From Marty Vee:
I suggest reading Day 1 first. The link is:
Last night I slept on the worst sofa.
What’s strange is I remember when Sofia and Edgar were going through their divorce, she told me how he was making such a big deal about getting their sofa. Was this the piece of furniture he couldn’t live without? It didn’t make sense, no one needed this thing in their life.
Luckily there’s plenty of room for yoga in Edgar’s spare bedroom, minus the bed part. It’s pretty much empty, just some weights and a treadmill.
Yesterday he pulled out an air mattress and tried to fill it up but there was a cleanly sliced hole in its side. Likely a box cutter, maybe when the box had been sealed and someone got too hyper. He had bent down to examine the hole, two fingers inside rubbing the plastic with his thumb. His head shook and released a heavy sigh. Something seemed to be on his mind but I didn’t ask.
With the air mattress out of commission, that left his bed—which I haven’t seen because I’m not going in his bedroom—and dun dun duuuun the sofa.
God help me. I’m not gonna make it.
I’m tired and my back hurts. My phone is dead. My attitude is not at its best.
I still can’t believe that I’m in this situation.
Yesterday, Sofia called me sounding very upset. The currier she had hired to deliver the legal documents suing Edgar for unpaid alimony backed out. Her job was not considered “essential” and she needed that money. I was so enraged. I was riding the white horse of justice and thinking of little else. Also, seriously, his income must be similar to mine—and if the pay gap has anything to say, his is better—he doesn’t live extravagantly, so where is his money going? Why isn’t he paying what he is legally obligated to pay?
Sofia was one of the first people to befriend me when I started working at the station a few years back. But she changed jobs before I’d been there a full year. We’d stayed in contact via social media, mostly when one of us wanted to complain about Edgar.
Edgar and I are keeping our distance. He’s in the spare room now, working out; I can hear him grunting with strain.
It’s late morning, I’m lying on my stomach on the floor of the living room trying to read the book he left on the coffee table. It’s not bad. I would normally be into it but I really want to message my mom and see how she and Dad are doing. But Edgar’s laptop is in his room and I’m going to have to wait until he gets it for me. Then there’s Libby, how’s she fairing? She’s my best friend, we became close in college, some people were meant to be in your life and she’s one of them for me. I have other friends too, but those are the three main people that have me distracted and worried.
I need to borrow his phone so I can do a quick video, which I’m going to look real unprofessional for. I don’t know what’s better, fessing up to my boss about this situation or making the video and trying to pass it off as me being just like everyone else. I have some concealer, mascara and lipstick in my bag. I can do a braid for my hair or a high pony. It’s just not ideal.
There’s also my clothes situation. I’m wearing the yoga pants and tank top that I arrived in and slept in. My hoodie is balled up under my chin. I also have a bra and socks on; I’m currently regretting my practice of not wearing underwear with yoga pants; they slip around too much. I have nothing else to wear and I’m going to have to wash what little clothing I have and soon. So that’s on my mind.
The door to the room Edgar is in opens and I reflexively look over my shoulder towards the sound. He’s got sweat beading along his hairline and his tshirt clings to his sweat-soaked torso. The gym shorts he’s wearing stop just above his knee and I can see the V of his muscles there. I swallow, wondering what his leg day might look like, it’s obvious that he doesn’t skip it. He’s got some solid definition in those calves.
Not letting my eyes linger, I look back at the book open on the hardwood floor. He’s walking across the living room to his bedroom. When he passes me, I make a subtle evaluation of his back half.
I haven’t been thinking about his brazen assessment that he looks good naked. But I get it. From what I can tell, yes, I’m sure he looks very good naked. But seriously, congratu-freaking-lations, plenty of people look good naked. I’ve even seen a couple of them. I don’t look half bad naked myself. I’m not going to be posing for any nude shots any time soon but I’ve gotten solid responses. He’s more arrogant about it than I am but I try to focus my self-worth on other aspects; for example, my brain, personality and other things. You know, things that actually matter. So no, I haven’t been wondering just how true his statement is. I haven’t given it any thought at all.
He comes back out of his bedroom, his messy wet hair and in clean clothes. I look up again out of reflex but end up with a bundle of clothing hitting my face.
“The hell?” I push myself into a seated position.
“Change so we can wash your clothes for tomorrow.”
I assess the garments he’s chosen for me: gray sweats and a Hufflepuff tshirt.
“Hufflepuff?” I ask my mouth pulled to one side.
“Everything is just so clear now.”
“Slytherin.” He doesn’t say it as a question, but as an accusation.
“Yes but I don’t need a shirt to proclaim it.”
“Do you need a different shirt?” He’s crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the door jam.
I stand with the clothing pressed against my chest. Turning my back on him, I head towards the guest bathroom.
“What are you doing?” I ask him when I realize he’s following me.
“Making sure you have everything you need.” He grabs a towel out of the linen closet in the hall and sets it on the counter next to the sink. I wait just outside the door as he checks the few items in the shower. “I’ll get you some conditioner.”
“You use conditioner?” I pull my scrunchy from my hair and run my fingers along my scalp, chestnut-colored strands fall around my shoulders.
“Don’t you?” He’s watching my movements.
“Of course.” Conditioner had fallen on my lists of concerns but it wasn’t something I was going to get overly worked up about. My hair isn’t too temperamental and it’s not like I can actually do my hair. “But not all men do.”
“I do.” He left.
I turn on the water. Sitting on the edge of the tub I let it run over my fingers waiting for it to get hot. He came back with a comb and bottle. The comb goes on the counter next to the towel before he stretches over me to place the conditioner on a shelf next to the shampoo in the shower and then left. He was so close for a fraction of a second that I could feel his body heat from his stomach on my shoulder.
My shower doesn’t wash away the memory of it.
There is Nutella in this house! Like a lot. Like an obscene amount for one person; therefore, an almost appropriate amount for two. I will weather this storm with my sweet tooth sated—not satisfied but sated.
We each have our own bowl of Nutella and fruit.
He turns The Office on.
I’m getting tired. I hope he goes to bed soon. We’re currently sitting on my so-called bed or as I like to refer to it as, Damned Sofa of Death.
From Marty Vee:
Thank you for reading! If you are enjoying the story, please share it with a friend. Here’s the link to Day 3 if you’d like to keep going: