Since writing my poem about the pantry, I’ve had a lot of people come to the house, walk into the kitchen, blink once and say “Oh. He really is in the pantry.”
Yes. Gene’s computer is set up in the tiny nook in the kitchen where we previously kept the garbage. The fruit basket hangs just over his head, the trash can is behind his chair, the spices are lined up over his monitor and he has to stand up if I need to reach my apron or recipe books. He still will not come out.
Yesterday I said “Look, if you’re really committed to the pantry, then I’m going to arrange the dining room more to my liking.”
“THIS is not your room,” he exploded. “THAT is your room,” waving a hand at the living room, currently carpeted in my books. “You don’t need to mess with THIS room.”
“But you don’t use this room for anything now,” I said innocently. “I mean, if you’re determined to stay in the pantry, that is.” I think I’m wearing him down.
Why does it bother me so much? I cannot say. It just seems absurd that in an apartment this size, one of us should spend most of his time here wedged into one square inch of space that smells like eggshells. Also, it’s harder to sneak up on him when he’s in there.
If anyone has a strategy for getting Gene out of the pantry, I’m all ears.