We each get one plate and fill it up with the warm food before going back to the table.
He barely sits down when he starts wolfing down the food with alarming speed.
I blink.
“Did you not eat anything until now?”
He shakes his head, his mouth full. Swallowing, he adds, “I didn’t have the time.”
No…time? What could he have done until now?
“This is wonderful as usual, Moe. Thank you. But please, next time don’t wait up for me. You can just leave the food on the stove and I’ll heat it up myself.”
My fork falters in the air as I look at him.
“Next time?”
He nods. “My schedule will be a little more chaotic from now on so please don’t wait up.”
“I see. Have your work hours changed?” I ask before I can help myself.
You don’t need to know this, Moe. You’re already planning to find another job as soon as possible.
The least I know about him the better it will be in the future when I’ll have to leave—the guilt won’t be as bad.
Guilt…?
This is the first time the word guilt has registered in my mind, especially in relation to me leaving. At first, I couldn’t wait to find a new place. Then, I got used to being here; to being complacent. Now I feel guilt?
I gulp down uneasily.
“No. My work is the same,” he answers casually, popping a piece of bread in his mouth.
“Oh.”
“It’s just a few meetings per week that might run a little late.”
“Meetings,” I repeat in a low voice. “For work?”
“Not…really,” he says sheepishly.
My gaze snaps to his.
“Who are you meeting then?” I blurt out.
Eyed wide with shock, I belatedly realize the nature of my tone and the inappropriate line of inquiry. He seems equally as surprised.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that. It’s none of my business.”
Mentally, I berate myself for this entire interaction. I’ve been incredibly tense ever since he missed dinner and then came home so late. Why, I cannot tell. But the more I listen to him talk so casually about coming home late in the future too, the more I get annoyed.
He said he doesn’t have friends. He said he doesn’t have family. So who the hell is he meeting with? For hours on end, too. His work ends in the afternoon. It’s been almost ten hours since he left work. Ten hours to meet with someone? And do what?
“I don’t mind it,” he replies. “It is your business, too. After all, we live together, and we are friends, are we not?” The last question is in a low, doubtful tone.
Are we?
“We are,” I mutter.
