The Spare Room

The flat we saw on Tuesday is seventeen minutes from Dante's office. Ours is an hour and ten each way.

“Four hundred a month cheaper,” he said. He'd said it three times since we got home. “And I'd get two hours of my life back every day.”

“I heard you the first time.”

“Then say something about it.”

I said the thing I'd been saying all week. “It's smaller.”

“It's one room smaller.”

“Right. One.”

He put his phone face down on the table, which he only does when he's trying not to get upset. “If we moved in March, we'd save nearly five thousand by next year. So what do you actually dislike about it, Renee?”

Nothing. That was the problem. The kitchen was better than ours. The neighbours seemed quiet. At twenty-five I'd have taken the place that same afternoon.

“The spare room,” I said.

“We use the spare room twice a year.”

“My mother's boxes are in the spare room.”

He didn't say anything for a while. Six months, and neither of us had opened them, and neither of us had said the word ‘boxes' out loud in this kitchen.

“You could've told me that on Tuesday,” he said. His voice wasn't unpleasant. It was tired.

“Because then it would have been an argument about her instead of an argument about the rent. I'd rather argue about the rent.”

“That's the worst reason I've ever heard,” Dante said. Then, after a moment: “Fine. We look for a smaller flat with a spare room.”

“For that money, those don't exist.”

“I know.” He turned his phone back over. “We'll look anyway.”