The Night Guest

by Hildur Knútsdóttir

That guy had clearly had enough of women with unexplained symptoms. Hysterical women. I seriously wanted to lecture him about all the diseases women have had that have been misdiagnosed over the years—and how medication (not to mention everything else in this world) is designed for the male body—but I just didn’t have the energy for it.

I know that the world’s sorrows are both abundant and profound and that a cat allergy is perhaps insignificant in the larger scheme of things. But there is something so unfair about loving cats and being relegated to do so from a distance.

Because there is nothing worse than having unexplained symptoms. Feeling like there’s something terribly wrong—but nothing that can be measured in exams, and you know the doctor thinks it’s all in your head.

This always happens. Everyone will be having a good chat until I say something wrong and feel as though I’ve been exposed as the alien in the group. Ta-da! Did you think I was one of you? Hahaha!

Stína lifted her head and sniffed the air like a bloodhound as I walked through the door. She hadn’t even looked at me when she shouted, “J’adore Eau de Parfum!” Maybe she’s just more interested in brands than people.

I don’t brag about it to anyone, but I know all the cats in the neighborhood.

I stare at her in amazement. I have never been told this before. I’ve always stood firm in the belief that I’m a very negative person. That’s a big part of my identity.

“Maybe we should go to a bar?” says the blonde with her hair in a bun, who is so terribly thin that you can count the ribs on her chest. Lately I’ve tried not to be judgmental, but … she didn’t eat any of her dessert. She just stirred it a little, licked the spoon, and then placed a napkin over the melted ice cream. And some part of me is pleased. Because this woman might be more beautiful than I am, better educated, in a better job, with more money than I have, and she probably has also a great husband and beautiful children. But she’s still unhappy with herself (I’m a terrible person).

I come to the realization that it’s not just twinkling stars ahead of me. There’s also the dark between them.

It’s been my experience so far that it’s always better to sleep a little on such poisoned darts, before you let them fly.

And that’s the worst. The uncertainty. The fear that there might be nothing wrong—that it might all be just in my head.

Because people can’t tolerate silence. Not even a soft silence on the phone. Silences are, of course, worse in person, and most people will do anything to fill them, especially women. Centuries of socialization have conditioned us into believing that it’s our responsibility to create a cozy atmosphere and ensure that no one is embarrassed about anything. That’s why we laugh at jokes that offend us. That’s why we smile at people who pat us on the butt. That’s why we pretend that it’s just a coincidence when the boss repeatedly brushes against our breasts at work. Because anything else would be just so embarrassing. For everybody.