Page 22 of Paging Dr. Hart
“No snoring or sleep apnea, but I’ll still keep you up at night because listen to this.” Through the wall, I hear him bounce on his bed. The bedsprings make a loud, harsh, squeaking noise every time he moves.
“Stop!” I giggle. “That’s awful. I give this place a negative one-star rating. Do not recommend.” That sends Ethan off in a burst of laughter.
I laugh with him, enjoying how our voices merge and echo, bouncing around the small apartment.
Competition or not, maybe it won’t be so bad living here with him.
Curious to see what Ethan’s doing, I walk into his room. He’s lying on his back in bed with his sneaker-clad feet hanging off the end. He’s dejected, full lips turned down in the corners. When he sees me, he says, “I’m not so worried about snoring. I’m more worried about how I’m supposed to sleep in this bed. It’s clearly made for a child.”
He looks so ridiculous, laying there with his feet dangling, that it makes me laugh even harder.
“Easy for you to find this funny. You fit in your bed. I feel like Gulliver in a bed made for Lilliputians.” Ethan squirms. Rolls onto his side and draws his knees up to fit his feet on the mattress. He tucks his hand under his cheek like a child.
“That sucks. I’m sorry,” I sympathize.
A moment of silence stretches out as I stand there, watching Ethan. He stills, staring back at me. It occurs to me that it’s just us here, the two of us, alone in this apartment. It’s oddly intimate.
“Well,” I say, clearing my throat, “we should start getting ready to go to sleep. Why don’t you use the bathroom first?”
“You sure?” He’s already getting up and gathering his things.
“Yeah, I’ll go after you’re done.”
The bathroom door closes with a soft click. Back in my bedroom, I unpack my clothing into the dresser drawers. Although I try not to listen, I hear the toilet flush and the sink faucet running. It’s strange, listening to Ethan’s evening routine through the wall. Such a private time of the day, usually reserved for solitude or to be shared with a lover. It feels like eavesdropping on a conversation I’m not meant to hear.
Something about it makes me self-conscious. Knowing that in a few minutes, he’ll listen to me in the same way. I tell myself to play it cool. There’s no need for things to get weird. After what seems like a long time, the door creaks open and Ethan emerges. The clean smell of soap clings to him as he comes to stand in my doorway. “Your turn.”
Throwing my towel over my shoulder, I pick up the small bag with all my supplies. I tease, “I think you take longer in the bathroom than I do.”
Ethan follows me down the hall. His crooked smile is disarming, and his breath is minty as I brush past. “I have an elaborate system to keep these perfect teeth shining.” Cocky, as usual. He leans nonchalantly against the bathroom door frame, tilts his head to the side, and stares at me. His eyes boldly trace the angle of my nose, my jaw, my mouth. I gulp down a swallow, my throat suddenly dry. It’s unnerving to have him here, much too close, invading my personal space with all his yummy-smelling manliness.
“Whatever.” I roll my eyes, shove him out into the hallway, and shut the door in his pretty face.
Once inside, I pause, staring at Ethan’s wet toothbrush and half-squeezed toothpaste next to the sink. The bag holding the rest of his toiletries sits partially open. I resist the urge to peek into it, to see what lotions and potions he uses. He’s placed his items in a heap on the left side of the sink, so I neatly arrange my stuff on the right.
Quickly and quietly, I get ready for bed. Toothbrush. Hairbrush. I button up my white pajama shirt to the top and pull the drawstring tight on my matching shorts. I leave the bathroom and stop by Ethan’s room to say good night. He’s in bed, reading a book titledThe Baseball 100. White sheets aretucked up under his arms. He’s not wearing a shirt, exposing the toned muscles of his upper chest and shoulders.
My eyes dart away, trying not to gawk as I stutter. “I—I just wanted to say good night.”
Ethan seems embarrassed at being caught half-naked, mumbling, “Sorry, I can’t sleep with a shirt on.”
“It’s okay.” I stare at the wall above his head. “Well, good night.”
“Good night, Tiffy.” Ethan puts his book face down on the nightstand and turns off his lamp.
Back in my room, I get settled under the covers. Stretching my arm out, I lean over and turn off my bedside lamp. The room plunges into complete and utter darkness. Out of habit, I left the door half open. It’s so dim that I can’t make out the hallway beyond my door frame. There’s just a black pit out there, an abyss. My heartbeat speeds up, a loud thump, thump, thump.
After a moment, I whisper, “It’s really dark, isn’t it?” I speak so softly that I don’t expect Ethan to hear, but his answer is immediate.
His disembodied voice floats back to me. “Do you want me to turn on the bathroom light? I can leave the door open a crack. It’ll be like a night-light.”
“Do you mind?” I hate to ask, but I don’t want to get up. Fears I usually silence have awakened.Little birdwhispers a voice from my past.
“It’s no problem.” Fumbling sounds from his room. A sharp curse followed by Ethan announcing, “I’m okay. Just stubbed my toe.” Finally, he turns on the bathroom light and partly closes the door, leaving a sliver of yellow to travel up the hallway and illuminate our rooms.
Ethan comes to my bedroom to evaluate the result. He pushes my door all the way open. “What do you think?”
He’s standing in my doorway, caught in that golden beam of light. I can’t answer for a moment. Too busy staring at him bare-chested in the glow. It highlights his tall, slim frame. The light makes the ridges of his well-defined muscles stand out in sharp contrast. He has a fine smattering of curling chest hair. The drawstring of his pants is undone, and they hang low on his body. Sharp hipbones peek out on each side with the hollow of his taut stomach between them.
