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: : : FLETCHER IS ON HIS HANDS and knees, scrubbing Cassandra's tub. He's already done her toilet. Tonight is her last night in this apartment—tomorrow they're picking up a U-Haul at eight, hoping to have it loaded and on the road to Pennsylvania by noon.
He'd hoped that they'd be more-or-less done early enough that they could spend some time relaxing. Maybe roll around in the bed one final time. (He suspects, perhaps irrationally, that this weekend may be the last time they ever have the opportunity to touch one another.) A week ago it seemed reasonable to believe that there wouldn't be much in the way of last-minute rush. A week ago she'd already cleaned out her files and packed most of her books; it seemed like she was on top of things. But now it's eight-thirty and there's still so fucking much left to do. The last time Fletcher did a status check on the kitchen he noticed that Cassandra hadn't even started to pack up the shit in the cupboards. Dishes, glasses, wineglasses—you're looking at at least half an hour's worth of work right there.
He gives the mineral deposits at the bottom of the tub a few final swipes with the scrub brush, just to confirm that they're not going to come up, and then he turns on the hot water and coaxes leftover cleanser down towards the drain with his bare hands.
He's hot and grimy and because of the dust his nose has running for pretty much the last two hours.
He stands back, to survey the room. Tub: clean. Toilet: scrubbed. Cabinets: empty. That brings him to: the shower curtain.
He's never quite sure what to do with shower curtains. They seem like a hassle to pack, but if you don't pack one then you can't take a shower when you get to your new place, at least not without having to first run out and buy a new one. Exactly what you don't want to do. He believes that everyone should come to a mutual agreement to leave their shower curtains behind for whoever's coming in next, a kind of humble welcoming gift.
Although this particular shower curtain wouldn't make much of a gift. He holds it out, inspects the mildew blooming along its edge. Grisly.
So he's not sure what to do; figures he'd better ask. —Hey C.? he calls.
No answer.
—Cassandra?
He waits a second, cocks his head. Still nothing. So he gets up and goes to find her.
She's in the living room, sitting Indian-style in the center of a ring of clothes, with a beer in her hand and a photo album open in her lap. Fletcher recognizes the album as the one she keeps her wedding photos in.
—Hey, Fletcher says. —I wanted—
—Christ, Cassandra says. —Look at me. Just look at me. She stabs her finger into the album, poking at her own face. —I look so happy. So stupid. So fucking stupid.
Do you know how much shit we still have to do? Fletcher thinks. He looks around at the clothes, at the prints still hanging on the walls. How can you just be sitting there? You were sitting out here fucking around while I was in there cleaning out your goddamn toilet?
—Listen, C., he says, —we need to keep moving.
She crumples a little, presses the heel of her hand up against her forehead.
—Come on, baby, he says. —We don't have time for this.
—Don't talk to me like that, she says.
—I'm just telling you the truth, Fletcher says. —Do you know what time it is? Do you know how much we have left to do? At this rate we're going to have to be up all night—
—Then we'll be up all night, Cassandra says. —I don't give a shit.
—Well maybe I give a shit. I don't want to spend all night on this. I want to get to sleep at a decent hour. We've got to be driving a truck all day tomorrow.
—Then go to sleep, Cassandra says. —I can finish this myself.
Fletcher looks around wildly at the things that remain to be packed. He starts to feel like either he or Cassandra must be insane. —I don't think you can finish this yourself—
—Then whatever's left in the morning I'll just throw away, Cassandra says.
—That's—(the word he wants to use is crazy, but he thinks better of this; starts over)—Look, he says, —I don't mean to seem gruff, but we just have to keep working—
—This is my life, Cassandra says, holding up the photo album by its back cover. —Do you understand that? I just want to take five minutes to look over this shit—she snaps the album towards him; he can hear the binding crack—and maybe I just want to feel bad for five minutes, you know, you'd think maybe we could spare five minutes so that I could think about what happened to my fucking life? You'd think maybe we could find a way to fit that in to your timetable? And then you come in here and you don't even seem to give any thought to the fact that I'm feeling bad, you don't ask how I'm doing, all you can see is that I'm not working, and you worry that that's going to interfere with your fucking bedtime? Well fuck you.
Fletcher sits down at the base of the wall, drops his face into his hands and sits that way for what feels like a long time.
—I'm sorry, he finally says.
—Whatever, Cassandra says.
—Look don't whatever me, Fletcher says.
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