From Marty Vee:
My site wants to skip Day 2, so you should read that before reading this. https://martyvee.com/2020/04/06/you-and-me-in-quarantine-day-2/
I definitely suggest reading from the beginning with Day 1 in if you’re not going to do that I’ll summarize:
Billie pulled a rash move and found herself quarantined at her least favorite person’s house, Edgar, without a charger for her phone or change of clothes or really anything else that would be necessary.
My clothes are clean. I was going to wash them myself, but he already had a load ready to go while I took my shower yesterday. It was just waiting for my meager laundry to add to the mix. Then everything was moved into the dryer before I realized what was happening. I did take care of my bra; handwashing it in the bathroom sink and then hung it over the shower curtain rod to dry. It was only slightly damp when I put it back on today.
Being braless around him had been weird. I didn’t want to ask him for a sweatshirt which would have made it more subtle, so I just tried to not move my upper body too much. I do not have braless boobs. When the girls are free they are wild!
His eye contact was firm when we happened to be in the same room.
I borrowed Edgar’s phone to film a video for work with a very tight frame on my mostly makeup-less face. I sent it to our producer, she didn’t complain but she did say next time I’m going to need to pull the shot back.
A very large silver lining to this whole mess is that cases of the virus are starting to plateau. They’re still growing but not as quickly. My parents are fine so far, as is Libby. She’s playing a lot of some video game, she told me the name and such but… I don’t know what she’s talking about. She’s having fun though. I, of course, get all of these updates via messenger. Edgar has pretty much fully relinquished his laptop to me except when he has to get some work done. I use it for work too.
Our jobs require us to be informed on all current affairs—which is almost exclusively the virus: any medical advances or the politics involved in help arriving to hot spots or how other countries are dealing with the care of their citizens. It’s all so consuming and horrifying that I’m doing my job and then pushing the information to the back of my mind as best as I can. The most he and I have discussed the situation is when I found an article by a BBC reporter that I suggested he read.
Edgar and I, hardly occupied the same room yesterday but today we’re both in the living room.
I’m relieved and annoyed that he’s been a decent host. Based on the stories I’ve heard from Sofia, that is all but miraculous. She was always sharing stories about how he never made considerations for her. That he always had something to say about her choices, even super small ones.
With all this in mind, I know I would not have been a gracious host for him. I would have made him wash the clothes on his back by hand and then wait for them to air-dry or wear them wet. I would not have found it in me to produce alternate clothing for his comfort. I would not have shared my Nutella. It’d be basic provisions only for him.
Over the past forty-eight hours I’ve been thinking about that a lot. Spending time with him is reshaping my impressions. Then I remember the junior reporter promotion I went after, that he got over me and then quit the job a month later.
Quit. The. Job. A. Month. Later.
Like what was his point? His ex-wife—current wife at the time—told me he only went for the position because he was concerned that I’d get it. Which I did, after he vacated it.
The manila folder I gave him has disappeared from its former location on the kitchen table. I’m okay with that. I don’t need him remembering that he should be an asshole to me.
His book is open on his lap. He does this thing where he runs his right thumb down the pages. They make a soft flapping sound as they separate and come back together. I want it to be annoying but it’s kinda cute.
Another thing, he wears reading glasses. They are also cute. They’re a little large and dark-rimmed, totally dorky. I very much have a thing for studious men and he is pulling that look off. That is annoying.
I’m scrolling on his laptop, but my eyes are melting out of my face from all the screen time.
“Do you have any puzzles?” I ask.
“Like a jigsaw puzzle?” His eyebrows raise over the rims of his glasses as if my question surprises him.
“What other kind of puzzle could I mean?”
“There are other kinds of puzzles.”
“Answer the question.”
He takes in a deep breath through his nose and looks out the living room window. I watch his profile, waiting for him to speak. I don’t see how this is a difficult question.
Finally, he releases the air in his lungs. “I have one.”
The way he said it has me concerned it’s explicit or something. “Okay…”
He shakes his head. “I don’t want you to see it.”
Okay, yeah, he has a vagina jigsaw puzzle, I’m sure of it. “I’m not going to make a big deal of it. I just need to do something other than look a screen for a little while.”
“Bullshit. The next eleven days are going to be you giving me shit for this.” He runs his palm on his chin. It makes a rustling sound as his skin brushes the two days’ worth of beard growth. He must not have to record himself today.
“I promise I won’t.”
“You can’t keep that promise.”
“I keep my promises,” I insist. Seriously, I do.
He shakes his head, a man for the gallows. “Not this one.” His glasses go on the coffee table and the bookmark gets slipped between the pages. “Come on,” he jerks his head for me to follow him, “I have a couple of games too.”
I’m kinda nervous about what games he might have if he has a porno puzzle, but okay. I don’t know where I’m expecting him to go, his house isn’t huge. By yesterday, I covered every square foot of it with the exception of his bedroom and that’s where he leads me now. I follow him trying to be discreet about collecting many details as I can. This room feels very different than the rest of the house. For one thing, the bed is unmade and yesterday’s clothes are in a pile on the floor by his bed. The rest of his place is very clean.
Does he sleep nude? The dirty clothes indicate that he does.
I’ve gotten a little distracted by the idea of his naked body. I mean, how good does someone have to look naked for them to not only know that they look good naked but also to tell someone? So, yeah, I’m a little distracted but not obsessed.
Whoa, his closet and master bath situation is ridiculous. Like, a soaking tub separate from the shower with slate-colored tile. You walk through the bathroom to get to a huge walk-in closet. How is all of this here?
“What the hell is going on here?” I ask circling my fingers at the setup.
“The bathroom and all that?”
“Why do you clarify everything, just answer the question.”
His arms cross over his chest. “You’re questions are not clear.”
“They’re obviously clear enough.”
He does one of those sighs before he answers, “The house was a three-bedroom, I converted the smallest room into the master en suite.”
“Won’t that negatively affect your resale?”
“Probably, but I’m happier about living here.”
I can only blink to that. This man is a mystery.
“Excuse me.” He points to the shelving behind me.
I glance over my shoulder and see some games: Monopoly, Risk, Settlers of Catan, a very large Cards Against Humanity and Pandemic—too soon, dude. But my eyes land on a box that is somewhere between purple and pink. It’s the puzzle. I reach up and slide it from its spot between two of the games.
It’s a Golden Girls puzzle. The Golden Girls.
Oh no. I have so much to say. There are so many thoughts. One zinger after another. I’d have less material if it had been a full bush vagina. But nope. We’ve got the timeless wonder that is four women who made up one of the best shows in sitcom history smiling softly up at me.
“I’m waiting,” he says behind me.
My heart is truly aching when I reply, “I promised.”
He laughs. I don’t know why, but he does, he must love my pain.
He’s in the living room and I’m seated at the kitchen table, the border of the puzzle is almost complete. The color transitions of the background are really subtle. It’s going to be a fun puzzle. I’ve moved past wanting to make fun of him to wanting to know how he came to own said puzzle. Like, did he search specifically for this? Was this what he intended to own? If so, why was I the first person to open the box? Was he saving it for a special occasion? Did he intend to binge-watch the show while he pieced it together?
I need to stop this.
He’s back on the sofa, leaning against the armrest and his legs across the seat. I can only see him from the shoulder up over the back support. He’s looking down at his lap, reading glasses back on.
“You should read out loud,” I tell him.
He wasn’t moving but somehow he pauses, like his mind stills or something. Then he looks at me, pulling his glasses off. “You want me to read to you?”
“When you say it like that, I sound like an old lady with vision problems. Which,” I gesture to the table’s contents, “okay, The Golden Girls jigsaw puzzle isn’t helping but it wasn’t my choice.” I decide this is more of a self-deprecating comment so it doesn’t break my promise. “I was reading that book yesterday, it’s good. You should read out loud.”
“I’ll be done with it by tomorrow, you can finish it then.”
“Or you can just read it out loud and I can do two things at once.”
He stands and stretches, his back arching revealing a strip of tan skin low on his belly. There’s a stripe of black hair.
I look back at The Golden Girls on the box, but I can feel Bea Arthur looking unimpressed with me. I know there’s no foolin’ you, Bea.
Taking the seat across from me he asks, “What page are you on?”
Why is he being so nice to me? I would never go back in a book to read for someone else, but I also hate spoilers so I’m not going to stop him.
I hold out my hand. “Let me see it.”
He gives it to me and I flip through careful to keep his bookmark in place.
“Top of page sixty-three.”
He takes the book back and just starts reading. No argument.
I don’t get this guy.
From Marty Vee:
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Keep reading on to Day 4: