Crickets

For the last two years, I've had a roommate. I'd never had one before moving to Nashville; not when I moved out of my parents' house and not when I went to college. Never wanted one. I lived alone for 13 years and I liked it. Two years ago, though, I moved from small-town rental homes to big-city apartments that I couldn't afford alone. A friend and co-worker was looking for someone to split the rent and a roommate was born.

I'm still not crazy about the idea, but if I have to share my space, I'd be hard-pressed to find an easier person to share with outside of a romantic relationship. Joseph and I keep to ourselves and our own habits; neither of us is too noisy, too social, or too lazy to keep a common room clean. We keep different hours -- quietly -- and we rarely cross paths. It's as close to living alone as one can get without actually living alone, and after doing just that for more than a decade, it's just what I hoped for. That's why it is so surprising to me that the absolute stillness of the San Diego apartment unnerves me.

I never wanted a roommate, but I now realize the comfort of having one. It's not in the sound of a tapping keyboard, the smell of a broiling bratwurst, or the sight of an abandoned notepad. It has nothing to do with taste or touch. It's failing to hear the ticking of the clock, the hum of the refrigerator, and the settling of the walls. It's turning off the TV but leaving on the kitchen light. It's knowing that you're not alone. And that's worth something.