Premises

They rearranged all our desks at work, so I sit next to this new guy. He has a copy of The Copy Book on his desk. I saw the book and said, Oh. The Copy Book. Mine got eaten by a rabbit. He laughed and said, Been there. I stared at my computer the rest of the day wondering what the hell he meant by that. Because mine actually did get eaten by a rabbit. It was when I let this girl who used to be my friend sublet my place for two months. I don’t do that shit anymore. Otherwise, I’d likely still be on a plane instead of the dumbass office. This was way, way back when I was subletting. A long time ago. I guess it was only like two months. But it feels much longer. I’m a different person now. Anyway, I still might sublet this summer. To be fair, she did ask about bringing the rabbit. But I didn’t know anything about rabbits, and she told me they were like cats. Apparently not, because everyone who hears this story always says, You let a rabbit stay in your apartment?! No one ever says that about cats. Probably, it would’ve been fine if she were just a more responsible rabbit owner. She kept leaving her rabbit alone in my apartment for weeks at a time. I was watching her stories, thinking about her goddamn rabbit. I even texted to ask if he was okay. She left him with an automatic feeder, I guess. I don’t understand the point of subletting to leave your rabbit and go someplace else. When I got back, he had burrowed a hole in my rug and chewed up all of my stuff. Like, everything. My records, chargers, a bunch of my shoes, The Copy Book. She was supposed to be my friend. Strangers who sublet my place were more respectful of my stuff. I still hung out with her again though. I asked about this guy she was dating. She started talking about how it had to end because he didn’t speak to his parents. She didn’t trust people who didn’t talk to their own family. And I’m just sitting there. And I knew, she knew, I hadn’t talked to my dad in more than a year. Like, what the fuck I’m never talking to you again. Whatever. I still wonder what that new guy meant. If he had really been there.

Rent

I think it’s poetic how a sublease agreement is a lease within a lease. How one tenant transfers their tenancy to another tenant, but the original tenant is still responsible for the rent. Landlords hate subleases allegedly because of the risk, but everyone knows it’s only because they don’t benefit. Landlords don’t give a fuck what you do in an apartment, so long as they’re benefiting. You could probably kill someone. And they’d just jack up the price to true crime fans. I ask the subletters to send me half up front. I know it’s a lot to ask of a random stranger, but there has to be some level of trust. I’m trusting you with my place, so you can trust me with the money. Then, I send the code to the lockbox. Once the subletter is inside, they send the other half. When I start to feel something for My Specific Person, I immediately book a bunch of dates with other guys. I would never ask My Specific Person out because I have all these rules about seeing him. I won’t even text him. For like, months. Plus, he’s blocked. The rules go out the window with everyone else. Which is how I know I don’t really like them. It’s annoying because they always like ME. Or whoever I am pretending to be. It’s like an out of body experience. I watch myself from across the room and wonder who that other girl is. Sometimes, I even start telling them about My Specific Person. One time, one of those other guys said, I feel like I know more about you than he does. Obviously, I would never tell My Specific Person any of this shit. The first time I fucked My Specific Person, he started asking me all of these personal questions I didn’t want to answer because I had only known him for literally a day. He laughed at me. Like he already knew everything I was trying to NOT talk about. Like DADDY ISSUES was written on my face in permanent ink. He knows everything about ink and blood and guts and marking up your body, sure. Fuck off. I found it super fucking rude of My Specific Person since he hadn’t even taken the time to NOT get to know me yet. So rude to see through all of my bullshit ON DAY ONE. Asshole. My Specific Person and my therapist are the only two people who have ever implied there might be something wrong with my brain, I guess. I don’t know WHAT because I never filled out the assessments my therapist sent. And then I tried to fire her, so she told me I didn’t have to do it. Take THAT. I find all of this stuff interesting because if you lined up all the people in my life with the information they have of my personal history, My Specific Person and my therapist would be like the bookends on opposite ends. So. You know. Like I said, it’s half the rent up front.

❊

Maintenance and repairs

When we first meet, My Specific Person tells me his favorite song is “Disintegration” by The Cure. He tells me he had a moment listening to it and riding in an Uber over the Kosciuszko Bridge with his ex-girlfriend, who also lived in New York. That probably should’ve been a red flag. I’m not sure if I mean the ex-girlfriend or the song. Both were kind of foreboding. But during that first week, “Disintegration” plays in the Beyond Retro. My Specific Person and I rush through the racks, looking for each other. I point at the ceiling when I finally find him. He says, How weird is it that song is playing right now? I say, I know. I am having a moment. I buy a new handbag at the till, and the girl comments on how it goes with my outfit perfectly. I find myself saying, I know. Again. I am looking at My Specific Person and not the handbag. My Specific Person holds my hand on the bus ride back. I remember the hand holding because it has the effect of making me fall in love with him, and that’s the moment I decide he is My Specific Person. Maybe that’s why I lose my mind when I go back to New York. My Specific Person and I are both sorta good until I do a bunch of dumb shit. I call him from the corner of Myrtle Broadway at like four a.m. My time. I haven’t slept for something like three days. I don’t remember anymore. He asks if I am drinking again. I wish I was drinking because that would make my behavior make sense. My Specific Person says I'd better tell him what’s going on. I think it will make me sound crazy. He says I sound crazy already. Oh yeah, that's because I keep telling him I think I am dead. He says to just get on with it, so I tell him what happened and how it’s because of my Saturn return, which is ending soon. Then, I can be normal again. I swear I used to be normal. My Specific Person is walking up the stairwell to his flat and makes this face that pisses me off because he looks kind of sad. FOR ME. I don’t need ANYONE’S FUCKING PITY because nothing is wrong. He says, And I’m guessing this was all fairly recent? We start arguing because he seems to think I need to be in therapy, and the amount of time between these events hasn’t been long enough for us to hold something as simple as a conversation, let alone a relationship. Obviously, I disagree. I go on a long rant about how time is arbitrary and doesn’t matter because I’m already dead. He keeps saying, You do know you’re not dead. But he can’t prove that. And then this shit with him keeps happening over and over again for like another two years. I keep getting mad at My Specific Person for stuff I think up in my own head. One time, I unfollow him because I dream he unfollowed me. My friend asks if I had an ex who used to do something similar. She thinks I’m just traumatized, but I can’t think of anyone. Except later, I remember my dad blocked me on Facebook for a couple of years. Ha. Ha. Ha. HAHA. I mean, who gives a fuck about Facebook? Except my dad, who posts on it compulsively. I didn’t really think FACEBOOK would affect me. I even laughed about it at the time. Who blocks their own kid on Facebook? Doesn’t make any goddamn sense. I am not making any sense now. I send My Specific Person all these cryptic, weird texts to try and explain. I think maybe the wording is not right and try to say something else. It just makes everything worse. Now, I’m sending him a bunch of nonsensical stuff. I delete all the messages and hope he hasn’t read them yet. The empty spaces sit there, seeming weirder than whatever I’d like to forget I sent. Looking like the messages I get from my DAD. I’m tired of writing about My Specific Person and being embarrassing and dumb. I wish I could get back to Beyond Retro when everything was good. It’s because I was over there. And when I am here, everything goes wrong. I’d like to scream something dramatic like, You ruined The Cure for me! But how can you ruin The Cure?   





Kassie Rene is an American writer based in London. Her work has been featured in Hobart Pulp, Rejection Letters, and elsewhere. She is the founding editor of Virgo Venus Press.

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