Susan

I met my circumstantial roommate at the front of the house while I was taking out some trash. “Oh, it’s you!” she said. “I haven’t seen you in a week!” I laughed, “yeah seriously!” and walked through the front yard, then threw my bag in the bin. She was on her way in, and waited for me in the doorway at the top of a few tall concrete steps. I had never seen anybody use that entrance to the house, and was delighted by the surprise that it led to her rooms. I propped my foot against the bottom step and looked up at her.

She asked me quickly, “have I been doing anything to bother you? I get up at 5 in the morning to shower.”

“No, no,” I said, “I haven’t heard anything.” And then I wondered if what I’d said was true. Of course I’d heard something, but it hadn’t bothered me. I felt a rush of well-being at that amount of truth. I also thought it was sweet of her to ask, and that the kind of person who would ask that question is also the kind of person who wouldn’t be bothering me (much) in the first place. The previous guest had whistled and blasted his television and talked loudly on the phone in the kitchen, and he never asked anything like that. It bothered me so much that if he had asked I would have told him a portion of the truth.

“What about me; have I been doing anything to bother you?”

“Oh no!” she said, “It’s like you’re not even here!” I felt shy at her response–and I’d felt silly asking, but I wanted to return the favor. On the contrary, I’d probably been so quiet as to be unsettling. I take the extra seconds to close doors softly, and even stop the microwave sometimes before it beeps. I turn the window AC unit on in my room to drown out my quiet phone conversations and I cringe every time I step on a squeaky spot on the hardwood.

“How were the glass flowers?” she asked.

My mind went blank. Glass flowers? I recalled our previous (and only) conversation, when I’d been on my way out to see the Harvard museum of Natural History. “Oh!” I said, “they were great!”

“And how did you like the rest of the museum?”

I flipped through blank pages in my rolodex, trying to remember something I could say. “It was great!” Then a happened upon an image. “Oh man, the bugs in jars!”

“Yes, the first time I went it was really those bugs that got me!”

I felt happy about how we’d both had a similar experience. I’d been wanting to talk to her more and get to know her better, but I had also done my best to stay in my room whenever I heard her in the kitchen. I imagine she must have done the same, and so we never saw each other. She seemed so nice though, and I’d been so isolated. I had barely spoken to anyone in weeks.

“Yes, all those different species they had–” she began.

“And there was that one guy who was really into beetles, like he just collected hundreds of different kinds of beetles.”

“And all the taxidermied animals! They were really something.”

“Oh yeah,” I said, shifting my weight, slightly uncomfortable at the topic.

She continued, “I thought about the people who did the work, and what that was like. Can you imagine doing that? And what that would be like?”

“I actually.. as soon as I realized they were all taxidermied I got kind of uncomfortable and had to leave the room.”

“Oh yeah, well they had some that are extinct now though. So you can see what you were like. They have that black rhino.”

I hadn’t seen it. When I’d went up to the second story with the hundreds of bird bodies I started to feel dizzy, and made my way back to the gem room. “Oh, yeah.”

“Did you like the gemstones?”

“Yes! They were so cool! I even got a few from the gift shop.”

“It’s a nice gift shop! And reasonably priced. They even have days there that are free to go into the museum.”

“I go to crystal shops sometimes and they had some I’d never seen before. It was really cool.”

I wondered about the time. I had a meeting soon. I shifted my weight and took a small step back, bringing both of my feet onto the driveway.

“So you’re here for another week?” she asked. I noticed that her eyes were stinging. She blinked them and began to take off her glasses. I wondered how old she was. I wondered how much we had in common, or how much we would have had in common if she’d been younger. My eyes sting sometimes, and it feels just like that. I marveled at the similarity.

“Yeah, I’m leaving on Friday.”

“Sorry, my eyes are stinging,” she said, wiping them.

“Ah,” I replied.

“Well, if I don’t see you, which I guess I probably won’t–”

I laughed, “yeah I guess probably not!”

“I hope you enjoy your time, and have a safe trip!”

“Thanks, I’ll see you.” I always say that to people, and I’m not exactly sure why. Maybe I’m pretending a closeness that doesn’t exist, in order to feel a moment of warmth. I wouldn’t be surprised, as I am desperate for it.

She stepped backwards, disappearing into the dark entrance to the house, and I walked away before I saw her close the door. I looked at my phone. My meeting wouldn’t start for another 10 minutes. I worried that I might run into her in the kitchen, on my way back. What would we say then? It would have been fine.

I wondered about her, and if she’d been avoiding me. I always eat in the kitchen, and she must eat in her rooms. I wonder if she’s at peace with her age and her body. At 37, I’ve been losing the peace I have with mine. It amazes me sometimes, that more people don’t hide. And I wondered if her staying in her room was a bit of hiding. Or if I was just projecting, because I might hide from me, if I were her. I wish I could describe how she looked, in detail, but the truth is I don’t know. I can never recall people’s eye color, despite having looked them in the eyes while speaking. Even people I’ve known a long time, I can’t always picture it. I think it’s because I’m afraid of them seeing me look at them. I’m terrified of people catching me looking at them. I want to look at them. I want to see them. It just feels.. dangerous. I notice things that others don’t, and I’ll notice things that they don’t want me to notice. I’m afraid I’ll be caught staring at an insecurity. I’m that child that points and remarks, “wow Mama, that woman is so fat!” I marvel at the world around me, and people scarcely like to be marveled at unless they’re being flattered.

I wish we could talk more, or watch some TV together. I bet we’d get along. I bet we’d have a good laugh. I’d like to hear more about her life, and I’d like her advice. I’d like someone to talk to. But I won’t say anything. I’ll only go into the kitchen when it’s quiet. One of my mottos in life is: “let them tell you no. Don’t tell yourself no.” I preach it because I don’t live up to it most of the time. Instead, I’m living to be invited.

Do you know that this weekend, I was walking by a shop with not one, but two signs that said, “Please Come In!” It was a local art gallery, and I wanted to go inside. I wondered, “can I go in?” and I passed it by. Then I stopped, and I turned my head to look back. I stared at the door that said “Please Come In!” and then I looked at the window that said, “Please Come iIn!” and I stood frozen for a long time. Long enough to wonder if anyone saw me wondering if I was allowed to go in. If the world isn’t meant for you you always have to wonder, “am I allowed, too?”

I took a deep breath and walked up the steps and went inside, feeling brave and bold. I carried that feeling with me when I tried on jeans at a store later, and when I tried on eyeglasses at another. But not when an attractive woman sat near me outside of the Boston commons and busied herself with her phone. Not when I was sitting there, asking myself what I’d like for dinner if I could go to the imaginary buffet, and realized that all I wanted from the imaginary buffet was someone to eat with. They can pick the place. I thought about asking her to dinner, but instead I busied myself with my phone, too. I thought that she was probably waiting for someone, or had plans. After a while I got up, took the train home and ate a couple of snacks from the fridge. I felt sad, but I’d have felt sadder sitting alone at a restaurant.

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You know, a little while after I wrote this I remembered that I didn’t just go home that night to have snacks. It was a different night that I did that. On that night, I wandered around China town taking photos at dusk, and I went to the smallest restaurant I’ve ever been in and had sushi at the counter. I listened to the conversation of the younger people next to me, and I remembered being in college. After I finished my meal, I worried over the tray they’d served it to me on. It seemed to be made of balsa wood, or some other soft wood. Light yet elegant. The shiny silver bowl for sauces (left unused) was just cardboard on the other side. I peered into the trash can, trying to get an inconspicuous clue. In my mind’s eye I saw the embarrassing encounter I could have with the owner if I tried to return a disposable plate to her. Calculating the likelihood of various outcomes, I place it in the trash and left before anyone could say anything.