Today I had the day off. It was all well and calming until I heard visceral screaming (from one of my roommates, a man married to another roommate).
"I'm leaving!" he roared.
I walked out over a pile of his cloths and started smoking a cigarette. I was about three quarters of the way through when more screaming reverberated around the apartment complex. I'm not legally on the lease, and would be kicked out if the police were to come interview about a domestic dispute, so I walked back in to the living-room and kitchen area, and up to the screaming roommate.
"I don't know what's going on, but screaming like that will only make it worse," I told him
"Yeah you're right man, Kayla and I are gonna need to separate for a while I think. . . things aren't working out right now."
"Well, that's fine and everything, but, as hard as it is, I'm going to need you to keep it down in here. . . do you need bus passes or anything?"
"Do you have any of the two dollar ones?" I rushed to grab them from my bedroom "Thanks man."
"Are you okay? Do you need a drink?" I asked the female roommate "Do you need a drink or anything?"
"An alcoholic drink? No, I'm fine" she replied, smoking a cigarette un-self-consciously in an apartment where no one had smoked inside for over a year.
She left in the car, leaving me with my screaming roommate. I poured myself a stiff collins, and sipped it for the rest of the conversation.
"She's hateful man. . . real hateful." He said, grabbing his things and compacting them into a backpack.
I did not recognize the woman he was talking about as my other roommate, so I simply sipped.
"It's like there's nothing I can do right man"
I thought of the cliche: "hell hath no fury. . ."
"I just can't take it anymore. . . she won't give me her number or anything"
"Is there anything I can do?" I thought for a second, popped off, and brought two packs of cigarettes, and handed them to him.
"Oh, thanks man. . . can you give me your number too? And could you hide this from Kayla?" He handed me his art portfolio, which was indeed very impressive. "She took my tattoo gun, can you believe that?"
I could not, but I didn't say so, I let his emotions fill in the silence. I silently wrote my number, in an effort that, if I admitted it, was mostly to get him out of the apartment.
"Thanks dude," he said, finishing packing at last.
"Good luck," I murmured, and rather meant it. Colorado cold rarely kills, but it can, and the winter months are not yet over.
He left in a puff of hormones and animal instinct, and I retired to my room to attempt to loosen my rattled brain and lose myself to a strategy game, blowing up delicate alien ships rather than thinking about the situation. Within fifteen minutes this relaxation was lost, my phone rang rancorously into my private world.
"Hey dude, it's Shea. . . do you think you could give me Kayla's number. . ."
What should I have done?
