“I’m so happy you feel that way. And we feel lucky to have you.”

Jack stands. Without looking at Shelley, or any of us, he rushes out. I’m in shock.

Once he’s gone, Ruth stands up.

“Jack is still one of us, right?” she asks Shelley.

“Of course he’s one of us,” she says. “We all need a little encouragement from time to time. That’s all. To remember where our priorities lie and what’s most important.”

What was that? What just happened?

Was Shelley mad at Jack?

Was she trying to embarrass him? Make a point that she’s the boss, that she’s always in control, that he needs this job, that he can be replaced, that he doesn’t have anything without us, without this house?

I don’t know Shelley. Not at all. I live with her. She bathes me and washes my hair. She looks after us. But it takes time to get to know someone, to understand their motivations and beliefs.

I keep replaying what she said to Jack in my mind. I’m sitting in my chair, in my room, my bed to the right, when all of a sudden it dawns on me: this isn’t my room. It’s someone else’s.

I came straight here after the meeting. I walked in alone, used the washroom, sat down, and am only now understanding my mistake.

This must be Ruth’s room.

What a stupid mistake to make. How foolish I am.

I wonder what Ruth would think if she saw me in here like this, sitting in her chair. She wouldn’t like it. She would be very upset. The room looks almost identical to mine. The most obvious difference is that she has a French-English dictionary on her desk where I have my tin of brushes.

I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t resist. I’ll be quick. I sit down on her bed. It’s soft and supportive like my own. I can’t tell the difference. I lean back, roll over onto my side, and smell the duvet.

I stand and walk over to her dresser. Instead of a framed photo and sculpture, she has a small glass bottle. I pick it up. I open the lid and smell it. I recognize the scent immediately. It’s a perfume I used to love. I had the same kind. I only ever bought it once, and I wore it sparingly. The bottle lasted me for years and years.

I remember he never liked it. That’s the reason I stopped wearing it. I’m sure it was this one.

He never specifically said to get rid of it, but I knew not to wear it around the apartment when he was home. It wasn’t worth it for the comments I’d get. I’d only wear it when I was going out without him. He would get very dramatic about it. I can see his eyes, his slumped shoulders, the way he’d sigh, his exasperated expression as if my wearing perfume was somehow an affront to him.

I take another sniff. The scent hasn’t changed over all these years. It’s uncanny.