seems a romantic notion, to meld into another person in such a way, ‘Oh, I don’t know where he ends and I begin,’ but to me it’s warped and ominous. It sounds like a death sentence.

I try it out under my breath; no one will hear me. Hearing it aloud doesn’t lighten the threat. I look at him; he catches my eye and winks. I shudder. Winking men always evoke a feeling of dread. Can a wink be well intentioned? Or is it merely a distraction while they steal away your precious things?

His friends are here. I don’t know if I can remember a time when Jo’s friends weren’t here. They laze about the floor, doing whatever drug they could come up with that day and spacing out in front of the TV. If I’m at work, they blare the stereo too. Jo lets all this happen, encourages it even. He doesn’t wash the dishes; when they run out, they just eat with their fingers and drink from the containers.

Am I just left to play the martyr in this situation? Left to clean up after an unemployed boyfriend that more resembles an obnoxious child?

I disgust myself. How can I think such admonishments against this man I claim to love? Why don’t I get off my ass and find that fucking mop?

He hands me a joint, asks me to spark it. He thinks this passes as affection. I like it much better than kissing and groping since I won’t be stared at the same way while lighting a joint as I would be if Jo were pinching my nipples.

I hate his friends. I hate their shoes.

Indifference sets in, as it usually does, and I let Jo and his friends do whatever they want. Who am I to keep Jo from feeling like a big man in his own home? Whatever Jo thinks of me or whatever he claims of me, I have space to call my own: this journal, these words. I always have my words.

When I do speak up, Jo hears every time. His ears are keen for my mumble. This is also, at times, to my advantage. He’s getting me a glass of water as I write.

He requires payment for the amazing feat he has accomplished in quenching my thirst. Perhaps he fancies he has ensured my survival for another day by replenishing my fluids. If I said that sentence to him, he would think I was being naughty. As a token of my eternal gratitude I am to kiss him, with passion as well as prudence, and then smile pretty when he opens his eyes. Then he leaves me alone.

This apathy bothers me, which is surely one of the most contradictory feelings I’ve ever had. I could have sworn I am the kind of person who takes care of her environment and asserts responsibility for herself. When did my idea of self stop coinciding with my actual self? I guess I’ll never know since there’s no fucking calendar anywhere. Maybe I can start measuring time by counting the scuffmarks.