Spit

It's everywhere.

I open the shower curtains and look in the tub.

“Ew,” I say as I see the spit.

Turning on the water to clean it off, I wonder if John would ever learn how to spit somewhere convenient, like a trashcan, and not in showers, sinks, and cups. It’s not normal clear spit, either. It’s black and yellow from years of smoking. Another effect of smoking is the hacking coughs that seem to have schedules. I can usually tell whenever he coughs what time it is. The forceful hacks just grate on the ears.

Living with that man is a trial. There’s fights everyday over the most insignificant things, but I guess that’s what happens when two people have been together that long. They’re not even married; my mother and John would be going on thirteen years if they were. That’s when they started “dating”, though I don’t know if it’s considered dating if they don’t go anywhere.

After my shower, I try not to look in the sink. Small chin hairs usually float in spittle at the bottom and I’d rather not see that before breakfast. A hacking cough signals it’s time to heat up the flat iron. After a half hour, thumping tells me it’s about six thirty. Everything runs on schedule here; that way I’m never late for school.

I walk downstairs to see John lazing on the couch. His couch. Every afternoon, he’s there for five hours straight, only moving to go to the bathroom. It’s no wonder friends who come over ask if he’s a vegetable. I tell him he’s late and he asks me what time it is. After loudly cursing, he calls his buddy who’ll subsequently drive him to work. John doesn’t operate by the same schedule as I do.

Three hours after I come home, he enters the door and talks to the cats. I’m in the computer room, and when he sees me, he starts annoying me with his usual antics.

“Marisa,” he says.

After typing a line I ask,” What?”

“Nothing.”

I shake my head and return to my paper, but this continues a few times. I soon stop answering him. These little “quirks” of his are just his way of playing around. However, with his “jokes” (which are non-too-funny lies) it’s an irksome mix. He retires to his safe haven and I can predict what he’ll be watching: first FBI Files, then some Discovery Channel, and finally -his favorite- the UFC. Shouts of spectators draw me to the room. Unfortunately, he’s awake.

I hate watching T.V. with him when he’s awake.

“See this?” John asks.

He then describes every position and gesture to me. I barely listen; I just like watching half-naked sweaty men writhing on a floor. I actually listen to him when he talks about something relevant. I know a lot about history because of him, but I wish his views were less opinion based and condescending.

Hours later, it’s off to bed. He sleeps across the hall from me and my mother usually sleeps on the couch. I can’t blame her: John turns the volume of the television up high in the middle of the night and coughs even more. Since my room doesn’t have air conditioning or heat, I have to leave the door open in the summer. Sounds of gunshots and screams easily find their way to my ears.

I could complain about John so much: his spit, his coughs, the fact that whenever he leaves the bathroom it’s a gas chamber. These things pale in comparison to everything he taught me. He influenced the music I listen to, the things I learn, and the people I trust. I know he loves me, and I guess I love him, too. I’d be a very different person without him.

I just wish I didn’t have to live with him.

Author's Note

True story.

Reviews

[Drew Wade]

I like this a lot. I think it's well developed. Is it all true? I wish it was fiction. I want something to happen in it. I feel as if you bring us perfectly up to the point where something redeeming or heartbreaking could happen, and then you end it on us, as it were.

You describe things very nicely. It sucked me in, I have to say. good job. I just wish there was more of it to satisfy my need for plot.