It wasn’t that difficult. I moved in with her because she had a better apartment. That wasn’t much of an achievement. My place was a pit after all. A one-room pit, with more hair on the bathroom floor than any woman should have to subject herself to. Beyond that, her place was nice, really nice, well-appointed, and in a better neighborhood than mine too.
On my street, it wasn’t uncommon to see pimps and drug dealers stationed outside my building, looking for customers. That’s the kind of place it was. This never really bothered me. After all, they didn’t seem all that dangerous, at least not if you kept to yourself. I never had any trouble with them anyway. She said that’s because I was a guy and not just a guy, but a big guy. Big guys never had much trouble with anyone she told me unless they went looking for it. And I didn’t go looking for it, so I had no trouble.
One morning I left early only to see a guy urinating on the side of my building. I probably stared longer than I should have, if only in disbelief, but even he was cordial. In fact, he almost apologized, saying, “Dude, I hope you don’t mind if I piss on your building.” Well, what could I say to that? It was nothing if not an amiable request, so I just told him to go right ahead.
Still, when I returned one night to find a guy passed out on the sidewalk outside my apartment, with a forty-ounce bottle in one hand, his pants around his ankles, and the other hand on his genitals, well, that seemed like the right time to go. It wasn’t like I had high standards, but if there was ever going to be a right time to go, that seemed like it, and the next day I informed the landlady that I would be moving out at the end of the month.
Keep in mind, she hadn’t asked me to come and live with her yet, so I was taking a bit of a risk. It was a calculated risk, but it was a risk, nonetheless. It was sort of like inviting yourself to a party or showing up without an invitation. You put the host in a terribly uncomfortable position, but then again, what are they going to say. I feared I’d done the same with her, and I wasn’t sure how she’d respond. To my surprise, she responded positively, even excitedly at this new revelation.
In her eyes, I was making a commitment, a real commitment, to her, and to us. I was taking that step forward that so many guys feared. Guys she had dated before, guys older than I was, had been unwilling to take that step and yet, here I was, putting all my chips on the table without hesitation. This meant something to her, right from the start, and she communicated this with her response.
To me, this was as much a practical decision as anything else. Now, I don’t mean to say I was moving in with her solely for a place to stay. After all, we got on well, really well, and I knew that. I loved being with her, being around her, and deep down I knew this to be true. At the same time, I wasn’t going to get overconfident either. Not yet. Not now. No way. I had thought I was irreplaceable to women I had dated before her, only to find out I was expendable, wholly expendable if something better came along. And, in my experience, something usually did. That was still in the back of my mind when we moved in together.
The first day I arrived, I unpacked my bags and began moving my things into the dresser and small closet she had made available for me. It was more than enough for my pedestrian wardrobe. The dresser was old and wooden, something between rustic and antique, but also very functional. It was perfect for the majority of my clothes, which were either folded or rolled, along with socks and underwear. The closet was small, but I didn’t have many clothes to hang on either. I only had one suit, and it was the same one I had since college. Beyond that, I owned a couple of button-down shirts and nice pairs of pants. And that was it. I could put my shoes on the floor, and there was still going to be plenty of room in the closet.
It was an old apartment, and the closet she had set aside was right next to the bed. She had previously had some of her things in there, but she cleaned it out before I arrived. That was unnecessary, but I figured she had done this to try and make me feel more at home. It was a nice gesture and when I opened the closet door, it was completely empty, with the exception of one men’s designer shirt that was hanging there. It was a cream-colored button-down from a posh designer. My first thought was that, perhaps, this was a gift, a very nice gift. However, upon further inspection, it looked as if the shirt may not have been new, so I wasn’t quite sure. But it was a bit of a surprise to find it there.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“It’s a shirt,” she said matter-of-factly.
“A nice shirt,” I added.
“It is rather nice, isn’t it,” she mused.
“Indeed,” I said.
“Didn’t really think it was your style,” she remarked.
“Well, if I’m being perfectly honest, it’s not,” I agreed. “But I think I could make it my style.”
“Is that right,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think I could pull it off.”
“I am not so sure,” she said, completely serious.
“Whose shirt is it anyway?” I asked.
“Some guy,” she said, unemotionally.
“What’s that?” I asked. “Come again.”
“Just some guy,” she repeated.
“Anyone in particular?” I asked. “I always like to have a sense of my competition.”
“Nobody special,” she replied. “Just a one-night stand.”
“A one-night stand,” I repeated, surprised.
“Yes, a one-night stand,” she repeated. “Have you ever had one?”
“Yes, but…”
“But you didn’t think I was that kind of woman?”
“Well, yes, I suppose that’s what I was thinking,” I answered.
“I’m going to let you in on a little secret,” she said.
“I’m listening,” I said.
“We’re all that kind of woman,” she whispered, even though I was the only one there with her in the room. “Most of us just don’t want to let on.”
This definitely got my attention. She had my attention, my full attention. And I had to admit I was surprised, quite surprised although I tried my best not to show it. After all, I wanted to keep my cool, remain composed, and look as if I was taking it all in stride. I certainly didn’t want to appear insecure, especially on the day I was moving in with her. And, after all, I was the one moving in with her, not him. I was, and this was my chance to project myself in the most mature manner possible.
At the same time, I also wondered if she could have made up the story to mess with me and keep me off balance, particularly after I had invited myself to move in with her. If that was indeed the case, her conniving plan had worked. Internally, I was off balance and out of sorts. The one-night stand and the shirt in the closet had taken me aback, and this was just the type of thing I had been worried about in the first place. I had been down this road before. Don’t get ahead of yourself, I told myself. In my experience, women always had the advantage. They always had the upper hand, if they chose to utilize it, and this was what she was doing now. Whether it was true or not, she had me on edge for the first time, and I had the unsettling feeling that was the idea.
“So, why did you keep the shirt?” I asked.
“It’s a nice shirt,” she repeated. “Even you agreed.”
“It is, but why hold on to it?” I asked again.
“Thought he might come back for it,” she said, unaffectedly.
This only added to my apprehension. Here I was moving in with her, and she is telling me about some guy who left his shirt here and that she kept it in the event that he came back to pick it up. It seemed more likely that she was waiting for him to come back and pick her up. That wasn’t exactly a comfort either. At this point, I couldn’t un-ring the bell, so I continued with questions I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer to.
“Did you want him to come back for it?” I followed up.
“I didn’t not want him to,” she remarked with ambiguity.
“You sound slightly disappointed he never returned,” I said, hoping she would refute my suggestion.
“He was very good-looking,” she sighed.
“And big,” I added. “By the size of that shirt.”
“Bit bigger than you,” she said. “Bigger muscles, at least.”
That was cold. By now, I could tell she was enjoying all of this a little bit more than I had hoped she would. Perhaps she really was hurt by my impromptu move into her place. But it was more likely she was hurt by the fact that I hadn’t gone out of my way to connect my move to a greater commitment to her, to us, to the type of relationship she was looking for. It might have seemed to her as if I was taking advantage of our relationship as if I was not honoring it for the right reasons in the way that I should.
But I felt her distance. Her caution was palpable, and her words stung me more than I wished they had. She had a one-night stand, with a good-looking guy. A good-looking guy with a better body than mine. And she had kept his shirt all this time. Or had she? Was she just playing games with my head? None of this really made all that big a difference aside from the fact that it just made me feel worse and worse the more I thought about it. In order to move beyond this, I realized I had to change my way of thinking.
“Well, you may be sore at him for not returning, but I’d like to thank him,” I said.
“Why’s that?” she said.
“Well, for one, I’m glad he didn’t come back,” I said. “I might not be here living with you if he had.”
“That’s true,” she remarked. “You are probably worried you’d be out on the street.”
“No, that’s not it,” I assured her. “I wouldn’t be on the street, but I wouldn’t be here with you either.”
“Are you saying you want to be here?” she followed up. “Here with me?”
“Yes, of course,” I said.
“Me, and nobody else?” she asked.
“Absolutely,” I repeated. “Nobody else. Not now. Not ever.”
“Well, then,” she said. “I guess you are glad he didn’t come back?”
“I am, indeed,” I said. “Damn glad.”
“And you?” I asked. “Are you over him?”
“I told you,” she said. “He was nobody special.”
“At least he had good taste,” I said.
“At least,” she smiled.
The shirt was still hanging in the closet. It was a very beautiful shirt, and it had also been taken to the cleaners following his night at her apartment. I ran my hand down the sleeve. The material was exceptional, and I took the time to admire it. It was all a clever game she had played, and I wasn’t at all sure what to do with the shirt at this point. Was she hoping for me to burn it in a jealous rage, and toss it in the trash? Donate it, perhaps. She hadn’t made this at all clear.
But she had taken the time to get it cleaned, and she had purposefully placed it in the closet she had set aside for me. In this case, I did the only thing I could do. It was the thing I needed to do, had to do, at least this one time. I knew it, and maybe she knew it too, but I don’t think she saw it coming. It was then that I reached back and pulled my t-shirt off over the top of my head. I took just a brief moment to admire my own physique in the mirror on the inside of the closet door. Feeling satisfied enough, I reached for the hanger and removed the shirt from the closet. I undid the buttons calmly, while she just sat there, on the side of the bed, watching. Then I pulled the shirt around my shoulders, drew it firmly across my torso, and puffed my chest out as far as I could while I buttoned it up and smiled, strangely triumphant. I opened my arms to my sides and faced her hoping I was good enough.
She smiled for the first time since I had arrived. Then she rolled back on the bed and over onto her side, her hair falling across the bedspread while she laughed. This wasn’t a sneering laugh, but rather a beautiful, accepting one. She threw her head back one more time gleefully and then sat back up looking at me.
“Not bad,” she said, still smiling, before adding, “even if it is a little big.”
“Just give me time,” I responded. “I’ll grow into it.