Mel, in the past week, has come home and baked more than once. One night she made 18 cupcakes, leaving six for me and her boyfriend. The next night she made a five layer chocolate cake with some sort of rich butter cream frosting that I know she made from scratch.
At some point she also empties the dishwasher and when I go searching for my favorite Tupperware, I find it tucked neatly among all of the other Tupperware that once was in a pile shoved into a cabinet. She's found a place for everything including a spot in the bathroom to put all the cleaning supplies, whereas Jam and I just kept them on the floor.
Upon first moving in she cleaned and reorganized the living room, bathroom, kitchen and hall closet. I would come home and she'd timidly ask for my thoughts and I'd shrug. Because I don't care about the location of our living room furniture, but my god, was I thankful.
She does all of this with a smile while I tread back to my room either drunk or exhausted (or both) and write and sleep. Then she reads her Bible and makes homemade pesto.
I pay the bills. I make sure the rent is in on time. I call the leasing office when shit needs to be fixed. And I reach the high shelves above the fridge, because she's too short.
It's come to my attention that in this particular relationship, I wear the pants. I'm not sure whether to be happy to have a roommate to do all the shit I usually put off until Sunday afternoons or to fear for any man that I may end up with. For it will be a rude awakening for the future Mr. HB, when he expects for the bathroom to be cleaned and I hand him a bottle of Clorox and with a little pat on the back and a smile, say "Have at it, champ."