My Roommate and I Settle Every Argument in the Bedroom

The first thing I noticed was the cold. Not the damp, seeping chill of a Dublin autumn, but a manufactured, aggressive cold that felt personal. It was the kind of cold that suggested a disregard for human life, or at least for mine. I dropped my keys in the ceramic bowl by the door, the clatter unnervingly loud in the stillness of the flat.

Our flat was less a home and more a jointly occupied territory under a fragile, and frequently violated, ceasefire. Freya’s infractions were numerous and varied in their audacity. There was the persistent issue of the wet towels, which she left in a heap on the bathroom tiles like a shed skin, breeding a specific kind of mildew I was sure was a biohazard. There was her kleptomaniacal relationship with my almond milk, which she claimed to despise but which nonetheless evaporated from the carton between my morning coffees. These were minor border skirmishes, the background radiation of our cohabitation.

The thermostat, however, was the primary theatre of war.

I walked past the bathroom, averting my eyes from the damp bathmat, and straight to the hallway where the small, white box was mounted. The digital display read 16°C. Sixteen. A temperature suitable for storing cadavers or expensive wine, neither of which we kept in the flat. I pressed the up arrow, my thumb jabbing the plastic with satisfying force. 21°C. Civilisation.

I found her in the living room, curled on the sofa under a thick wool blanket, reading a book. She didn’t look up. Her bare feet were tucked beneath her, and the sight of them, pale and small, did nothing to soften the rage solidifying in my chest.

“Freya.”

She turned a page. “What.” It wasn’t a question.

“It’s sixteen degrees in here.”

“I was cold,” she said, her eyes still on the book. A statement of fact, offered as if it were a complete and reasonable explanation.

“I’m aware. You’re always cold. That’s what jumpers are for. Not for plunging the entire flat into a cryogenic state and bankrupting me in the process.”

She finally looked at me then, her expression one of profound, weary boredom. As if I were the one being unreasonable. “I pay half the bills, Vlad.”

“Yes, and I’d like to continue being able to afford my half without having to sell a kidney. Do you have any idea what this costs? It’s on for hours, churning out arctic air while you’re swaddled in a duvet. It’s insane.”

“I like it cool when I’m under a blanket.”

“It’s not ‘cool.’ It’s a morgue. There are penguins in the Antarctic huddled together for warmth thinking, ‘Well, at least it’s not Vlad’s gaff.’”

She closed her book with a soft snap. “If you’re going to be hysterical, I’m going to make tea.”

“Don’t you dare use my almond milk.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, swinging her legs onto the floor. “I finished it this morning.”

She said it so calmly, so matter-of-factly, that for a second my brain couldn’t process the sheer, unmitigated gall. She walked past me towards the kitchen, and I followed, the anger a hot current pulling me in her wake.

“You finished it,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “The ninety-euro case of organic, ethically-sourced, activated almond milk I had shipped from a man named Lars in Sweden, you just… finished it?”

“It was taking up too much space in the fridge,” she said, opening the cupboard and taking out a mug. One of my mugs. The one with the faded penguin print. The irony was not lost on me.

“Space? You want to talk about space? What about your three different types of kimchi fermenting in there? The fridge smells like a Korean funeral. Or the mountain of un-recycled wine bottles by the back door? We look like we’re running a failed speakeasy.”

She spun around, the mug in her hand. “Oh, I’m sorry, is my contribution to the global recycling crisis inconveniencing you? Perhaps if you ever took the bins out yourself, you’d have a say in it! But you’re too busy leaving your disgusting, sweaty gym clothes festering in the hamper for a week until they legally qualify as a new life form.”

“They’re in the hamper! That’s where they go! It’s better than leaving a sodden towel on the floor every single morning like a breadcrumb trail of your own personal filth. Do you think there’s a magical towel fairy that comes and picks them up?”

“It’s one towel!” she shouted, her voice rising to match mine. She started to move past me, heading back down the narrow hallway, probably to the sanctuary of her room. I wasn't having it.

“It’s never one towel! It’s the principle! It’s the total, flagrant disrespect for the fact that another human being has to live here!” I moved to block her path, putting a hand flat against the wall beside her head, my body caging her in the tight space.

And then, silence.

The echo of our shouting seemed to hang in the air for a moment before dissolving. All the momentum, the performative fury, just vanished. She was standing perfectly still, her back almost touching the wall. I hadn’t realized how close I was. I could feel the heat coming off her skin, or maybe it was my own. Her eyes, wide and dark, were fixed on my mouth. She wasn't looking at my eyes. She was looking at my mouth. Her chest rose and fell in a quick, shallow rhythm that had nothing to do with shouting anymore. I could smell her shampoo, something clean and vaguely floral that was completely at odds with the ugliness of the things we’d just said. My hand was still on the wall next to her hair, my knuckles white. The anger was gone, replaced by a thick, heavy awareness that filled the hallway, pressing in on us from all sides. My own breathing was loud in my ears. I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

Her lips parted slightly. I didn’t think. I closed the small space between us and put my mouth on hers. It wasn’t a kiss. It was an impact. My teeth knocked against hers and she made a noise, a sharp intake of breath that I swallowed. For a second she was stiff, her hands flat against my chest as if to push me away, and then her fingers curled, grabbing fistfuls of my t-shirt. She kissed back with a bruising force that matched my own.

Her tongue was in my mouth, tasting of nothing but her, and my hands left the wall, one tangling in her hair, pulling her head back, the other sliding down her spine to the waistband of her joggers. The argument was still there, a live wire humming between our bodies. I hooked my fingers into the soft fabric and pulled. She broke the kiss to gasp as I shoved the material down her hips. She kicked her legs free of the tangled mess at her ankles, her bare skin cool against my hands.

She was fumbling with the button on my jeans, her knuckles scraping against my stomach. The sound of the zipper was loud, aggressive. I lifted her then, her back pressed hard against the plaster, and her legs wrapped around my waist instinctively. Her hands went to my shoulders, her nails digging in. I pushed two fingers inside her, finding her slick and ready. She gasped my name, the sound a curse, and arched against my hand.

I pulled my fingers out and positioned myself at her entrance. She was so wet. I pushed into her with a single, rough thrust. She cried out, her head falling back against the wall. It wasn’t gentle. It was a frantic, clumsy rhythm against the wall, my hips slamming into hers. All the things we wanted to scream at each other were in the movement, in the way she clawed at my back and the way I gripped the flesh of her arse, holding her pinned to me. I could feel her inner muscles tightening around my cock, pulling me deeper. Her breath came in ragged sobs next to my ear. I felt my own release building, a sharp, blinding pressure. I drove into her one last time, a guttural noise tearing from my throat as I came, and a second later her whole body shuddered against mine, a long, keening cry muffled against my neck.

For a long moment, we just stayed there, plastered against the wall, my cock still inside her. My forehead was pressed to hers, our sweat mingling. I could feel the frantic beat of her heart against my chest. Slowly, I let her slide down my body until her feet touched the floor. She swayed, and I kept my hands on her waist to steady her.

My t-shirt was stretched out at the collar. Her joggers were in a heap by her ankles. My jeans were open, my shirt untucked. The hallway was a wreck. Neither of us spoke. I looked at the scuff mark our shoes had made on the white wall. I looked at the rip in the shoulder of my t-shirt where her fingers had been. I looked at anything but her face. The silence that fell was heavier than the one before, thick with something new and unnameable. I could feel her looking at me, but I couldn’t meet her eyes. I just stared at the floor, breathing.