Tash and Torc

Torc was always helpful and supportive, and in fact all of his friends were, too. They were a compassionate group who were always prepared to leap to each other's aid. Natasha sometimes felt like she didn't belong, that she didn't have anything to offer. But most of the time, they all had fun together and she felt welcomed. She thought Torc was a pillar, and she owed a lot to him, the way he held her up and kept her looking on the bright side of things. Until the one day he came home and tossed his satchel on the kitchen table, clearly upset.

"What's up?" Natasha said, worried.

"Welp," he answered harshly, getting a glass from the cupboard. "Monica and I aren't a thing anymore."

"Oh no!" she said, genuinely shocked. "What happened?"

Torc had been in the habit of drinking Manhattans lately, but this time he just poured himself a glass of straight whisky. "She just . . ." he trailed off, and threw his hands in the air, one of which was holding his whisky glass. It sloshed over the side.

"Here, sit down," Natasha said, taking the glass from his hand. She put her hand on his elbow and steered him to the table, setting his drink in front of him. "Why don't you tell me about it?"

"She just said it was . . . she didn't feel a spark anymore," he said loudly, but with a little tremor in his voice. "Like, I don't know . . . she seemed maybe a little distant lately. I didn't know there was anything wrong. She just . . . 'I don't think this is going anywhere,' and then . . ."

"Oh, honey," Natasha said, not knowing what else to say. She was grabbing some paper towels, wetting them, and cleaning the little bit of whisky that had spilled on the floor. He didn't realize what she was doing until she was crouching down, wiping the tile. "Oh, you don't need to do that, I can get that," he said quickly, rising.

"Sit down," she commanded. "You need to relax. Enjoy your drink. I'm done already."

She walked up behind his chair and wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning down. "I'm so sorry, sweetie. That's all she said?"

He put his head to one side, leaning it against her arm. He felt like crying, but nothing came out save a deep sigh. "That's all she said."

He reached his hand up across his body, to place on her shoulder. They sat like that for a few minutes until Torc finally muttered, "It's too quiet in here."

She kissed him on the temple and went into the next room to put some music on. Something lively, that wouldn't break anyone's heart. Los Campesinos! It was one of the bands that he'd turned her on to lately. She hit play on the album and went to pour herself a drink as well. They both had a few and played Smash Bros., for a while. After the drinks sunk in nice and deep, they danced around the living room to the music, probably irritating their downstairs neighbors. Exhausted and drunk, Torc finally collapsed onto the couch face-down. Natasha was frozen mid-dance move, her vodka tonic held high, watching him. "Do you want me to carry you to your room?" she slurred.

"I'mmana sleep here," he mumbled, and immediately went to sleep.

The smile on her face refused to leave. He was a brave boy. He was sweet. He deserved better. As she tottered over to turn off the music, nearly falling over, she thought that she was proud she could help him through a night like this. It was hard, getting dumped. She tiptoed slowly back to where he lay, ice sloshing in her glass, trying not to wake him. She bent over and kissed the top of his head. "Night-night, brave sweet boy," she whispered.

"Mmggl," he replied, and she teetered off to bed.

For the first few days things were a bit shaky, but they began stabilizing in short order. He was subdued and mopey, understandably. She tried to cheer him up in a few subtle ways. She made dinner most nights so he wouldn't have to worry about it, and she did some of his chores without asking. She took him out for drinks one night, and one night she texted a few of his friends to come over and play Cards Against Humanity. He was handling it like a trooper. He made an effort to be engaged and participate, but she knew he would still need some time to get over the hurt.

Everything seemed to be moving in the right direction, but slowly. Then, two weeks later, he came in with red eyes. He'd clearly been crying, and he looked like he'd already had a few too many drinks. "Torc?" she said when she saw his face. "What's wrong, buddy?"

When she saw his slow, shuffling gait, she could tell he'd had a few more than a few too many. He made his way slowly through the living room and toward his bedroom. "Monica's seeing somebody," he said wearily.

Her eyebrows crossed angrily. So soon? That meant she'd almost certainly broken up with him specifically to get with someone else. Maybe even was cheating on him before she dumped him. Where was her sense of propriety? Natasha followed him toward his bedroom door. "Who's she seeing?" she asked, trying to sound sensitive but eyes flashing red.

Hand on his door, he turned back to face her. The sorrow and pain on his eternally jovial face felt like a slap. "Rebecca," he said, and closed the door behind him.

She stood there, dumbstruck for a moment. Monica had never given any indication that she was bi before, and that came entirely out of left field. She stayed rooted to the floor for a while, not knowing what to say. Shaking her head, she walked softly over to his bedroom and called his name through the door. There was no response.

She put her hand on his door, as she might put her hand on his shoulder to comfort him. Should she go in? He probably wanted to be alone. Her eyes filled with tears. She tried to keep her voice steady as she spoke through the door. "Torc? Do you want to talk?"

When he didn't answer again, she startled herself by sniffing back tears. She put her hand to her mouth and waited, but she didn't hear another noise from inside. A big tear rolled out of her eye and down her cheek. She finally turned away and went to her bed, where she cried into her pillow. She felt betrayed. How could Monica do this? She cried herself to sleep that night, thinking about Torc doing the same in the other room.

*****

It was a setback, but eventually things settled down. Torc took the slight to heart, and didn't seem very willing to put himself back out there. Natasha couldn't blame him. After all, it had been nearly a year since Clark dumped her, and she hadn't even had a second date with anyone since then. After she'd had that talk with Alyssa about exactly how shallow these men were who asked her out, she hadn't even accepted a first date with anyone. Finding someone who cared about her as a person was something she wanted desperately, but going on dinner dates with douchebags who wanted to get in her pants was not the way to find that person.

Torc was staying home more, not having a girlfriend to go out with, and Natasha was happy to stay in with him. She meant to sit and talk to him, and play games, and keep him company for his sake. After a while, she realized it was for her sake, too. They'd go out and do things with their friends and have a great time, but it was really nice to have someone understanding and comfortable to come home to. They'd periodically get drunk and swear off romance forever, though neither of them ever meant it.

He'd ask her about Clark, and her other boyfriends before him, and why she was still single after all this time. She'd tell him a little bit about them, and could he please kindly fuck off, and the only men who ever asked her out were only after one thing and they were all vain and shallow.

"Well," Torc said, once, when they were both half-drunk at the kitchen table.

"Well?" she asked.

"I mean, of course shallow people would ask you out."

She glared at him. "No, I-I don't mean you're shallow, that's not what I meant," he tried to backtrack. She knew he didn't mean that, but she was going to playfully give him hell about it anyway. "I mean you . . . you're incredibly beautiful," he offered, hands up in front of himself as if to ward off an attack.

She raised her nose into the air, staring imperiously at the ceiling. "Yes?"

"You're terrifically beautiful, of course you are," he said. "I didn't mean you're shallow, you're not in the least."

Still not looking at him, she said, "Tell me more about myself," trying to sound haughty.

"You are . . . hilarious," he hazarded, picking his beer up and taking a swig. "And you're . . . good at math. And you make a really amazing chicken parmesan."

She looked down at him now, with his big goofy grin, fully expecting him to lay into her with a barrage of insults so they could make fun of each other all night like usual. He went on, speaking slowly and a little dreamily, leaning his head against the beer bottle he held in his hand. "And you're not very tidy, but you know where everything is. And you take yourself too seriously sometimes and it makes you sad. And you're still finding your path in this world, but you're smart enough to be an incredible success when you find it. And . . . you have amazing legs in yoga pants. And you're very, very beautiful."

He had his elbow on the table, holding his beer bottle in the air, pressing it against his temple. He was looking her directly in the eyes as he said this, and her breath caught in her throat for a second. "You . . ." she couldn't find anything to say. ". . . quit being silly," is what she settled on, looking away self-consciously. She'd been told she was beautiful before, sure. But Torc was . . . well, he was very thoughtful. And he wouldn't have said all that if he didn't mean every word of it, about finding her path and everything.

"I meant every word of it," he said, though his speech was a little slurred. "About finding your path and everything."

She opened her mouth to say something, but didn't know what to say. Her eyes drifted back to meet his guileless gaze. For two seconds, their eyes held each other, and then her phone buzzed on the table in front of her. "Fuck," she said, with deep sincerity.

"Fuck, I'm supposed to go out with Lindsay tonight. Fuckity fuck." She got up and hurried to her room to pick out an outfit. "We're going to the Ballroom," she called out over her shoulder. "Do you want to come? Edgar's playing."

"No, I think I'll stay here," he said. He finished his beer, debated the pros and cons of opening another one, decided not to, and then opened another one. He sipped on it while Natasha got dressed, and she came back in the kitchen in a few minutes to wish him good night. "Sure you don't want to come?" she asked.

"I'm good," he said, good and tipsy. "I'll catch the next one."

She leaned in and hugged him tight. "Have a good night," she said, turning to leave.

"Tell Lindsay she's a bitch," he said. "From me."

*****

The two of them had been living together for over a year. Natasha hadn't been single for that long ever since she first started dating, in high school. Torc had been separated from Monica for about three months, and still didn't seem motivated to get out on the market. Lindsay and Natasha were out to lunch.

"But he's my roommate," Natasha was saying.

"So?" Lindsay replied. "He's hot. You're single. He's single. Jump his bones already."

"It's not that simple," Natasha protested. "We have a really good relationship. I don't want to ruin it."

"Are you that bad in bed?" Lindsay asked.

"If we . . . do something, and then it doesn't work out, that's both of us who can't afford a place to live without a roommate, and . . . I'm supposed to be . . . professional."

"Lame," Lindsay said, taking a bite of a chicken strip. "And by that I mean your excuse is lame. You want him."

"Ah!-" Natasha sounded shocked. She didn't deny it, though. "We're really good friends. Really. I just think it would make everything too awkward."

Lindsay took a sip of her Coke. She was going to have to break out the big guns. She didn't want to have to do this. She released a long, loud sigh. "All right. I'm going to jump his bones."

"Lindsay!" Natasha protested.

Pointing her finger, Lindsay explained, "You had a year. You wish you had a man, but you still haven't made a move. Well, I need a good dickin' down, and I'm going to get one."

"He was with Monica most of that time!" Natasha felt her face turning red as she tried to keep her voice at a whisper.

"Oh, yeah, how could you ever compete with a lesbian?"

"She's not a lesbian," Natasha mumbled into her salad.

"I was rounding up," Lindsay said. "Are you going to go home and jump his bones?"

"He's not home today." Natasha was aware of how lame that sounded.

"Okay, then."

Natasha felt helpless. "I can't." Lindsay stared her down. "He's my roommate."

"Lucky for me I'm not his roommate, then."

"Lindsay!" She sounded desperate. She was pleading.

"Tasha," Lindsay said. "It's for your own good."

"God damn it," Natasha hissed through gritted teeth. She picked up her menu and hit Lindsay over the head with it. Then she picked up Lindsay's menu and started hitting her with alternating menus. "God damn it," she continued, "Now I'm going to jump his bones, and then it's going to be awesome, and then you're going to take credit for it, and you're an asshole. Torc's right, you're a stupid bitch."

"What?" Lindsay giggled as she tried to ward off the flailing menus. "How dare he say such a thing? I'm going to have to fuck it out of him."

"Shut up, you're awful," Natasha said as she took one last swing. "Besides, if we hadn't gone to see Edgar a couple weeks ago, we'd have already slept together."

"Yeah, I distracted you," Lindsay said, having heard the story more than once already. "If someone was gazing longingly into my eyes and telling me how beautiful I was, I would have skipped the concert, dummy. I gotta go."

She glanced at her phone and stood up. She was on her lunch break from work. She picked up her Coke and finished it, and grabbed the last chicken strip out of the basket to take with her. "Have a good day, you stupid idiot," Natasha said, feeling frustrated and nervous.

Lindsay turned to go, then paused and turned back. "Tash," she said somberly. "Don't jump his bones while he's drunk."

Natasha looked at her blearily, and waved her hand to shoo Lindsay away. Lindsay turned and walked away briskly, lightly skipping a step. Natasha sighed. She picked up her fork, which had an olive speared on it. She let the fork drop back onto her largely uneaten salad. "She's totally going to take credit for it, too," she said to herself.

*****

Torc struggled to open the front door while holding two grocery bags. Just as he got ahold of the doorknob without spilling anything, his roommate opened the door from the inside. He resisted the urge to gasp. He knew yoga clothes were for yoga and not, like, fancy dress. He also thought Natasha looked good wearing just about anything. But she was a spectacle in her clingy pink tank top and black leggings. She was barefoot and had on nothing else but a gray sports bra, and she was heart-stoppingly gorgeous. "Hey," she said. "Can I help you with that?"

"No, I got these," he said, sweeping past her and carrying the bags to the kitchen. "Thank you."

She followed him into the kitchen as he set the bags on the counter. Reaching in one, he said, "I got . . . that soap," handing her a bottle of lavender-scented hand soap, "And . . . some trout." He held up a large piece of fish wrapped in wax paper.

"Ooh," she said. "Are we having trout?"

"We are having trout . . . almondine," he said, producing a packet of almond slivers and waving them around.

"Do you know how to make trout almondine?"

"No I do not," he said, pulling a few other ingredients out of the bags. She went to put the soap in the bathroom, and put away the few other groceries he'd brought, while he pulled up a recipe on his phone and scanned it, muttering. "Can I help?"

He remained silent a few seconds as he continued reading. He looked up. "No, it looks kind of easy."

She did this tilting-her-head thing that sounded in his head like, "Are you sure? I want to help."

"How'd you do that?" he asked her. "You can get the asparagus ready."

She happily bounced over to the cupboard to get a pan out for the asparagus. He'd prepared it a couple of times by tossing it in oil with black pepper and roasting it in the oven, sprinkling it with parmesan halfway through. Ever since then, that was the default way to prepare asparagus. She hummed a sprightly tune as she pulled out the ingredients. "I'm going to have some tea, do you want some tea?" She asked him.

"Sure," he said. He smiled as he watched her tripping lightly around the kitchen. "You're in a good mood."

She looked up at him and smiled back, a little self-conscious. "Trout almondine gets me that way," she said wistfully. "Should I turn on the oven? For the asparagus? How long does trout almondine take?"

He glanced back at his phone to double check the recipe. "Yeah, go ahead and turn it on. Do you even know what's in trout almondine?"

"Almonds," she said, breaking the ends off the stalks. "And trout."

He looked back at the recipe, shrugged, and started preparing breading for the fish. In a moment, she was done and rinsing the oil off her hands in the sink. "I'll take it from here, thanks," he said.

"I'm going to go finish my stretching," she said, leaning back against the counter next to him. "Do you want to watch a movie while we eat?"

"Sure," he said, perusing the instructions on his phone. "What do you have in mind?"

"Anything," she answered. "I just kind of want to sit on the couch together and watch something."

"Yeah," he said, looking at her. "Pick something out, anything's good."

She flounced off to where her yoga mat sat in the living room. He was glad he couldn't see it from the kitchen. It would be . . . distracting. He put the asparagus in and started on the sauce. This recipe was going to be good, even if he didn't manage it perfectly. It was pretty simple. It was nice to have someone to cook for; she always seemed to enjoy what he made. He often thought he could have done something better but she was always there making him feel great about it. He couldn't imagine how he'd gotten so lucky to find her as a roommate. He tried to imagine how differently his life would have been for the last year if he'd ended up living with some party-having frat boys or stoners. Or someone who didn't pay the rent.

As the fish filets scorched and spat in the skillet, Natasha came bouncing in from the living room. She reached over the two hot pans on the stove, one for fish, one for sauce, and grabbed the kettle. After she filled it at the sink, Torc took it out of her hand and put it back on the back burner. "You're too short," he said. "You'll knock over one of those pans, and I'll get a face full of hot oil."

"It will only improve your looks," she said, hurrying out of the kitchen. "Thank youuu!!"

He put the kettle on, took the asparagus out and tossed it, adding the parmesan and throwing it back in. He stirred the sauce again. That looked pretty good. He got the plates down to serve everything on, and Tasha's nice teapot. A few minutes later, when he walked into the living room, she was sitting on the couch scrolling through Netflix titles. "I know what I want to watch," she said.

He set down the teapot and two cups on the coffee table, tinkling in their saucers. "Dinner's up in a minute. What're we watching?"

"That one Jim Jarmusch movie, if I can find it. The one with Tom Waits."

"Dead Don't Die?"

"The black-and-white one."

"Coffee and Cigarettes?"

"The old one."

"The . . . Down By Law?"

"That's the one," she said, still watching the screen.

"Fuckin' . . . neat," he answered, heading back to the kitchen to dish up the food.