This is a modest one bedroom apartment. The ones you’ve seen where everything is connected. Does that make it a studio? The front door opens to a living room that doubles as a kitchen and a little further down to the right is the bathroom, which is right next to the bedroom. You can tell that two people live there though. It’s almost as if the couple living there decided which rooms would be catered to the other’s preference. A living room with the spare framed photo up, minimalist furniture, and a television resting casually on a TV stand. The kitchen is more colorful. Different colored plates, pictures on the refrigerator in a clutter—including the only one of the couple together, pots and pans hanging down from the counter above. It’s not in a state of disarray, but “the things” are out. The kitchen is a kitchen. The living room looks like it was freshly cleaned for an AirBnB. The bathroom was mutually agreed upon. No bullshit. Things are kept very nice and tidy indeed, in here. A inside of the medicine cabinet looking like a freshly done proof. The bath/shower with all sorts of gels, hair, products and an herbal soap for the cherry on top. The bedroom is their relationship. Two distinct sides, one area for the man, one area for the woman. The bed—mostly made. One part of it, at least. The whole atmosphere very much looks like a partnership that is requiring some work to feel and look put together. But is it? That is the question. The couple has lived together for two months now after going out for roughly a year. They love each other, but living with one another has been hard and not without its speed bumps. The girl is a dancer, but currently works in finance and the boy is a disgruntled actor. They are making it work. They decided to move in because they thought it was time…they thought it was time. Maybe it wasn’t. The benefits: they love each other, do everything together, cook together, go out together, fall asleep together. The cons: they do everything together, cook together, go out together (all the time), fall asleep together. They mostly have things in common although their attitudes are different, but they survive like a scale keeping things even keeled. The girl enters exhausted and throws her bag on the nice leather chair, the keys on the coffee table, and heads into the kitchen to grab a drink. She pops open a bottle of Corona and sips it, refreshed. Almost. She exits into the bedroom to grab something and returns with marijuana paraphernalia. A plastic baggie with a couple of pre-rolled joints. An ashtray. A lighter. And another little baggie of more weed. She sets it down carefully on the coffee table, ignites one of the joints, puffs her first hit, sets the lighter down, and grabs the ashtray to prevent a mess. Each subsequent hit is a release of the shoulders, the neck muscles that were grabbing the back of her head, the clenched fists for hips, the chest constantly on the defensive. Each puff followed by an even greater sigh; the first time coughed a bit. Air. Taking in all she could after hours of being unable to find it. Submerged in a dark place. She receives a text from the boy that reads, “just got off the train, wanna make food or order out?” The next couple of hits are quicker and she puts the weed and company back into the baggie, empties the ashes in the toilet, and returns the items to the bedroom. She replies, “don’t know, just got home, pretty tired.” Elipsis. “Sooo…order out,” the boy replies. “Sure”, she says. “Fine. See you in a little,” he finishes. The girl replays the day in her final moments before her reality returns. Waking up early for “the job, spending every second not wanting to be there, wishing she could go home, seeing advertisements for the NY City Ballet, Alvin Ailey. Dreaming of still being in her bed. The boy enters. Her dreaming ends.
Boy: Fuuuuck.
Girl: What’s wrong?
Boy: I just remembered we’re out of toilet paper.
Girl: We are?
Boy: Yeah. Fuck, I knew I was forgetting something.
Girl: It’s ok.
Boy: I just need to go to the bathroom. Whatever. I’ll just hold it in.
Girl: Boy…
Boy: (constipated face) Don’t worry, I took care of it.
Girl: You’re gross.
Boy: And for some reason you still like me a little bit.
Girl: Just a little bit.
They kiss. The boy looks at her. Then realizes the whole room smells like weed.
Boy: You smoking again?
Girl: Just a little bit.
Boy: Baby…
Girl: What?
Boy: You know how I feel about you smoking weed.
Girl: Yeah, I know how you feel.
Boy: So you do it anyway?
Girl: No one ever said you had to…
Boy: You’re right, they didn’t. Whatever. Next time can you at least smoke out of the window? This place stinks.
Girl goes over to the windows and returns to the couch.
Boy: How was work?
Girl: Scale of 1-10?
Boy: Yeah, sure.
Girl: Shitty.
Boy: I’m sorry to hear that. Boss or clients?
Girl: Both.
Boy: You ask for that raise you were telling me about?
Girl: No, I’ll do it next week.
Boy: OK.
Girl: What?
Boy: Nothing, it’s just…that’s what you said last week. And you’ve been talking about that raise for a while now.
Girl: I just wasn’t feeling it, today.
Boy: Whatever, it’s OK.
Girl: How were your appointments?
Boy: I think they were good! I thought I killed the one for the NBC pilot. They said they really liked it. Binder was OK. Rubin was pretty meh. The Telsey one was awful.
Girl: That was the ABC lead?
Boy: Yeah.
Girl: Well, you should be OK, right? I mean, you always say you’ve gotten stuff after feeling like you did terribly. I’m sure you did great.
Boy: Thanks girl…
They kiss.
Girl: So what you making me for dinner?
Boy: What am I making you for dinner?
Girl: That’s what I said.
Boy: Didn’t you just say we were gonna order out?
Girl: I changed my mind. I want you to cook for me. You always say you’re gonna do it. And I could use a nice home-cooked meal from Baby Boy.
Boy: I don’t have any of the ingredients to make anything, though. The dish I want to make you takes a lot of time. I would have needed to start hours ago, you know?
Girl: So you’re not gonna cook for me?
Boy: Why don’t we just order out like we talked about.
Girl: Maybe I don’t want to anymore.
Boy: We can always just go out to dinner too, if you want?
Girl: I don’t wanna go out again. I just got back from work.
Boy: OK. So, let’s review. You don’t want to go anywhere to eat, but you don’t wanna order out. And you don’t wanna make food here.
Girl: You forgot to add that “and you don’t wanna make food here.”
Boy: You’re right. I did forget that. “And I don’t wanna make food here.”
Girl: Well looks like we’re not gonna make food together.
Boy: OK, but actually, I’m pretty hungry, so can we make a decision?
Girl: Well, I’m not that hungry to be honest.
Boy: You don’t want to try that new Thai restaurant?
Girl: Wow…I think I’m hungry all of a sudden.
Boy: You aren’t funny.
Girl: Try again, boy.
Boy: Why do you do this? Every Friday Night. Always the same shit. “I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do that. My legs are hurting. I have a headache.”
Girl: —go on.
Boy: So that’s a no on the Thai. OK. What about Juniors? That’s your favorite spot. We haven’t been there for a while.
Girl: …oh, you’re finished?
Boy: Well, no, but for right now I am.
Girl: What about, “I don’t have the ingredients. Can you make that really good thing you always make? You sure you don’t wanna just make something? I already spent money on lunch today and I don’t want to spend any more money. I’m just so tired after working for five hours today…should I go on?
Boy: I’m gonna go get some toilet paper. That shit just came back. You need anything from the store?
The boy walks to the door and opens it.
Girl: Yeah, how about those ingredients and some rolling paper?
Boy: You can spend your money on your own things. Anything else? Tampons? Prozac? Lexapro? Zoloft?
Girl: Fuck you.
Boy: So, condoms?
The girl walks to the door and slams it shut.
Girl: I changed my mind. We’re gonna stay in tonight?
Boy: Great! That’s great. But do you want me to take a poop without toilet paper or have you been stealing some of them and using them to roll joints?
Girl: Fuck you, boy.
Boy: Looks like I’m still going to the store.
Boy opens it. Girl slams it before he can walk out.
Girl: We’ve got a problem.
Boy: Tell me something I don’t know.
Girl: I don’t know if I love you anymore.
Boy: What?
Girl: That was something you didn’t know.
Boy: I think I just shit my pants.
Girl: …boy, i’m serious.
Boy: Well, I don’t believe you. I’m going to stop at the store to get some ingredients and I’ll be right back.
Opens the door.
Girl: Boy…
Boy: Anything else you need from me? I’ll be quick.
Girl: I’m serious…
Boy shuts the door.
Boy: Why don’t you just sit down for a minute…