Ridley Holland has just lost the love of her life. She has no desire to return to the world of motocross, but she knows Teuvo would want her to continue. So she plays the part: an upcoming professional athlete with inevitable determination to domina...
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Teuvo
"How the hell many times are you going to leave the toilet seat up?"
Ridley walks into the kitchen, her face contorted with a look of disgust. She's holding a toothbrush covered in toothpaste. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun and her face is covered with a green clay mask. It's difficult to take her seriously, but I know better than to ridicule her while she's upset. I could end up six feet underground. Plus, she has a valid reason to be upset. She's not overreacting. This is about the seventh time in a row I've forgotten to put the toilet seat down.
I raise my eyebrows. "I forgot?"
She rolls her eyes. "You always say that. How hard is it to piss and then lower the seat? Or hell, I don't know, sit down? Men standing to piss is the grossest thing ever. Do you know how much splashes out of the toilet bowl and onto surrounding objects?" She shoves her toothbrush in her mouth and begins scrubbing her teeth relentlessly. Her voice is muffled when she speaks again. "How fucking hard is it?"
Pressing my palms flat against the counter, I take a deep breath. "It's not hard to put the toilet seat down, either. I don't know why you're making such a big deal out of it."
"Because!" she exclaims. A small drop of spit and toothpaste leaks from the corner of her mouth, which she wipes away. "I don't want to touch the seat, wash my hands, pee, then wipe my ass, only to end up washing my hands again. The only time I want to touch the toilet seat is when I'm cleaning it."
A crease forms between my eyebrows. "I clean it, too. Sometimes."
"Sometimes."
Her emphasis on the word makes my defensiveness pop up. I set my spoon down, suddenly not caring if my fruit-flavoured granola turns soggy. "Well, maybe you should stop leaving your clothes in the middle of the bathroom! That's why I only sometimes scrub the bathroom. I'm too exhausted after picking up your clothes."
Ridley saunters over to the kitchen sink and spits, then rinses the sink and her toothbrush. When she turns to face me, her brown eyes are blazing. "It's not my job to always clean the bathroom. You know how much I hate being subjected to social norms about the good housewife."
I snort. "Ridley. You're not even my wife." Yet.
She throws her hands up. "But I'm still being subjected to that cliché shit! Teuvo, when was the last time you cleaned the bathroom? Like did a full-on deep clean?"
I run my tongue along my teeth. Shit. She's got me there. But my ego won't let me admit it. I'm too defensive. "When was the last time you picked up your clothes?
Her eyebrows rise. "Seriously? That's your response?"
"Ridley," I sigh.
"Don't patronize me," she warns.
"I'm not patronizing you. This argument is stupid. Yeah, I haven't cleaned the bathroom in a while. So what? I'll do it next time." I pick up my spoon, scoop up the fruit-flavoured granola, and shove it into my mouth. Chewing thoughtfully, I wait for Ridley's response.
