Dormant

“This time went better than the last,” he thinks to himself. This girl who just dumped him is far more beautiful than the previous one. So fine, it’s still not where he wants to be, but this is an upward trajectory. Tom has a full life too: an easy job, a degree underway, all a man needs, really. He plays happier music than usual on his phone to balance his emotions—in his way, he has always been good at managing the atmosphere. He phones Beckie, his only close friend.

“I don’t get it, they are so into me one second, then let me go in the next.”

“You sound angry.”

“I’m not angry, I just don’t get it.”

He can hear the concern in her voice, but he knows he’s going to be alright, because he always is. No one is in better control of their emotions than him, and he knows it is one of his best qualities. He’s seen how erratic people get when they act irrationally. He starts up League of Legends, and tells himself next time he finds a date on Tinder, he’ll keep her just fine. When the game loads he notices his lower lip is a little sore—he has been biting on it during matches. It’s a hard habit to kick. He wonders for a moment if there is something he could play that doesn’t make him so tense and realizes it is probably time to eat dinner. His roommate, Liz, comes into the kitchen as he is sitting at the table eating pasta. She always comes back to the apartment long after the workday is over, and he wishes he knew how she finds so many things to do.

“How have you been?” she asks.

“Pretty good. My boss has been pretty happy with my work.”

“That’s good.”

She pauses for a second.

“I was out with this guy tonight,” she says. “He’s kind of cute.”

“Oh, nice.”

“Yeah.”

“How’d you meet him?”

“At a friend’s place. We’ve hung out a couple of times.”

He nods. “Hope it works out.”

She smiles at him coyly, and he looks down at his food.

“I should probably get to bed soon,” he says. “Lotta work tomorrow.”

“Sure. Night.”

“Night.”

He goes back to his room, stuffs his clothes into the laundry pile, and plays some more League of Legends. He jerks off, brushes his teeth, and goes to bed. His other roommate, Ryan, has just come back to the apartment with his girlfriend. Since Tom can only hear some murmuring and the creak of a door opening, he can pretend she’s someone else, like a male friend. Just to be sure he doesn’t hear anything he doesn’t want to, he starts the fan in his room to mask any sounds. The next day, he gets a call from his mother:

“Hi, Mom, what’s up?”

“I’m good, honey, how are you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Good, ummm… I need you to come over this week and help take the folding chairs down to the storage room, is that alright?”

“Sure, Mom, is Tuesday evening good?”

“Of course. Thanks, honey.”

“See you, Mom.”

Nothing makes him regret ever being born more than traffic jams; he curses at nothing and swears this is the last time he goes to visit his mom during rush hour. He lets his arm hang in front of the AC vent to cool down, in such a way that the cold air slips under it and into his armpit. “Jesus,” he thinks to himself, “calm down, who cares if it takes another twenty minutes.” A Kia cuts the queue right in front of him. “Goddamn son of a bitch!” He arrives at the threshold livid, and the door opens. Messi, a beautiful collie Tom has had since he was a puppy, walks into his open arms and licks his eyes and lips when he kneels down to pet him. It’s disgusting, but he can’t help giggling every time Messi does it.

“Hi, Mom! Hi, Messi!”

“He’s been waiting at the door for about ten minutes. I swear he can feel it when you’re about to visit.”

There used to be a time when Tom would wrestle with Messi, but he is over eleven now, with frizzy fur, gray hair around his muzzle and over his back and tail, and has trouble even getting up from the floor to go on walks. He scratches Messi behind his ears, then gets up to sit at the kitchen table. Messi limps by Tom’s side and lies down to rest on the floor next to him, letting out a tired grunt. His mom goes back to dicing vegetables.

“I’m making salad and eggs. How have you been?”

“I’m good, Mom.”

“Are you doing fine money-wise, need any help from me and Dad?”

“No thanks, I don’t spend much apart from rent and car maintenance.”

“Spend it going out to eat with friends.”

“I do, Mom.”

She starts cutting the cucumbers.

“How is work going?”

“Good. My boss has been pretty happy with my work.”

“Is that all?”

“I’m doing well at work. I’ll get my degree no problem. What else could I want?”

“If I had your brains I would be aiming for a Nobel Prize.”

“Well, I’m not you. What would I need a Nobel Prize for, anyway? Way too much of a headache.”

He twiddles his fingers and stretches in his chair.

“So, have you thought about what you’re going to do with your degree once you finish?”

He smothers a sigh inside his mouth, right before it escapes.

“Yeah, you said you needed help with those chairs, right?”

“Yes. You know where the key to the storage room is, right?”

“Yup. I’ll get right on it.”

“Put the key back where you took it from, so I don’t lose it.”

The storage room is always dusty and he always comes back from it all clammy. “Whatever, better me than Mom having to do it.” He looks around and sees the bookcase with all his old books from when he was a clever student in school. They remind him he’s always been smart, and that nothing has changed since then, that he’s on the same track to a bright future. Maybe he should take one of these books back with him, The Lord of the Rings maybe? The floor is littered with dusty toys and old furniture, none of it the right way up. He reaches over the mess on the floor to try and grab the book, and the tip of his finger brushes against it. He tries, but he can’t quite close his hand around the book. The dust is getting oppressive, and he has sweat stains all over. “Whatever, The Lord of the Rings can stay there.”

He finds Messi at the door and his salad ready when he returns. He gives Messi a hug and tastes the olive oil, tomato, and lemon juice all mixed together. It feels like home.

“Have you met anyone new at university?”

Mom is frying eggs now.

“Yeah, you know I got Beckie, and also Liz and Ryan, my roommates.”

“Right! I hear about that Beckie girl all the time, are you two more than friends?”

“Jesus, Mom, can’t I mention a friend without you immediately asking if we’re going out?”

“Don’t get mad, honey.”

“I know I know,” he says in an irritated tone, “but you worrying about it doesn’t help me now, does it? I’ll find someone when I do, it’s not like I’ll just run into her out on the street.”

“I know, but—”

“Mooom, c’mon!”

“You know I say that because I love you, right?”

“I know, Mom.”

---

He feels like it’s the right day to wear something nicer than usual for work, in order to compensate for wearing the same style of plain clothes for the past few days and maintain a balanced appearance. He stares at his shirts for a second: blue T-shirt, green T-shirt, brown T-shirt… There it is! Purple and orange, Austria Wien T-shirt. One of his best, he’s had it since high school. Blue jeans, black sneakers, and he’s good to go. Out in the café where he gets his morning coffee, someone catches his eye. Clean-shaven, button-down shirt, ecru chinos, white shoes, golden sunglasses. He is about Tom’s age, and when the man’s wedding ring flashes in the light for a split second, Tom feels a little something in the pit of his stomach. “Never mind,” he thinks to himself, “the people who care about me most don’t care about appearances. They care about who I am on the inside.”

The calmest part of his morning walk is a few minutes away from work. The hedges to his right are flowering, and he can hear the crickets chirping and clicking from inside them. To his left, across the narrow service road, is a wide lawn surrounded by tall trees, with a pond in its center. “This is nice,” he thinks to himself, and keeps on walking to work. He gets a call from his dad; he sounds dejected.

“Tom, we have to put Messi down.”

“Why?”

“He can’t get up at all. He soiled himself completely an hour ago.”

“Alright— well…”

“Yeah…”

“He had a good life. Peaceful.”

“I’ll stay by his side until it’s over.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Goodbye.”

He gets to the office. Connor is the first one to see him enter.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“I’m fine. Not much, I mean.”

“Are you joining us for football?”

“Like, today?”

“Yeah, we have the pitch between seven and nine o’clock.”

“No yeah, sounds good!”

“Great, we were missing a keeper.”

Connor takes a sip from his coffee mug and glances at his screen.

“Can I get your help with something?”

“Sure, what is it?”

“Printer’s out again.”

The printer refuses to take orders from at least one computer each day. Connor sends him a few pages to print out. Tom realizes he is in luck today—the printer responds to his computer without hesitation. “Happy to help,” he says when he gives Connor his pages, and goes back to his desk. He is reminiscing about Messi: sprint competitions, where he would always beat Tom by a mile. Dragging and flailing around a boxing glove tied to a rope for Messi to hunt. The way Messi would open the sliding door to the balcony with his front leg like a person, rather than with his muzzle. Such a sweet dog. He notices he’s staring at the spreadsheet on the screen in front of him. “Alright,” he thinks, “I can still work. What’s done is done.” Messi really did have a good life, carefree and tranquil. He was a good boy, but his time has come, and that’s alright; he’s been expecting this for a while now.

A few hours later he gets a text from his mom:

“How are you?” she asks.

He replies: “Did you hear about Messi?”

“Of course. He was an intelligent, loving family dog. I’ll miss him.”

He starts walking toward the exit. “He had a good life. It’s been a long time coming. Always carefree. Dad was with him.” He is almost at a running pace now. He spots the smoking zone as soon as he comes out, a little out of the way. No one is there. He heads toward it, sits down on the bench, and breaks down crying.