The Handyman: The Romance Option

I ask for The Notebook.

Marin looks at me as though I've requested a helicopter.

Fair enough. A helicopter would be easier to explain.

“You don't even like The Notebook,” she says.

She remembers my exact assessment of romance movies. Naturally. Everything I've ever said is available for immediate review, except the part about wanting to leave.

“I've had time to reflect.”

She looks at my wrists. Then at the column. Then back at me.

I leave my hands still. I've learned that much. Pulling at the cuffs makes her check them. Asking about the door makes her close it. Calling her crazy adds another day, although she hasn't provided a release date from which those days can be calculated.

The terms here are terrible.

“You've had time to develop Stockholm syndrome,” she says.

“Maybe.”

I let the word sit. She came down here expecting an argument. I can see the unused answers waiting in her face.

The handyman was right about one thing. I should be concerned about what happens when she stops trying.

He stood in the doorway and delivered that observation like a man discussing a load-bearing wall. I hated him for it. I still do. But I've had plenty of time to consider the floor plan.

Marin brings the food. Marin brings the water. Now the handyman comes upstairs to object when I hurt Marin's feelings.

That last item has become a problem.

She folds her arms.

I repeat some of her own language back to her. The reset. The conversation. Two adults figuring things out.

She listens harder when it sounds like her.

When she finally agrees, she gives me conditions. The cuffs stay on. This doesn't change anything. I'm to remember what happened the last time I tried something.

I rub my shoulder before I can stop myself.

She notices. Of course she notices.

“Vividly,” I say.

Then she's going upstairs to get the laptop, and I have managed to request an entire evening without either of us mentioning the police.

Progress.

* * *

While she's gone, I try to arrange myself into something a woman might voluntarily sit beside.

There are limitations.

The column is behind me. The potty chair is beside me. My ribs have an objection to every available position. I settle for upright and hope the lighting does the rest.

I hear her moving overhead. A cabinet. A chair. Her footsteps crossing the kitchen.

At home, I used to hear her coming and keep reading whatever was on my phone. She would stop beside me. Wait. Sometimes she would say my name twice.

She liked being the person you looked up for.

It wasn't a difficult thing to give her. I simply hadn't understood that she would eventually take away every competing activity.

The stairs creak.

I look up immediately.

She's carrying the open laptop with both hands. She's already found the movie. For a moment I see the woman from our apartment, bringing something over because she wants to show me.

Then she stops just beyond my reach and considers where to put it.

The distinction is difficult to miss.

She sets it on the floor. Adjusts the screen. Kneels to check the angle, and I can see her deciding whether she can sit here without it meaning too much.

I don't help her decide. If I ask her to come closer, she'll have to explain why she's doing it.

I watch the screen.

She sits down beside me.

Her sleeve brushes mine. Her shoulder is warm. She smells clean, which seems unnecessarily extravagant under the circumstances.

I could tell her that. Make her laugh.

I keep my mouth shut. Being funny has not always served me well here.

* * *

For the first part of the movie, Marin sits so straight she could be waiting for an interview.

I know that posture. She's making herself available without appearing to want anything. I used to enjoy watching how long she could hold it.

Tonight I would appreciate it if she stopped looking ready to leave.

The movie continues. People misunderstand one another at length. Nobody suggests separate accommodation. Eventually there's rain.

Beside me, Marin's shoulder lowers a little.

“This is nice,” I say.

“Don't.”

I look at the screen. “I'm just saying.”

She tells me what happens when I just say things. Restraints. Crying in a grocery store.

I laugh.

I don't mean to. It's the way she says grocery store, as though that should trouble me more than the restraints. I can picture her being furious about the lighting while she cries. Marin would want to choose her own aisle.

She turns her head.

For once, I let the laugh finish.

“I missed this,” I say.

She looks back at the laptop. Says nothing.

It's almost pleasant, finding out a sentence can do something other than start a fight.

I try to remember the last time we watched a whole movie together. I remember her beside me. Her hand resting on my leg. A question I answered without looking away from my phone.

I don't remember the film.

I want to ask whether she does. I want her talking about somewhere with windows, somewhere we could both get up and leave. The question would be easy. She'd probably be pleased I asked.

But then she'll tell me how happy we were.

I'll be expected to agree.

I sit still. Watch the movie. Let her shoulder remain against mine.

* * *

When the credits arrive, I have spent an entire evening not wanting to make a remark at her expense.

I should get something for that.

I nearly ask about the cuffs.

The words get as far as my tongue. She's sitting close enough to hear them whispered. Close enough that I can see the little mark on her cheek from where she rested it against her hand.

If I ask now, she'll know what the movie was for.

“Same time tomorrow?” I say.

She stands. Brushes off her jeans. Checks the restraints.

“We'll see.”

I smile. Hold it while she checks the distance to the potty chair. Hold it while she gathers the laptop.

She pauses on the stairs and looks back at me.

I am still smiling.

Then she's gone. The door closes, and I can finally let my face rest.

Tomorrow, I'll try a comedy.