Life Would Be Perfect If I Lived in That House by Meghan Daum

mind-numbing—detail, Brad grew both more irritated and more irritating by the day.
    I, in turn, grew despairing. This was an intruder. There was no other way to put it. For the first time in the three years I’d lived in the apartment, I felt as if I’d lost control of it. And since the place almost literally reverberated with the echoes of my own self-approval—the slam of the lobby doors, the lurching and cranking of the elevator, the tinny rattle of the mailboxes; this was the sound track of my life as the person I’d always wanted to be—I couldn’t keep myself from feeling that something precious had been snatched away. Whereas once the apartment had been a cozy backdrop for an ever-evolving production of
Three’s Company
as reimagined by Woody Allen, it now seemed as impersonal and juvenile as a college dormitory. Whereas once I’d actually looked forward to the sound ofmy roommates’ keys in the door, I now held my breath when I heard footsteps in the hallway. Whereas once I’d been convinced that the threesome dynamic offered the best chances for roommate mental health and harmony (if one person didn’t feel like making macaroni and cheese and whining about entry-level jobs, someone else almost certainly did), I could now feel the balance shifting toward something that looked like war.
    And then came the first shot. One evening, as I was writing in my room, Brad knocked on the door (doors were always closed now) and asked if he could borrow my suede jacket.
    This jacket, a slightly too large 1970s brown car coat with a torn satin lining and wide lapels, had quite possibly been my greatest source of happiness in college and was now my second-greatest source of happiness (the first, of course, being the apartment in its pre-Brad incarnation). Brad had complimented it many times before and even asked once to try it on (it fit him, if snugly) but had never asked to wear it. Faced with this sudden boldness, I was too stunned to know what to say. Finally, I asked how long he planned on wearing it, and he said it would just be for the night. Still dumbfounded, I said okay (I could not at that moment find the words to say anything else), and he took the jacket from my bed, put it on, and left the house.
    What happened next—or, I should say, what happened soon after this—still horrifies me a bit. When I allow myself to shuffle through my life’s most guilt-producing memories, this one invariably rises to the top of the pile. What happened was that I became absolutely convinced that Brad had to leave the apartment. Though I knew perfectly well that the reason he was there was because I had made the selfish, myopic mistake of inviting him, though I also knew that he’d borrowed myjacket because he was as lonely and desperate for social connections as anyone I’d ever known, I also knew that if he remained in my space for another week, I might choke on the bile of my own pitiable mistake.
    Still, weeks passed and I did nothing, which is to say I did nothing but complain about Brad to anyone who would listen. I knew kicking him out was unconscionable, but I also believed that every day I continued to live with him was a day so miserable I might as well have spent it in an iron lung. Pretty soon, the dilemma became the central problem of my life. It consumed me. As though I were sending copies of the same letter to multiple advice columnists, I laid the scenario out to my friends, my co-workers at my various temp jobs, and, of course, Stephanie, who was similarly annoyed (if not totally vexed) by the situation. I even considered actually writing a letter to an advice columnist but, knowing the likely response, did not. Meanwhile, the advice I received felt lukewarm. People who were more compassionate and even tempered than I told me to suck it up and cope with him at least until the end of the school year. People who’d known me for longer pointed out that I already knew what I was going to do so why not just