Boundaries

I’m getting out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, about to get dressed for work.

All of a sudden, he’s standing right in front of my closet, preventing me from getting dressed.

“Excuse me. Boundaries.”

“I’m getting ready!” he exclaims.

“You need to respect my boundaries. I don’t want you watching me get dressed.”

“WELL, IT’S MY APARTMENT.”

I didn’t retort that I had paid the entire rent here this month (he didn’t pay a dime) and am moving out halfway through anyway, so really it’s my fucking apartment and you’re welcome for paying the rent.

I didn’t bring to his attention that he was standing in front of my closet, not his, and he was already fucking dressed, so no, you aren’t getting ready you fucking manipulating sack of shit.

I didn’t remind him that he was supposed to have already left for work, and I planned my morning routine around him.

I didn’t scream like I wanted to, that even if this were “his apartment,” it wouldn’t give him the right to disrespect my boundary of not seeing me naked.

Derailing the conversation to get me arguing and ignoring the extreme boundary crossing is exactly what he wanted.

“Boundaries. You seeing me naked is a boundary. Please move so I can get dressed.”

He storms off yelling incoherencies.

11 more days.