Cam wants to go out and hear some music tonight.  He wants me to go with him.

"Why not?" he said.  I hadn't even said anything yet, but he knew.

Why not?  As if he didn't know.

"You used to go out to clubs every night," he said.

That was different. I had to.

"You'll be with me," he said.  "It'll be totally normal.  If it's too date-like, we can pretend we're cousins.  Or sisters."

I smiled, halfheartedly.  "So what?" he went on.  "Maybe people will have an extra good time if we're there.  Wonder if they're playing the music louder than usual, picking better songs.  That's a nice thing to be able to do.  It's like giving them a gift."

I looked at him. Didn't say anything.

He didn't back down.  He came over and took my hand.

"You shouldn't be afraid of what you can do," he said.  "You should be happy.  You should be proud."

Were the people who were burned at the stake for being witches proud of what they could do?

I don't have anything to wear.  

"I'll get you something," Cam said.  

I don't want you spending money on me.

"I'll go to the thrift store.  I need to get you some jeans, anyway."  He looked at me again.  "Will you try?"

I nodded.

I have to be quiet while Cam's gone.  

Because of the way his building is laid out and where his apartment is in it, he only shares a wall with one neighbor.  And she's not home much.  But I always feel around and lay out a good thick blanket of quietness after Cam leaves every day.  

It's not the kind of building where people can come and knock on your door if they don't live there, or where they would even if they do.  So that's good.

"You're still writing about me too much," Cam said.

We still fight over who sleeps in the bed.  Cam wants me to all the time, but that's too guiltifying even if he doesn't mean it that way.  Especially since he doesn't.  He's too nice.  I can't do that to him.  It's his bed.

Besides, I feel safer on the couch.  I like leaning against the back of it, feeling held.  But he says he feels like a jerk if he has the bed all the time.

We'll take turns, I said.  

And he said he would. But he still fights.

It makes me feel better to have a routine.  I get up, make the coffee, scrub the tub.  Take a shower while Cam figures out where he keeps the coffee mugs.  Get dressed while he takes his shower.  Eat breakfast with him.  Wash up the dishes after he leaves.  Wipe the counters.  Scrub the sink.  Make the bed.  Fold up the blankets on the couch.  

It sounds like a lot, but it doesn't take long.

Then I read.  I do some writing here.  I think about what to eat.

I'm starting to be hungry a lot.  Things are getting their taste back.  I like pickles that are sharp enough to make my eyes water.  Bread and butter.  Sweet things.  Cupcakes.

I plan out what I'm going to eat, and when.  If I'm hungry beforehand, I make myself wait.

I make a schedule for myself because no one else is making one for me.

Is that bad? Cam says he wants me to be free.

But he's free, and he has a schedule.  He has things to do, places to be.  He has to be on time to work, to classes.

So it must be normal, really, to have a routine.  

That would be funny, wouldn't it?  Me, normal.

Every morning I wake up and have to force myself even to open my eyes.  

It's not that I'm tired.  I don't want to be in bed or asleep, necessarily.  It's just that I have no idea what to do.

I think I've forgotten how to do anything I'm not being forced to do.

One more thing they took away from me.  The only thing there is, maybe.  

If I can't want, how can I be?

They've taken me away.  I'm not a person any more.

I used to want. I remember that.  I used to wake up and want and hope and reach.  Important things, stupid stuff.  Breakfast cereal.  A new blouse.  A new song.

So much music.

Do you want to hear something stupid?  I'm angry at everyone who kept making music when I wasn't allowed to hear it.

I guess I exist if I'm angry.

I'm scared.

Sometimes I'm hungry.

I'm cold a lot.

Shouldn't there be more than that?

I thought Cam would be happy I'm doing what he asked, but when he read what I've been writing he kind of frowned.

"You didn't do anything wrong," he said before I could even ask.  "It's just -- this is all about me."

No, it isn't, I said.  And anyway, I live with you.  Who am I supposed to write about?  Mussolini?

"You," he said.  "This is supposed to be your story."

It is.  I'm writing a little about what I do every day.

He sighed. "I know, but -- I think it would be good if you wrote more about what you think about.  Who you are.  What you like, what you don't like." He hesitated, then added, "Why you're here."

What happened before.

"Well -- "

I don't like that. I'm here now.  I like that.

"I'm glad. I like it, too.  Will you just do me one favor?"

What?

"Try writing at least one paragraph a day that doesn't have me in it."

I'm still trying to figure out what I can do around here.

Obviously I can't do the grocery shopping.

I don't know how to cook.

It's actually pretty hard to clean somebody else's place. Like, what if I
straighten up and he can't find anything? Alphabetize his books and it
turns out he likes them sorted by country, or century, or which ones he's
read and which he hasn't yet?

Vacuuming is noisy.

The laundry room is right there. I could wait until it's empty and be in
and out so quickly with our dirty duds.

I don't quite have the nerve, it turns out. Not yet.