I was fine in Michael's apartment. Bad, but fine.
But afterwards he said that he wanted to make a last run to his storage unit for the day, and then stay at my apartment, since he hadn't finished packing but had no furniture to sleep on, and since it had gotten late to hit the road. And technically he had two more days on his lease, even though he had told the landlord he'd be out. He said we could go to dinner, dispassionately.
I did not want him in my apartment. I wasn't hungry.
All the sudden I felt as vulnerable as I should have felt in the first place. I did not want him to know my things. I didn't want him around or to even see my cat.
I said, "Are you allergic to cats?"
He said, laughing under his breath, looking down with his chin tucked, "Would I tell you if I were?" And then looked up shaking his head and said, "No. No, I'm not allergic to cats."
We went to dinner. We had calzones that were too big, and too expensive for me, at Coppola's in North Beach. And more wine, which helped. We walked "home" to our apartment building, and when he went to his apartment, I went up to mine to take my medicines and quickly scan at all my objects privately through strange company's eyes.
Michael came up with a tool box, and asked if he could leave a couple things with me for the week till he could come back up from LA on his second run the next weekend to pick up his last load from storage. And if maybe he could stay over a night then, too.
It wasn't OK, but I said that it was. I told myself that it wasn't that big a deal, his stuff only a week in my space. I should be able to ignore it. I wanted him out.
He went back downstairs and came back with a moving box, a duffel bag over his shoulder, and unloaded them in my kitchen with the tools.
I didn't feel like I liked him anymore, but that I was in no position to complain, about anything. So I boxed up my feelings to enjoy anything about biding the unusual time.
He stayed that night and the next. He introduced me to taking straighht espresso with a lemon rind twist at at Il Caffe Rulli early the first morning. I thought that I should be able to enjoy playing like I had a boyfriend for a weekend, since I supposedly missed that part of my life so much. I thought that there was something wrong with me for wanting him out. (Not that I thought he wasn't feeling the reciprocal acting. He just needed what he needed. He was biding the time "politely", too.)
I couldn't say no, also because I felt like I should feel good that anything I had could be helpful to someone else, since my life is dependent on so much anonymous assistance. None of my things were even really mine.
Michael gave my cat his red feather boa. A big dyed red bird. She didn't care for it. I kept finding feathers weeks past the fact, after I'd put the boa in the dumpster in the basement. After he was long gone. (I wonder what the woman on the first floor who investigated the trash, who told me, "The man upstairs likes your boots," who knew all my medications, thought about that one.)
I had enjoyed what I thought was a clean hello/goodbye the first bright afternoon with Michael, but I was surprised that despite all my loneliness, I had in the end, literally not wanted baggage at all even for a night.
Maybe all of those feelings had something to do with something about Michael, personally, too though.