We had our first fight over whether or not I was allowed to bend down and shave my own legs . . . seriously. “I can do it for you. I’m very good with a razor.” “You’re insane. You’re not shaving my legs.” “I don’t think you should dip your head down, it might make you dizzy in the shower.” “You need to back off a little.” We were standing inches apart, face-to-face near the bathroom door. He towered over me, making me feel like a child. “No, I won’t!” He said in a determined voice. “That’s what I did before, and you ended up almost bleeding out on a fucking subway.” “This is not the same thing. Nothing is going to happen to me. You’re smothering me.” “I’m going for a run. Please wait to take a shower.” He lifted the bottom of his white T-shirt to draw his earbud wires up through the neck.
