And she’s right: Ruben is as sweet as a guy can get. Especially to me. He encourages me as a writer, supports me as a roommate, and exults in me as a lover. He tells me I’m beautiful, defends me to his parents, and he smiles every time I walk in the room. Which makes it hard to be aggravated with him, but where there’s a will, there’s a way, and lately I feel like I can’t hardly wait for even the most veiled invitation to histrionics. I’m always underfoot, always in somebody’s way. I’m too loud when I laugh. I take up too much of the couch. I can’t put one foot right in my own home, so I’m always on the defensive. Especially because nobody but Ruben—certainly not I—would ever classify the castle-in-a-cul-de-sac that Pacheco’s Used Cars built as “my home.” After three of them in as many yea
