Mean Woman Blues

didn’t know how to talk about it, didn’t know how to tell her who he used to be, how repellent these things were to the former White Monk: the smell of smoke, of fast-food grease in her car.
    “What?” she said again, asking a different question now.
    He sat down on the stool he used for painting. “I’m worried about you. It seems like…” Oh, hell, he might as well say it. “It seems like you’re falling apart a little bit.”
    “You got that one right bro’.” He hated it when she talked like that. In street clichés. She was an educated woman; she had a brain, and she used to use it to a lot better advantage. “Yeah, I’m falling apart! You would be too if you were me.”
    She stubbed out her cigarette, and, to his chagrin, lit another. It was his house; he didn’t even have the nerve to ask her not to smoke in his house. She brushed greasy blue hair out of her eyes. “Isaac, I just can’t seem to catch a break. I told you what happened before I met you: I caught my boyfriend cheating on me and he kicked
me
out. Now how does something like that happen?”
    Isaac had heard the story. “If I recall, it was his apartment.”
    “And I’d left a really good, cheap one to move in with him. So I had to scrape up the money for a new one. All I could find was that expensive dump I live in, which I
hate
. But at least it would do; it would get me through. And then my transmission got fucked up.”
    He winced. He really wished she wouldn’t swear.
    “And now this. Then I get arrested for something I didn’t do.”
    He corrected her. “Didn’t know you did.”
    “Isaac, goddammit.” She got up and paced for a moment, then headed for the bathroom. “I’m going to take a shower.”
    “No!” he shouted, unaware he’d raised his voice.
    She stared at him, astonished. “You don’t shout. What’s this about? You’re not acting like yourself.”
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. I need to get in the bathroom first.” Before she could argue with him, he went in, closed the door, did what he had to do, and returned five minutes later.
    She was smoking another cigarette, half-concerned, half-angry. “Isaac, what’s going on? Are you doing drugs?”
    “Drugs? Oh, you mean the bathroom. No, uh-uh. I’m not doing drugs.”
    “Well, why are you going to the bathroom so often? Are you sick?”
    “Sick. Well, no. Not in the usual sense.” He was trying to decide whether to tell her. “A little nuts, maybe. That’s about it.”
    She surprised him by smiling. “A little nuts.” She ruffled his hair. “You’re so cute when you’re nuts.”
    She got up, went in the bathroom, and closed the door. A moment later he heard the shower go on.
    He took the opportunity to scurry, emptying her ashtray, wiping off all the surfaces they’d both dirtied, washing the glasses from the Diet Coke they’d shared, and then, before he could stop himself, sweeping the floor, counting the strokes.
    He was almost in a trance, never even heard her come up behind him. “Don’t you think it’s clean enough?’ she said.
    Damn! She’d made him lose count. That meant he had to start over. He did so without speaking, forgetting that he could. The last time he’d done this, he’d been operating under a vow of silence.
    “Isaac.”
    Again he ignored her, but at least this time he didn’t lose count. Or did he? Had he lost count? He couldn’t be sure. That meant he had to start over. He stopped long enough to speak to her. “I’ll just be a moment Terri.”
    When he finished, he saw that she’d washed her hair, but she’d lit up another cigarette. She was going to stink again.
    Her face was twisted in surprise and fear. Sorrow too, he thought. “Isaac, what’s going on?” Her eyes started to swim.
    For a moment he loved her again, just as he had a few days ago, just as if nothing had happened. He sat down in his old rocking chair, feeling better about things and thinking to tell her, just wishing he didn’t have to breathe cigarette smoke. In fact he found he couldn’t speak as long as she was smoking. He felt as if he were choking. He decided to write it for her, just like in the old days, when he had to write everything. “Can we talk without smoke?”
    She looked at him like he was nuts and shrugged. “Sure,” she said, and stubbed out her cigarette. She even emptied the ashtray, which pleased him mightily. Once again, he excused himself and went into the bathroom.
    “What do you
do
in