A fictionalized domestic comedy.
“We should move in together,” Matt said over breakfast.
My stomach growled. I nodded. He smiled. Somewhere between the burnt toast and my first useful sip of coffee, we appeared to have agreed on a housing arrangement.
People say to trust your gut. They rarely specify whether it has reviewed the lease.
Once properly awake, I did want to live with him. We talked about rent, space, and the inconvenient fact that both of us already owned a sofa. My early nod was enthusiasm; it was not a substitute for working out the details.
Then came the boxes, the furniture assembly, and the discovery that Matt used three towels a day. I had moved in with a man whose laundry habits suggested a modest hotel. He discovered that I routinely left one sip of milk in the carton, apparently to preserve the concept of milk for the next person.
These were small things, until we each explained at length why the other person’s small thing was more significant. Living together was proving an excellent opportunity to hear ourselves.
We made adjustments. He stopped recruiting fresh towels for every minor event. I finished the milk and put it on the list. We found space for one sofa and donated the other without treating it as a referendum on our pasts.
The breakfast story remained better than the practical one, so it became the version we told friends. But the arrangement worked because we kept talking after the accidental yes.
My gut still makes important announcements. I usually give it toast before allowing it to choose our next address.
