Page 48 of My Roommate from Hell
“Yeah, so we’re going out to celebrate. What are you doing?”
In front of me is our room, the cleanest it’s been since I moved in. A part of me wants to keep quiet, but the other wants to vent.
“I’m cleaning up after Zarmenus.”
I hear them both pause on the other end of the line.
“You’re doing what now?” asks Dad.
“I’m cleaning,” I say. I know my parents, and I know they aren’t going to be pleased. I know they would want me to confront Zarmenus about his hygiene and get him to carry his weight. They wouldn’t want me to clean up after someone else just to keep the peace. I know that.
But they aren’t the ones who have to live with him.
“You said you were cleaning up after your roommate,” says Dad, each word heavy with disappointment.
“Yeah, he doesn’t clean, so I figured I would just do it.”
“Owen,” says Mom. “Have you tried asking him?”
“Yes,” I say.
I maybe haven’t talked to him about the cleaning, but I have asked him about the hookups, and he missed the entire point of that. Why would asking him to clean up after himself go any differently?
“You should make a chore chart,” says Mom. “That worked for me when I first moved in with your father.”
“Hey, I wasn’t the messy one,” says Dad.
I know Mom isn’t going to dignify that with a response, because we all know who is the messier of the two.
“Yeah, but you two love each other. He has no reason to listen to me or to care what I think.”
“I thought you two were getting along,” says Dad.
“We were,” I say. “Or we are. The issue is, like.” I stop myself from answering.
“Go on,” says Mom. “You can tell us.”
“I think he’s just been so pampered his whole life he doesn’t know how to do things.”
“Aren’t you the one that called me for help with laundry?” asks Mom.
“Yeah, but I know, like, it’s not fair to make a mess and not clean it up when you’re sharing a room. I know it’s not fair to leave tuna cans out. I just wish he would be considerate! It’s like, how hard is it to clean up after yourself, really?”
The door unlocks and then swings open. It’s Zarmenus.
And I am about 99 percent sure he heard what I said. He surveys our room and his eyebrows furrow.
He’s holding two coffees, as well as two cinnamon scrolls. My heart splinters. He got me a matcha latte and a pastry again. It’s sweet, it really is.
He’s giving his wounded puppy expression, and it takes away any annoyance I felt at the mess and replaces it with guilt. I didn’t want him to hear that, and now I feel like I should’ve been more careful. This is his room, too, after all, and he could reappear at any time.
“Sorry, got to go,” I say to Mom and Dad. “I’ll call you back. Love you.”
Both Mom and Dad tell me they love me, and then the call ends. Leaving just me and Zarmenus.
“Who were you talking to?” he asks as he kicks at the ground with his foot.
The wounded look on his face is only matched by the hurt tone of his voice. Seriously, I have never felt emotional whiplash like this. I hurt his feelings, I can tell, and I don’t want that. Yes, he might be annoying as a roommate, but I don’t want him to feel bad.
