The Millenial Partner

The French baguette sits on the counter next to the fruit bowl and I can’t resist it. I let my teeth sink into the flakey baked dough, leaving a flurry of crumbs behind. I know Geneviève will tell me off later. I sometimes wonder why she even lets me live with her. She’s always moaning about men and their child-like qualities, saying things like, “If I wanted kids, I would’ve had one by now. What I want is a partner. Someone who pulls their own weight.”

I can’t blame her.

I take one more indulgent bite of the crisp bread when I hear barking outside. The neighbours have a fenced backyard, that encases a drooling Italian Mastiff, like a Heifer in a field. My attention averts to the window, and I draw the curtain back, enjoying the warmth of the sun, and I look down on the beast. Despite not particularly liking the dog, I feel bad for him, as his owners cropped his ears, for what, I don’t know. Animal abuse if you ask me.

A strange vehicle has pulled up next to the neighbour’s house. That’s what the ol’ guy must be barking at. A clip-board wielding woman emerges. She’s wearing an outdated pantsuit. Must have felt pretty fancy in that . . . five years ago. My laugh comes out more like a hiss as I watch her fumble to their front door in flats. She knocks and it takes a while for the neighbours to answer the door. Finally, she disappears inside. Moments later, she emerges with kids at her side, they reluctantly follow her, the mom stands at the door, crying. They drive away.

There’s nothing left to watch so I figure I should do something productive. I look at Geneviève’s prized plant, a Monstera in the corner of the living room. Geneviève is always talking about the benefits of getting your hands dirty, saying microbes in the dirt can improve mood.

I’ll admit, I haven’t exactly been at the top of my game lately, being mostly cooped up inside these days. So, I figure I’ll dig in. The plant's top layer of soil is dry. I’ll water it, but first I need to loosen the soil. I till it as best I know how then spray it, seeing pebbles of moisture form on its leaves.

Startled, I hear the key in the lock, turning. Shit. I scramble to get to the crumbs and deal with them before Geneviève sees the mess I made in the kitchen. But just my luck, in the process, I knock over the glass-blown vase her mother got for her from Murano. It shatters on the floor.

The door swings open.

“Hello, I’m home,” she sings, slipping her shoes off her feet.

I speed to the door to greet her. Maybe I can stall her from discovering the abject chaos. I rub up on her leg. She picks me up. She loves me.