The conditioner had been a tactical strike in the context of an ongoing bathroom battle, and it could be justified as a proportional response to the shelf reorganization; but the moisturizer was a standalone act. The moisturizer was premeditated. The moisturizer was a forty-five-dollar tube of SPF 30 dailyprotection that I purchased at Sephora after spending twenty minutes asking the sales associate which product would be best for “a man in his early thirties who refuses to acknowledge that skin care exists and who has been relying on genetics and bar soap and possibly divine intervention to maintain a face that—”
I stopped myself before the end of that sentence, but the sales associate, whose name tag said Kenji and whose smile said he knew exactly what was happening, simply nodded, handed me a moisturizer, and said, “This one. Trust me.”
“It’s for a friend,” I said.
“Of course it is.”
“He’s a roommate, a temporary roommate. I’m helping, you know, with his skin.”
“Absolutely,” Kenji said. “The SPF is great. His skin will look amazing. Your friend’s skin, I mean, yourtemporaryroommate friend’s skin.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m a professional. I don’t enjoy things.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I smile at all our customers. It’s policy.” He winked and retreated behind the counter to ring me up.
I bought the moisturizer. And put it on Peter’s shelf with a Post-it.
Phase Two of the Intervention. Apply after showering. Your face will thank me. Instructions on the back, but honestly you just rub it on. Even you can handle that without reading a doctoral dissertation.
— B
Just one sparkle.
His response came the next morning—on the fridge, not in the bathroom.
I don’t need a moisturizer.
Below that, twelve hours later, when he thought I wouldn’t notice the time gap.
It’s not terrible.
Below that, I replied.
You’re WELCOME.
Foursparkle emojis.
A new record.
A historic moment in the Post-it correspondence.
I should have framed it.
Chapter 14
Peter
Moisturizer, in itself, wasn’t important. It was a tube of overpriced lotion that a man with no concept of boundaries had placed on my shelf without permission. He’d accompanied said tube with a Post-it note that included the phrase, “Your face will thank me,” which was not a phrase that belonged in any roommate interaction, and which I had chosen to interpret as a general statement about dermatological health rather than anything more personal.
The first morning, I ignored it.
It sat on my shelf beside the coconut-argan conditioner that had already breached my defenses, a second incursion in what was clearly a coordinated campaign to inhabit my personal care routine one product at a time. I showered, used the conditioner (which was, as I had already conceded, acceptable), and left the moisturizer untouched on the groundsthat a man should not have to justify washing his face with water and nothing else. This had been my system for thirty-two years and had produced results that I considered perfectly adequate.
The second morning, I picked it up.
