I am pedaling to work, and I think to myself, “If I was going to sum everything up, it would be this.”
         The morning is bright, gray, and full of rain. My hands slip on the grips as I push through rush-hour traffic. The rain is in my face and audible against my helmet. I say to myself, “What are you talking about?” I haven’t had coffee; I rolled out of bed and onto my bike, but I try to explain:
         “I feel more like myself doing this than anything else, more than any other part of the day,” I say.
         “That’s great.”
         “I’m moving; I’m thinking; I’m on.”
         “You’re trying not to get hit.”
         I run alongside the dripping cars with the sound of tires tearing water off the road. I shout, “I see you, pal. Go! I know what a turn signal is for. Go!”
         I pedal on, and not cursing for a minute on a straightaway, I imagine someone talking about me, “Drew’s still living in that same house,” she says.
         “Who’s he living with?” someone asks.
         “No one we know.”
         Who do I have to apologize to? It’s something I can afford. My name is on the lease, and I hand picked roommates this time.
         “It’s good enough,” I say, “and it’s within biking distance.”
         In the rain on my bike, I ask myself, “Where are you going?” I answer, “I’m going to work.”
         “Where are you going? To work! And then where? Then I will go home, and then I will go to work again…”

At work I lock my bike and ride the elevator. I get a cup of coffee and check e-mail. There's one that says we're getting 401k plans. I check a couple job sites.

“We’re not sure how we feel about the yellow,” squawks the client over the conference phone.
         “On the main page?” asks Paul G the art director.
         “Uh huh,” says the voice.
         “Okay,” says Paul, “that was designed with the intention of being a warm and inviting color that would welcome the user but at the same time be a little different so as to be eye-catching.”
         There’s a pause on the line. “I don’t know. The trouble is that it doesn’t fit with the color scheme on our packaging.”
         “You know what?” says Paul G, “that’s exactly the idea, to be a little different, to have the website be forward-moving.” He takes a breath. “People on the Web expect to see a design that’s more advanced than what they would see on the shelf in the store.”
         I think to myself, “This is what I do for money.” I could get up and write it on the whiteboard and everyone in the room would smile and nod and try not to laugh loud enough for the client to hear.
         After the meeting, I go back to my desk and check e-mail. There’s a note from my roommate, Maura.

RE: Nummies

Hey, how’s the day? I was thinking we could do a dinner tonight since you and Janet haven’t met Ron yet. And it might cheer him up, etc. Are you free?

I’m thinking seafood & saffron rice

         I'm in, I write back. Ron is her friend from Chicago. He’s moving here after splitting up with his fiancŽe. Maura went to pick him up at the airport this morning.
         When I leave work, it’s already dark, and I ride home in the globes of brake lights and mist from passing cars. I vie for life next to the rolling mountains of SUVs. Over and over again my knees go up and down, shoving the pedals back to the road. Over and over again, as if to keep rhythm, I think, “Those fuckers in those trucks.”
         Arriving at the foot of the stairs to my porch is a tiny homecoming. The dripping leaves of our overgrown shrubs calm me more than a drink or a Sunday afternoon.
         In the house, the lights are on and the stereo is playing. As I prop my bike up in the corner of the living room and strip off my rainy gear, I am still further revived. Calmed and revived, and just for this! This is when I like having roommates. I come home and the place smells of food and somebody has put on a CD and turned it up so she can hear it in the kitchen.
         “Hey, wet boy,” smiles Maura.
         “Hey, you really doing saffron?” I ask.
         “It’s already on. Nose stuffed up?”
         “I guess it must be,” I say, stepping into the kitchen with sock feet. She’s got a pot on the stove simmering shrimp and mussels in clear yellow broth.
         “This is my friend Ron I told you about,” says Maura.
         “Yeah, hey, Ron.” I shake his hand. “You got out to the airport all right?” I say. She nods.
         Ron says, “Thanks for letting me stay," and raises a bottle of beer to me.
         “Ron picked up some beer,” says Maura.
         “You got any leads on jobs,” I ask him.
         “Couple,” he shrugs and nods. “I’ve got a couple interviews lined up.”
         “Nice,” I say, “you shouldn’t have any trouble.” We drink our beers. “No Janet?” I ask Maura.
         “Not yet,” says Maura.
         “Think she’ll bring her new guy?”
         Maura crinkles her nose and shakes her head. “I don’t think she wants to let us in like that,” she says, then changes the subject. “Ron was worried that he might have gotten the wrong kind of beer. I told him you drink beer in cans.”
         “I could have brought you some of the best from the Midwest,” says Ron.
         I smile and have a look at the eight-dollar-a-six-pack bottle in my hand. “I’ve never tried this one,” I say. “It’s good.”
         “I’m looking forward to a full Portland sampling,” says Ron.
         Maura bangs her spoon on the stovetop and says, “There is no way I am going to listen to a couple of guys talk about micro-brews all night.”
         We hear the front door open. “Janet’s here.”
         “Hey, you guys,” says Janet.
         “You got to get out of that laboratory more often, sweetie, or you’re going to have mutated babies,” says Maura.
         “Nice, Maura,” says Ron.
         “I know,” laughs Janet.
         “Janet, there’s wine,” says Maura.
         “Oh,” she perks.
         “Ron, Drew, more beer. And let’s eat.”
         We serve ourselves and sit on the futon and couch in the other room.
         “Shrimp’s overcooked,” says Maura.
         “Not really,” says Janet, then turns to Ron. “So what brings you to Portland, Ron? Just visiting?”
         “No, I think I’m going to move out here,” he says and looks at Maura. “My fiancŽe and I split up, and I guess I’m ready for a change of scenery.”
         Janet says, “Oh, I’m sorry.”
         “Ron’s running away,” says Maura. He nods.
         “So you’re looking for a job and a place and everything?” asks Janet.
         “Everything.”

Later, Ron and I are out on the porch. He’s having a smoke. I’m drinking beer.
         “We’ve known each other since we were kids,” says Ron of Maura. “It’s odd to say that, isn’t it? ‘We’ve know each other since we were kids.’”
         “You getting melancholy, Ron?” I ask.
         “Ha, man, you have no idea,” he says. "I knew my fiancŽe since we were kids, too. Somehow the right connections never happen.”
         Ron and I have finished off his beer and have already fetched more from the store. I’m not listening to Ron. I’m thinking, “What if I leave this house, exit the business of sharing a house. Would we still hang out?” I look over at Ron who is moodily watching his smoke.
         “Maura is pretty damn cool,” I say.
         “She is,” says Ron.
         “Maura,” I shout through the screen door.
         “I can hear you,” she says from the kitchen where she and Janet are talking.
         “Maura, Ron and I have just acknowledged how cool you are.” I get up and join the girls in the kitchen. I should do the dishes anyway. That’s the rule; the cook doesn’t clean.
         “I heard you stupid, drunk boys.”
         “Is that what you guys are talking about in here? Us stupid drunk boys.”
         She touches her nose, bingo.
         Janet stands by.
         “Wash the dishes, Drew,” says Maura. “That’s the rule.”

Dishes washed, drinks wearing off, I am out on the porch, and everyone else has gone to bed. Sitting on the old couch (once the living room couch), I look at the floor and think that if I just look at the floor, I could be anywhere—anywhere with a creaky, battered porch that’s been repainted over and over and the paint chips off like pieces of shell. I chop at a paint blister with my heel and scatter the pieces.
         Looking up, I see clues of where I am: a yellow plastic recycle bin, an overturned paper coffee cup, beer bottles. I put the bottles in the recycle bin, pick up the coffee cup and go inside. I lock the door, turn out the lights, and throw away the cup. I'm the last one up. I stand in the kitchen and listen to the refrigerator rattle. I turn on a gas jet on the stove: Tick, tick, tick, foof. This is what it would be like all the time if I lived alone.

In the morning the alarm clock wakes me with NPR. By the time I get in the shower, the headlines
        have vanished from my mind.
         “Hey, Janet,” I say as I come out of my room, dressed and ready to go to work, “You’re here late.”
         “Yeah,” she says. “I think I had a bit too much to drink last night. You’re late, too, aren’t you?”
         “I’m always late,” I say.
         Janet smiles. She’s putting books into her backpack. I’m putting on my raingear and tying my pant legs back with rubber bands. Among her science textbooks, I notice a novel I’ve read and ask her how she likes it.
         “It’s good, but I’m not really reading it that much,” she says. “I mostly just hold it on the bus so people won’t talk me.”
         I cough a laugh.
         “I know it’s terrible. I’m just too tired in the morning to deal with it. I wish I could bike to work,” she says.

I am the lucky one, biking to work. I imagine Janet on the bus with her book. Her Toni Morrison that everyone read in college says, “don’t fucking talk to me!”
         I get to work; have coffee; check e-mail. It turns out the rumors about the 401K were true. They’ve got a woman here from payroll to explain it.
         We gather in the conference room, and she tells us that we won’t have to pay taxes on the money we put into the 401k. “Isn’t that better than writing a check to the IRS?” she says and answers immediately, “I thought so.”
         The payroll woman is wearing a skirt with nude-shaded pantyhose. Noood, I feel like giggling. I think that if she asks me something I won’t be able to keep myself from saying noood or pantyhose. “Yes, I see now that the 401k is the key to my comfortable and secure retirement, Panty Hose.”
         I say quietly to a co-worker, “It’s the pantyhose.”
         “I LOVE the pantyhose,” he laughs back.
         The woman says, “You can imagine your 401k as a snowball on a hill. It rolls and grows bigger and rolls faster, okay? Does everybody follow me? How many of you can do the math? Nobody? And what happens to that snowball if you take it off the hill? Anybody? All these wealthy people here! Woo, party on!”

I come home late from work, and Maura is sitting on the couch with a glass of wine. She’s not listening to music or reading.
         “Hey, Maura. You having a mellow night?”
         “Yeah, I was going to write some letters, but I think I’m too tired.” Then she adds, “Ron found an apartment."
         “Just like that?” I say. “He already moved in?”
         “He said he was going to go buy a futon this afternoon.”
         Maura seems down. I ask her if some-thing is wrong. She’s not usually the type to sit around by herself. She has a busy life, lots of friends.
         She says no, she’s just tired.
         I think to myself that I’d be glad to spend a little time with Maura. The other day she said that Janet wasn’t letting us in, but I’ve never felt especially like a part of Maura’s life either.
         I sit down in a chair across from her. She’s picking at stuffing through a hole in the couch cushion. I find myself smiling at her thick-rimmed glasses and uncomfortable-looking shoes. Maura’s classical, nerdy…
         “Did I ever tell you the couch story,” I say. She shakes her head.
         “When it was me, Otis, Colin and TJ living here, we’d always have some slimy old couch that we got somewhere for free. Eventually we'd find something better, and it would be time for a sky burial. We'd drag the old couch out onto the sidewalk and jump up and down on it until it broke into pieces small enough to fit into the trash cans.”
         Maura smiles and sips her wine.
         “Our two trash cans were never enough for a whole couch, so, we’d try to fit it into any can on the street, a foot here, an arm there. We always caught hell for it, so the last time we demolished a couch, we burned the remains.”
         She raises her eyebrows.
         “TJ did it. We’re lucky we didn’t get evicted.”
         “Someone call the cops?” she asks.
         “Somebody called the landlord. That’s why we can’t have animals anymore.”
         “Drew?”
         “When the landlord showed up with a fire extinguisher, we just laughed at him. We were wasted. He wanted to punish us, you know, so he told us to get rid of our cat. We weren't supposed to have pets.”
         She laughs, looking at me through those glasses.
         “The poor guy was just sitting on the porch watching the action," I say.
         Maura sits smiling.
         “Are you cheered up now?” I ask her.
         “Yes, Drew” she says. “And if you want to light the couch on fire, it’s fine with me. It’d probably make you feel whole again.”
         “What do you mean by that?”
         “Nothing.” She says and gets up to smoke on the porch. I go stand with her.
         “The cat’s name was Sproggy.” I tell her.
         “Sproggy?” she laughs. “I’ll put that on my list of names for a child.” She smiles, nods, lights a cigarette.
         “How long have you been at your job?” she asks.
         “Two years,” I say.
         “You’re doing pretty well, right?”
         I shrug.
         “You don’t like it?”
         “I don’t like having a job,” I say. “I guess I used to think that I’d find something better to do than work.”
         She laughs at me.
         “Seriously,” I say, “I’m at the age I always wanted to be, and what am I doing? I’m working. Don't you feel that way?”
         “Not really, I like my job. Maybe you’re impatient.”
         “What am I waiting for? Working’s not going to get any better. I might get numbed to it, but what I do every day is worthless. How is that going to change?”
         She stands with her cigarette, half smiling.
         “Janet would be more sympathetic,” I joke.
        
The next morning I tiredly begin to ride to work. I pull into traffic and heft the pedals. I wonder if I should feel silly for what I said to Maura. Silly is endearing, isn’t it?
         I’m ridiculous to complain. I should cook Maura a saffron dinner. I smile for a flash as I ride, thinking of overcooked yellow-seasoned shrimp.
         “What’s up with this living in a house?” I ask myself. For some reason, we try to make sharing a house like running a business. We keep our distance, holding books but not reading.
         I used to live with friends, but as they moved out, I thought I wanted a quieter place. I remember thinking that this place was as good as any other; I will read, work, save money, and be healthy. I played it too safe.
        I am in the record store after work. My bike is locked to a parking meter on the sidewalk.
         There’s a record release I’ve been waiting for. I buy it, pick up a few others. I don’t even look in the used bin.
         I feel like tonight some-thing could hatch. The house will be empty. Maura said she was taking Ron to see a band. Janet’s been going home with her boyfriend.
         I go to the grocery store and buy feta cheese, kalamata olives, cucumber, tomato, and bread. I buy beer and wine because I can’t decide which I want to drink. That’s how it is; I can buy all these little things for an evening’s entertainment. I am going to sit in the living room and listen to music and eat my favorite foods and drink my favorite drinks. Tonight I’m not whining about drinking too much. This is me being happy. This is me having fun.
         When I get home, I drop my groceries and open a beer. I go to the stereo, load disk, play. I sit back in my chair and take long pulls on my drink.
         Last night I told Maura that I am not the person I want to be. Is it true? Yes. I am somehow unable to do the things I want to do. I waste my time; I worry about stupid things. On a bad night I’ll sit in this chair worrying that I have cancer.
         Fuck it. Here I am, loaded to detonate with disease, drinking beer and wiggling my toes to the music on the stereo. I get up and go to the kitchen. I open packages and slice vegetables and put my food on a plate. I return to the music bobbing my head and with another beer. I’m going to drink all this beer, I think. Then I’m going to start on the wine.
         I think back to when I first talked to Maura about moving in. I try to remember every detail: what I asked her, what she said. I think about the times we've gone out together, sometimes with people from her office, sometimes with people from mine. I have never known Maura to have a boyfriend. I can’t picture her as part of a Portland couple. From what I have seen, a couple is formed when each person becomes a blander version of the other, the keeper of the other’s problems. That’s not Maura, I think, and smile at myself for fantasizing about my housemate.
         I get up and start to boogie around the room. I love this music. How lucky I am that I enjoy food and music and alcohol. A trip to the grocery store and the CD bins is enough to have me dancing around the room.
         “You’re drunk,” I say. “Yeah, but I’m listening to really good music.” I flop back down in my chair. Then I get up to go to the kitchen for wine.
         After sitting quietly for a while, I say to myself, “I’m going to move out. That’s it, isn’t it Drew? That’s the way to see if a change will make a difference. Make one.” I get up and dance around again. I’m thinking it over. Am I going to move out? Here it is…Yes! I am moving out.
         I drop back into the chair with the joy of having made a decision. I am someone who cares enough to make a decision rather than to just let things happen to me. I'm out of here. And just now, listening to this music, and with these thoughts, I feel like myself. And maybe I am not like everyone else.
         “Hey, Drew.” I am startled by Maura's voice and turn to see her coming in the door. I reach for the remote and press pause.
         “Maura, you scared me. How was the show?”
         “Not bad," she says making a face.
         “You want to join me for a drink?”
         “No, thanks,” she says. “You know it’s 2:30?”
         “You’re kidding,” I say. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
         She nods. “Gotta go to work in the morning. Goodnight.” She puts her coat on the futon and climbs the stairs.

On some days, I just let the wheels turn. I take the side streets and just coast. Some mornings the main streets seem like too much.
         Those fuckers in those trucks are drinking coffee. They’re sitting in comfy seats. I’m out here riding my skeleton, and the doors on parked cars open likes scoops, like the worst things imaginable.
         I say my name as I go bumping over railroad tracks, “De de de, re re re, ew, ew…De de rrrr eeeewwww…what are you going to do?" I’m going to go to work. What are you going to do? I’m going to drink coffee and check my e-mail. What are you going to do, Drew? I’m going to go home at the end of the day. Maybe I'll rent a movie. Maybe I'll do some laundry. I am not going to drink. I’m going to read or write or call someone on the phone. I’m going to tell them that I’m moving out.
         How’d I get to be like this, I wonder? I feel like a child. I’m afraid to be by myself.
         “What do you want from life, Drew,” I imagine Maura asking me.
         “I want more than a job and a house that isn’t mine filled with useless junk.”
         “What does that mean,” she says.
         “I want a life filled with people who don’t manage their lives like businesses, who don’t treat their friends like clients.”
         “I never knew you were such a tree-hugger, Drew. I thought you despised people.”
         “The way we live, I do.”
         “The world can go to hell, Drew.”
         “You’ve got it Maura. I love you.”
         “I love you, Drew.”
         “Thank God. What would I do if you didn’t?”

The day and maybe even work has made me feel better. Tonight I have brought home some work. I borrowed one of the floater laptops, and I’m not even feeling bad about having to work on a proposal.
         Janet is standing on the porch as I ride up to the house.
         “Hey, Jan, I haven’t see you in a while.”
         “Yeah, I actually just came back to get a change of clothes,” she says and holds the door for me.
         “Sounds like I better start looking for another roommate,” I smile.
         Janet blushes, “Not yet.”
         “A couple is born,” I say.
         “You’re not harassing Janet, I hope,” says Maura as she walks up behind me.
         Janet is startled, “Maura, you scared me.”
         “I seem to be doing that a lot lately. You should have seen Drew last night when I came in. I scared him sober.
         “It’s a wonder you don’t get killed riding to work, Drew,” continues Maura, “I saw you this morning just coasting along in a daze.”
         “This morning? Yeah,” I say.
         “I’m glad you guys are here,” says Maura, “I’ve got news. I’m moving. I found a great studio over in Old Town.”
         “Oh, that’s cool,” says Janet. “I mean, we’ll miss you, but that’s great for you.”
         "I always wondered why you stayed here so long," I say.
         "It’s more expensive, but I’m looking forward to having all that space," she says.
         “Definitely,” says Janet.
         “Drew, I know it’s not very business-like, but would you mind giving me my deposit back now so I can use it on the new place?”
         “No problem,” I say.
         Maura and Janet go upstairs. I hear Maura suggest that Janet have her boyfriend move in. They’d be together, but still have separate rooms. Janet says, yeah, maybe that’s a good idea.
         I sit on the futon and stare at my bicycle. Of course she’s leaving, I think. I’m leaving too. I’ll tell Janet later; she’ll want to get her name on the lease.

Corin Cummings is from Vermont and lives in Toronto. His memoir, "People in Hell Want Ice Water" appeared in TPR 8. His fiction has been published in the Mississippi Review, and his journalistic work has appeared in Russian Life and The Columbia Journalism Review, among others. For his online fiction picks, check out www.onewordlowercase.com/fiction.