I Compare Myself

Virginia Woolf would not. Virginia Woolf would never, I think as I scrub the toilet.

Or did she?

I stop and dry my hands. I should buy gloves, my hands are going to get all old and wrinkly too early and then what? I know I’m not the person who would have the courage to become a quirky lady wearing gloves all the time as an accessory, while pretending it’s a choice. I would then also need to change my hair and... Why did I dry my hands?

Oh, yeah. Did Virginia Woolf have a servant?

Yeah.

Of course she did.

Easy for her to be a writer and a feminist, I scrub.

How do I scrub so often, and it’s still dirty? I’m literally completely incapable. This is so obviously not women's nature.

Or I’m not a good enough... I scrub.

They just want you to blame yourself. I scrub harder.

Really, how is it possible that he cannot see it? In what kind of filth would he live if he lived by himself?

Or maybe I should try a new chemical? Maybe it’s not me, I need a better product. That is also what they want you to think. I scrub.

I should relax. I should enjoy every task. It's what life is made of. Unfortunately, for me, it consists— He enters. He wants to use the toilet.

I stand up with a sigh.

"What?" he replies.

"Nothing."

"Do you want me to go somewhere else?"

"Yes."

I leave.

Some men do things around the apartment, but I always have to call someone else. The walls—they desperately need painting. But I so hate letting anyone in.

I’m still standing in the hallway when he comes. "You could've at least bought me flowers," I mumble.

"What?"

"If you can't keep the toilet clean, you could've at least brought flowers."

"You're just saying something to say something."

"No, it's a corrective to patriarchy." I move quickly to the kitchen and shut the door behind me.

Would it be easier if I haven't read so much? Would I live peacefully, being proud I can take good care of my apartment? It is my apartment. I own an apartment. I'm an owner!

It's inherited, of course. But still. I let him live with me. I heard of a guy who collected rent from my friend; we often laugh about it. They had been together for a while when she realised they hadn't been paying somebody else—he was her landlord.

Maybe I'm too nice.

My boyfriend opens the door slowly.

I check the garbage bins. They aren't full yet. I put the lids down.

He speaks with a quiet, measured voice. "I just think it’d be nice. To have someone to watch grow."

"You don't buy me flowers." Now I say it like it really hurts.

"Is that what you want?"

I want a cleaning lady and a partner who can paint walls; I communicate this with a sigh, then leave, passing by him. I make sure I don't breathe when I'm close. I know he put on the perfume I like. He always does that when he wants to get to me.

But he follows.

"Can I?" I enter the bedroom where my desk is.

"You're being passive-aggressive."

"How would you know? You never read the books I gave you."

"I'm not saying I know. I just..."

"So, if you were with a womb, you'd get pregnant, grow the baby, and give birth?"

He doesn't answer.

I sit down at the desk.

"I know it's hard," he starts slowly.

"Oh, I live with a modern man."

"I'm trying to be sincere."

"When I'm done, are you gonna give me flowers?"

"Lina, really?"

"What?"

I open my laptop. He sits on the bed and softly says: "I'd buy you flowers, but it's hard to know what you want."

He's right, but I don't comment. I stare into an open word document. I wanted to have a career, but I never achieved anything. Maybe I should give birth and at least claim a new human being. So easy for a woman to be productive. I wonder if he's looking at me. I straighten my back a little.

I wonder if I should find a new guy and establish new rules from the beginning. Maybe he wouldn't pay rent, but he could do most of the cleaning. I know very well I will never say this aloud. I look at him.

He’s staring at the floor. Well, now I feel bad. But why? Because I don't want to give birth. He's traditional, patriarchal, he's holding me back...

"I just feel sad," he murmurs.

"What?"

How many times do I say this?

"YOU are passive-aggressive," I attack and quickly look away.

"I'm sorry."

Is he or has he remembered that I own the apartment? If I were a man, I would for sure take advantage of that. It’s lucky for him, I was taught to be nice.

But he does look sad.

Maybe he also feels like a failure. For being a teacher and not an engineer, for example. My friend's ex was an engineer, and he built his house with his own money. He also abused her. Life does seem complicated.

But I think he should understand why I don't want a baby. I already lose so much time scrubbing our toilet, I don't have the capacity to do more.

Yet... if I were to create life... I would be god. Uncredited though and unacknowledged, but I would know I'm god. There is something magical about growing a baby. However, the birth feels like being at the butcher's.

I don't need to experience everything. I don't need to be god, I’ll focus on positions which are socially recognised and lauded.

"I want us to have a baby."

God, why does he sound like he's in a soap opera? Virginia Woolf would not allow this. She would lock herself in a room; he couldn't just barge in. Or maybe he could. Maybe she had the same problems.

I look at him again. Is he manipulating me? I know I’ll go and make him his favourite comfort food—semolina pudding with a sprinkle of cocoa. Well, we both like it. I'm actually selfish, I make it as I like it myself, but I pretend it's for him. Are all women selfish and good at pretending or it’s just me? My friends seem like real women, more capable and caring. Maybe I’m lucky he wants to be with me.

"You don't understand anything." I’m as surprised as he is, that these words have flown out of my mouth. For a second, we look at each other, then both look away.

"I know. I don't know."

I intend to get up and make the pudding, but it's getting darker and neither of us moves.

He speaks first. "You should do what you want."

Thank you. Clean the toilet. Buy myself flowers. Have the baby. Or not. Just decide what you want.

He looks at me. "Just decide what you want."

Did I say it aloud? Every day it seems likelier that I will become a weird old lady, saying all my thoughts. Will he leave me?

I lie down in bed; he lies next to me. We aren't touching, but I hear his breathing. It isn’t regular. Shouldn't a man breathe regularly, make me feel safer? Maybe I have the wrong man? Or maybe it was always women making the world safer for men.

I don't know.

Not me. I mean other women.

I don't want to go through the suffering and I won't. I have a lot of other work.

I get back to the desk, turn on the light. He comes and hugs me. I hug him back. But I ask myself if he’s doing it because I own the apartment. This thought has been so persistent lately.

When he lets me go, I leave the room.

"Do we have cocoa?" he comes after me.

"I bought it."

"I looked for it, but I couldn't find it."

You never find anything; why do you even say you looked? You just waste words, you waste my time.

I look at him. He turns on the light in the kitchen. I approach the cupboard and take out a pan, a glass, and a spoon. He takes out another glass and picks up a packet of semolina from the counter, carefully measuring the right amount. I take milk from the fridge and pour it into the glass and then the pan. I turn on the stove. He steps beside me. I enjoy his smell. I wonder if I smell good; half a day has passed since I took a shower. We watch the milk, waiting for it to start boiling. I stand with the spoon, and he holds the glass of semolina; we are ready for the next step.