The only thought running through my mind is that if E hits her then that’s it, I have to do something. I heard crashes before and I just figured it was one of the dogs knocking something over but then Laura starts telling her to leave. She’s basically crying and then E comes out and starts to get her stuff. In the meantime, I’ve felt that it was my job to ensure the situation was kept under control and sought to use the facilities located just a door over from Laura’s room.
I mean everything seemed okay, but then there were just patches where there’s no sound, maybe some sniffles, then E says something (or does something but I can’t see so this is conjecture) that I can’t really make out from the kitchen and Laura tells her to leave again. Her voice is sort of wimpery and snotty most likely from extensive (or intense) crying. I’ve attempted to situate myself in the kitchen by loading the dishwasher and taking out the trash in order to know what’s going on. Mate is just lying on the arm of the couch, his ears back, looking at me like he thinks the house might fall down on top of him.
E has Brooklyn in her arms and Laura’s telling her that she can’t take the dog. E insists that she’s taking her dog. I scurry out the door to the sidewalk with two trash bags then back in the house. Her stuff is in an overflowing garbage bag on the chair next to the dining table. The puppy has his harness on and he’s trying to eat it off. Mate follows me into my room with his ears flat against his head and his tail stiff between his back legs.
E gets into the shower. All I keep thinking to myself is that if she hits Laura then it’s all over. I don’t think I could take her out, she’s way bigger than I am, but I’d have the element of surprise. She’d never expect it from me. E better as all hell not hit her, not in my fucking house. Or our fucking house I guess.
Out of the shower, E comes to ask me for a clean sheet. There’s blowdrying in the background and without any further excuse, except maybe playing with the dogs, to be in the living room, I’ve retreated to the bedroom to acquire a book so as to look somewhat occupied. I feel like an undercover cop – I’m on a mission. Like security detail. But in boxers and no bra. Except secret agents don’t step in dog pee on their way out of the kitchen.
Come to think of it, it’s not blowdrying I hear, but the deflating (well inflating would sound the same but I’m sticking with my deflating story) of an airmattress. E comes out in her underwear and grabs something. Laura comes out in a towel to clean up some dog poop. I hurried back into my room. New mission: clean up after Mate who was probably nervous (but he can’t use that excuse for every other time he’s peed on the floor). She better not take my dishes. E comes into the kitchen and takes out some glasses. Is she taking all her shit home? What actually is her’s around here instead of Laura’s? I don’t think I ever stopped to think about it.
E said she’d wanted to break up with her awhile ago and alluded to their frequent arguements just Sunday night when Amanda and I were having a tiff. I’m sort of surprised there’s not more yelling. There was lots of scuffling before, but now I’m just not sure. If it was me kicking somebody out I’d have told her to get the fuck out and taken her shit and dumped it. Because in my opinion, if it’s bad enough that you want them to leave, the situation therefore must certainly constitute some shit throwing and Fbomb dropping. None of this snifflie stuff — that’s for later after she leaves. Never let them see you sweat.
Brooklyn is playing with an icecube on the living room floor.