Page 40 of Maksim
Istill don’t know what Maksim wants.
It’s been four days since he brought me to his home, three days since I offered myself to him. We’re settling into a routine like roommates would, barely speaking to each other, barely looking at each other.
I listen for the front door vigilantly every day in the morning and early afternoon while I’m outside of the bedroom. I clean, organize, listen to music on an iPod I found in a hallway drawer, sometimes turn on the TV, sometimes cry, sometimes scheme, other times go through Maksim’s things, searching for clues to piece together who he is.
I’ve found some interesting things. For instance, there’s a box of tampons underneath the bathroom sink—not the one in Maksim’s room—along with a host of female bath products in the tub. I’ve found lip gloss tubes forgotten about in drawers, a nail polish stain on the rug that took forever to get out, then there was that bra on the couch the first day.
It’s safe to say a woman stays here frequently, maybe even lives here, so I think Maksim must have a girlfriend, unless the things belong to the girlfriend of the roommate I’ve yet to encounter (thankfully).
It would explain a lot. Why he didn’t want me to stay here, why he doesn’t want me period… I keep finding myself hoping she’ll find out about me and dump him. If he doesn’t take an interest in me soon, I’m going to give up on him. I grow more anxious by the second counting on his protection.
Around three in the afternoon, I go to the bedroom closet and wait until a quarter to four to climb into the trunk. Maksim is usually home by six thirty, so it’s only about a two and a half to three hour wait, which is better than what the alternative could be.
Once he’s home, we eat food he picked up from a restaurant while I question if my tastebuds will ever adjust to the enormous amounts of sugar. If he had anything in the fridge, my digestive system would be less of a wreck, but I haven’t complained. There are so few ways into Maksim’s good graces and many ways out of them.
But if I didn’t care about his good graces, my throat would be shredded from screaming.
Even now, my face tics at the dirty footprints leading to the couch. The TV blares a news program loud enough for my grandfather in his grave, but Maksim doesn’t seem to pay attention to it as he types away at his laptop, filthy shoes balanced on top of the coffee table.
He looks well put together today in his blue slacks and white shirt that hugs his biceps, but what was he doing, foraging through a jungle? Better question, how is it possible that he doesn’t notice the trail that could be avoided by simply taking his shoes off at the door?
Tipping my head toward the ceiling, I take a deep breath. When I lower my head, the first thing I see is that damn trail of dirt, and although I know I should let it go, I clench my jaw and walk to the closet to get the vacuum.
His head turns my way when the vacuum starts up, and I spot a tiny glare like I’ve sparked irritation for breaking his concentration. Yes, because the TV is somehow soothing while the vacuum is a disturbance.
I turn my head so he won’t see me roll my eyes. He doesn’t tell me to stop, so I carry on, hoping he sees exactly the mess I’m cleaning up. Maybe he’ll have the sense to avoid this in the future.
When I bring the vacuum in front of the couch, his jaw is tense, but he doesn’t look up from the computer. His feet are planted on the floor now, blocking my path.
I hold the vacuum still and wait, staring at him. Eventually, he looks up, glares for a moment, then lifts his feet back to the table while I finish vacuuming.
Once I’m finished and the vacuum is turned off, I peek at Maksim’s irritated face, aimed at the monitor, and suppress a smile.
I should not be glad to annoy him. I shouldn’t. This is the opposite of my objective.
But… It can be fun, and this is the most we’ve interacted in days. Even at dinnertime, we eat in separate rooms. We sleep in separate rooms, him on the couch, me in his bed.
Some interaction is better than no interaction, right?
No, probably not.
After putting away the vacuum, I go back to Maksim to take care of the problem at the source. Carefully, I pull one shoe at a time off Maksim’s feet while he stares me down.
“What are you doing?” he scowls.
His shoes dangle from my fingers, held out from me like they’re toxic, and without answering, I turn and walk them to the front door. Maksim springs off the couch to follow me.
“Elira.”
After neatly lining the shoes up at the door, I stand and gesture to them. “Look.”
His blond eyebrows bunch together as his nostrils flare, his gaze not moving from my face.
“Your shoes go here. Or you can take them off and walk them to your closet, but when you wear them inside, you track dirt in. All you have to do is take your shoes off at the door, and your carpet will stay fresh. I won’t have to interrupt what you’re doing to clean up the mess.”
His eyes are wide, and his lips part as he gives his head a small, incredulous shake. “God, you are such a bitch.”
My throat constricts, and instinctively my shoulders lower, but I hold my expression neutral. The way he says it, so matter of fact, hurts worse than if he’d screamed it.