She’d puked again. On the carpet. Soupy yellow-brown bile coating half-chewed chunks of box store kibble. She could have thrown up on the tile-patterned flooring in the kitchen. She could have taken the extra two steps to get there, but she meant for the act to be a nuisance. She meant for it to be vile.
And now she only needed to wait.
From her perch on the back of the second-hand sofa where she could look out the apartment window through the hole in the blinds she’d made the first week they’d moved in, she watched the mid-winter sun creep behind the brownstone building across the street. It would be dark soon, and the darkness always brought Ralph Dewaldo Jr. home.
Footsteps. Slow and soft. From the hallway.
They were not his ordinary steps. She wasn’t sure at first if they were his. But the jingle of his keys sounded the same.
The door opened.
She raised her head, narrowed her eyes. In a moment, he would spot the fresh stain, and the room would flash with his rage while she simply stared at him. She’d watch him point his finger at her and yell. Watch him rip the door open below the sink and pull out the spray cleaner. Watch his muscles tighten and his teeth clench as he shoves paper towel after paper towel onto the stain.
Her heart pounded in anticipation. A tingle slithered along her back.
But Ralph Dewaldo Jr.’s head was low as he walked through the threshold.
He lowered his bag to the floor, turned back to the door as he shut it, and leaned his forehead against it.
She’d never seen him act like that before, and it made her forget about the gift she’d left for him on the carpet. There was comfort in the uncomplicated routine of the way he normally was. It was predictable.
She leapt from the couch and approached him. Arching her back, she rubbed against his leg.
“Not now, Buttercup,” he said, his voice shallow, barely a whisper.
She nestled against his other leg, then weaved back toward the first. He didn’t seem to notice or care, so she sat at his feet and tilted her head.
“He’s .. going to option me.” His voice stammered. “I could end up anywhere. Nowhere.”
Guilt trickled into her as she felt his sadness, his hurt. If only she could take it back – the puke. Take them all back.
She watched as Ralph squeezed his thick, bruised hands into fists, so tight they shook. This was a new anger. Uncontrollable. And it frightened her.
“Fucking Shoeless!” He raised both fists over his head and slammed them against the door.
The name lingered in the room along with the thud on the door, heavy and poignant.
Ralph turned and spotted the fresh stain.
“Fuck!”
His foot struck her square on the ribs.
