The Rental Agreement

It's been a bit since I've submitted anything, but I've been working on another installment of The Experiment and I don't want to disappoint by rushing it. I'm aiming to be done in hopefully another month or so. However, this little distraction creeped into my brain. It's a stand-alone story, something to stave off whatever you don't want to think about at the moment.

People thought it was a questionable arrangement; a single girl living alongside a couple. But those people do not live in Southern California, or pay for rent that is nearly an entire month's income. Originally it was Cassandra's idea. We used to work together, until she climbed the ladder of success to a better position as an associate editor. After a year of working together on late night deadlines and making countless coffee runs, I think she felt bad for abandoning me to the fate of my new (and very lazy) supervisor, another dead-end job as someone else's assistant/gopher. In consolation, she has the ear of

her

boss, and is slowly working me into the conversation for a new position.

In the meantime, when I whined to Cassandra about my rent going up for the second time in less than a year, she asked if I'd ever considered having a roommate. A roommate in a studio apartment? I thought she was teasing me.

No, silly, she answered. Come live with me.

Me, live with you? You and Lionel?

Yes, with me and Lionel.

I thought about it for a few days. Her condo is a two-bedroom with two-bathrooms. I'd get my own room and my own bathroom, they have a washing machine in their unit. It's on the fourth floor of a secure building. A nice neighborhood on the outskirts of downtown L.A. Covered parking. I'd met Lionel, her boyfriend, only once at a holiday party. He was quiet, reserved, sarcastic. I wondered if she'd even asked him about this proposal of hers. Like most of Cassandra's decisions, this was unilateral.

I moved in three months ago with only my clothes, my own bed and its matching dresser. I sold my crappy futon and my crappy kitchen table. Cassandra offered to help, meaning she assigned Lionel to help me carry up my boxes full of books and old magazines. When it came time to move the individual drawers of my dresser, Lionel brought down a handful of kitchen towels and covered each open drawer with a towel. To keep them clean, he said. A gesture of propriety to cover my undergarments from the exposure of hauling them around.

Cassandra was her usual animated self, talking excitedly about the three of us cooking meals together and sharing groceries. She claimed all their food was also my food. Nobody has to put their name on a tub of yogurt. If I'm hungry, I can help myself. Mature adults can share. But that depends on what is being shared, and with whom.

For the most part we all keep to ourselves. Cassandra is a whirling dervish of social engagements that she may or may not bring Lionel along with her. Impressive dinner parties in the hills for some publication magnate or a brunch at some chic place downtown where the women are all taut and tanned. Sometimes she invites me and we have a fun girl's night out. Cassandra is always the life of the gathering, full of half-true anecdotes of our journalistic foibles. Then she began to include me in the stories, deftly weaving my introduction into the mix, setting me up for future opportunities. Cassandra is all about the opportunity. Sometimes you only get one chance to impress, is her motto.

Lionel works the usual 8 to 5 at what Cassandra calls, The Think Tank. Some kind of investor group that specifically goes for high-end science ventures. He apparently met Elon Musk once. My schedule runs closer to his only because I do less socializing than Cassandra. He and I get home around 6 pm, lazily chat and independently cook, or reheat, our respective dinners, sitting down to eat just when Cassandra comes home.

When I first met Lionel, he was standing alone in the extravagant living room of our publisher's home, disinterestedly sipping his high-end scotch while gazing at the noisy crowd. We'd already been introduced by Cassandra earlier that evening before she spun away to go mingle with her thousand-watt smile. I sidled up to him because he looked bored, and Cassandra seemed to have forgotten him.

I asked him if he'd gotten any food yet, already knowing I hadn't seen him at the overflowing buffet that was set up in the kitchen. He replied by holding up his glass and stating that the "liquid nourishment would suffice." I asked if the said nourishment made my insufferable know-it-all coworkers more tolerable to be around. He turned to me with a pointed glance, pausing with just the right amount of dramatic effect and answered, "Barely." I snickered along with him, feeling proud of myself for making him crack a smile.

Lionel and Cassandra seem to be a case of opposites attract. She is the outgoing, extrovert who jumps at the chance to be in with the most fashionably influential crowd. He is the thoughtful introvert who thinks before he speaks, cynically assessing everyone before deigning them good enough to converse with. She met him when she was doing research for an article, and supposedly he contacted her afterwards. I strongly suspect it was the opposite scenario of who called who.

Today is Friday, and I'm home early because the rest of my coworkers fled work to go to a mixer for other young journalism professionals. Cassandra is also home early, racing around like a mad woman while she packs for a weekend-long excursion with some female work colleagues. I was half-heartedly invited but I don't know these women as well as Cassandra does, and I'm also not as fun. They booked a beach house in Malibu, she'll be gone until Monday. An excuse to drink and bitch while they stare at the eroding cliffs of sand.

She's borrowing some shoes of mine, but leaving me her hairdryer, laughing how she's not going to be "doing a thing" with her golden mane of naturally curly locks. I give her a hug goodbye and tell her to have fun. She kisses Lionel goodbye on the cheek and tells me to take care of him. Make sure he eats more than cocktail olives, she teases. A joke, but a realistic concern. The girls like their wine spritzers and social cocktails. The lone male fills up the recycle bin with his emptied bottles.

He's always polite around me, never getting too close or too familiar in a way that is improper. I appreciate his manners, whereas Cassandra teases him about his constant courtesy. She kneels to no one, and abhors subservience. With the exception of those little favors she needs and requires. The offhand request that Lionel do this for me honey, or can you get that. Rarely does she do her own menial labor, that's what Lionel is for. But he never complains, just a subtle pause and a deep sigh. Behind closed doors, however, I think there is another dynamic at play. Things that I can't help but hear, especially when they've been drinking.

Only once, did we have contact that was unintended. One morning, I was unloading the dishwasher and couldn't pull out the top tray when I discovered that Cassandra had jammed her enormous bright pink water bottle onto the wire rack. It was too tall for the tray and was caught, while I repeatedly tried to maneuver it over onto its side and shift it free. Lionel heard the racket I was making, and my stream of obscenities. I had just about shaken the bottle loose and jerked the tray back with enough force to unjam it, when I didn't realize Lionel was right behind me. He was leaning down to assist me and instead I elbowed him squarely in his gut. I heard his grunt of pain as my elbow made contact with his belly, the feel of his hips just behind me. Turning around mortified, I wasn't prepared for his face to be there when I straightened up, and he was still stunned from the air I'd just knocked out of him. I apologized and he made a joke.

Are you alright? I asked, looking into his bespectacled eyes that were studying me.

I'll live.

His little quip was humorous, but it didn't quite match the look on his face. We were close enough that I tried to take a step back and stumbled a bit, bumping into the counter. Suddenly his eyes flicked down and back up, going over the thin t-shirt that I'd worn to bed and had chosen to wear around the apartment while I ate breakfast. Without a bra. My little stumble had shifted my body against my t-shirt. And he'd noticed. Just enough pause to take a look, an assessment of me. I decided if he was staring, then I would let it be known that he could stare and it wasn't going to bother me. I straightened up, flicking my own eyes down to the outline of my nipples showing through the cotton material, and then back at him. A silent look saying,

see anything you like?

Then the boyish grin showed up, and he took a chivalrous step back so I could walk past. I remember the satisfaction I got as I walked away, feeling his eyes watching me.

Tonight, we are back in the small square of a kitchen, flanked by counters on three sides that pen us into a space that is an awkward dance to avoid a collision. I've developed a system: I make the salad and Lionel does the main dish. Or vice versa. It keeps one person near the sink as they wash and cut vegetables, and the other person is at the other counter above the stovetop. I'm chopping up a watery tomato as Lionel dishes up the leftover steak we cooked last night for fajitas. He'll make himself his two tacos as usual, while I eat my fajita fixings sans tortilla. He watches me dump the steak on top of the leafy bed of lettuce and tomato with a disdainful shake of his head.

"You like tacos, I like salad," I say.

"You like food, voraciously eaten like a tornado mowing through the earth," he replies. A classic Lionel diss.

"I like to eat. You like to nibble on baby tacos with your little baby hands."

He narrows his eyes at me, trying to hide his amusement at my insult. We eat in the living room, staring at the narrow slice of beach through the sliding glass door that is essentially the far wall of the condo. I mention how the beach isn't too crowded tonight, especially for a Friday in late spring. Maybe I'll go for a walk after dinner. Lionel shrugs. He hates people, and he hates exercise despite being in remarkably good shape.

We share a little more banal conversation and I finish eating before him, being sure to tell him I completely mowed through my salad. I take my dish into the kitchen, plop it into the dishwasher, then go change into my version of work-out gear. Clingy spandex shorts that go to the top of my thigh, and a tank top. Snug, but nothing spills out.

I come out into the living room and Lionel is returning his dish to the kitchen. Then I hear the sound of the freezer opening, the crisp clink of ice dropping into a highball glass. His first cocktail of the evening.

We don't cross paths as I go out onto the patio, carrying my yoga mat. It felt weird to work-out in my room, which is small, and I also felt like it wasn't fair to hide myself away just because I'm wearing lycra. The patio works because it's visible, but separated. I place my yoga mat parallel to the living room so I'm not pointing my ass in the direction of the windows. Most of my stretches involve being on my back or side, with only the cat/camel being the one that props me up on all fours. I can't see through the glass very well because of the glare of the setting sun, but the movement of shadow tells me Lionel has gone back into the living room. I give him a restrained smile, acknowledging that I know he is there, whether or not that means he is watching me.

My routine takes about 20 minutes. When I slide the door back open, Lionel is staring outward through the door, but not at me. More of a 100 yard stare while he holds onto his empty glass. Only when I close the door does he acknowledge me.

"Feeling stretchier?"

There's an edge to his voice, something lean in his eyes that flick up and down.

"A little," I answer as I walk back in. "How about you?"

"Me?" he asks with feigned confusion. Then he raises his glass. "This is my stretching. A flexing of the mind, softening up the cerebral cortex."

"Are you going to keep softening it?" I ask, letting him hear the edge in my voice. I want him to know that I'm not about to sit around and watch him get thoroughly trashed all weekend just because Cassandra is gone.

His face flickers through a mixture of emotions until sober Lionel seems to resurface.

"I think it is as soft as I'll take it. "

It's suggestive and ludicrous at the same time, his lips curling up when he sees me trying not to laugh. And then he makes the face that I like, the impish look of a naughty boy caught in the act.

"You make it as soft or as hard as you want it, but I'll be going to take a shower."

I'm walking back down the hall when I hear him call after me.

"That sounds like a challenge!"

I chuckle as I gather up my clothes and go into the bathroom. My shower is brisk and quick, resisting the temptation to linger under soothing warm water that might engage other senses. But just the light rain of tepid water across my breasts awakens nerve endings that want more. I know it's been awhile since my last pathetic tinder date. My body wants things that I know are dangerous. Things that will get me in trouble and destroy my life. And my friend's life. I close my eyes and try to remind myself of this very important repercussion that will be tested this weekend.

Dressed in linen shorts and a t-shirt layered over a comfortable sports bra, I go into my room but leave the door open while I putter through my hamper and tidy up a little. I can hear music playing softly, classical music. Cassandra hates Lionel's taste in music. She calls it funeral dirge music.

I go out into the living room and find Lionel on the couch, but reclining back with his feet up on the cushions and his eyes closed. His gray dress shirt is unbuttoned a little more, his belt removed and tossed on the floor by the couch. I see the same empty glass, and wonder which number he is on based on the way the ice looks.

I sit down on the smaller sofa that sits kitty corner to the couch, and start messing around on my phone. Cassandra has already texted me to check on Lionel.

He's asleep on the couch. A little drunk but harmless.

Oy girl, he better behave. You can put me on facetime with him if you need to.

Lol, don't worry. He's got your favorite music on.

He's moping. Tell him it's only 48 hours of my absence.

Lol, have a good night. Enjoy yourself.

Cassandra enjoys the thought of Lionel's dependence on her. The poor broken intellectual that needs the love and affection of the hot blonde. Except she doesn't love him. Or at least not in the way that feels genuine. She likes his looks and his status. She likes how he gives her depth. Intelligence and class gained by association. But she treats him like a pet. Adoring, but patronizing. Amused by his little antics. And I know it, and worse, he knows it.

I set my phone down and shift on the couch, propping my feet up on the little leather ottoman. Lionel stirs, cracking his eyes open while he's still leaning back.

"The warden checking in on me?"

I had my phone on silent, but he probably heard the clicking of my fingernails on my screen.

"I told her you were behaving."

"Sleeping is behaving. Good to know."

I sigh deeply. "You could just be passed out."

"Is there a difference?" he asks with a sidelong glance as he tilts his head over at me.

I can't help but smile at him. "I don't know. Maybe you were just pretending to be asleep."

He smiles back. "Maybe I was."

I chuckle at him, seeing his eyes look at me with something other than irritation.

"You'll have to let me know if it's believable," he whispers playfully.

We chuckle together, the gleam of actual amusement on his face. This is how I like him. Relaxed, silly. The one Cassandra enjoys when he dotes on her while under the spell of mild intoxication. The one I'm not sure she deserves.

"I'll keep watching to see," I reply with a twist of my body, being sure I'm facing him on the couch.

He grins one last time, then closes his eyes.

I pick up my phone and scroll through the electronic distraction until I hear his breathing slow, his chest rising and falling in a steady pattern of actual sleep. Some time passes before I feel a chill on my bare arms; I cautiously get up, and go back into my room to grab a hoodie. He's still sleeping when I return to the living room, now lightly snoring as his head tips back in a deeper sleep. I crack up when he periodically grumbles nonsensical words in his sleep. Then I notice he's turning his face into the couch cushion, which is going to bend his delicate wire-framed glasses.

Very carefully, I put a hand on each of the wire earpieces and slowly begin to pull them off his face. Sure enough, they slightly snag in the strands of his coffee-colored hair. His eyes flutter open as I try to untangle his glasses, and focus sharply on me. Then his face twists into a smirk when he sees me fumbling.

"May I help you with that?" he asks.

"You were bending them up," I say when I let go.

"Or... you were determined to blind me," he says as he pushes the frame back into place.

"Sure," I exhale as I go back to the couch and sit down.

He sits up and gazes around as I go back to my phone. I can see out of the corner of my eye that he's shifting and looking down at his semi-disheveled appearance, then back at me.

"You aren't obligated to keep my corpse company, you know." He's a little embarrassed.

"I know," I say without looking up. "I don't always feel like just sitting in my room, by myself. "

"Your jail cell," he quips quietly.

My eyes flick up, my mouth pursed before I say anything back. When Cassandra is here, I usually spend more of the evening in my room so that they can have some privacy. I try to go out and do things to give us all a break from each other, but it can get lonely, and expensive, to occupy my time away. I'm not surprised he's noticed this; I'm just not sure how to speak about it.

"You don't have to spend the evening huddled in there," he states with a sympathetic nod towards my room.

"I know," I mumble into my phone, feeling my face grow pink.

"Cass and I don't necessarily share the evening steeped in conversation. You are allowed to interact."

I don't look up, feeling irrationally embarrassed over this stupid detail.

"I think you'd find me better company when I am at least awake," he tosses out humorously.

Finally, I glance back. He's looking at me with a raised eyebrow and a quirked smile, his brown hair twisting around in places. I unconsciously smile back, and we stare at each other for a beat that feels longer than it should be. Lionel takes a deep breath and finally gets up, and heads back towards the master bedroom. I hear the sound of water running, and the toilet flushing. Then he comes back out with his phone, typing a message. He's standing there with a slight frown, a deep exhale.

"Everything ok?" I ask.

He tosses his phone on the coffee table. "The warden has been notified of my continued obedience. Yet, the warden is not available now to speak."

"So you texted her?"

"Yes."

"And she's not texting back."

He plops down on the couch, shoving his hand through his hair. "Correct."

I glance at the time. It's not quite 11:00 pm. Cassandra's party time.

"She's probably asleep by now," I offer.

He rolls his eyes at me. "Sure."

One of the loudest, and biggest fights they have had to date was over a string of texts that apparently came from Cassandra's phone to Lionel's phone, but were clearly meant for someone else when she mentioned the unknown person by the name of James. She claimed she accidentally texted him when she meant to text an editor at another publication. The texts weren't explicit, but loaded with innuendo. Flirty, hinting. Lionel took her apology but wasn't satisfied with her explanation. I think he accepts that Cassandra has been un-loyal, albeit briefly and mostly unknown. As long as she comes home to him, things remain status quo.