Girlfriend #3 The Chandelier Translated by Larissa Kyzer

Translated from the Icelandic by Larissa Kyzer

She’s Girlfriend #3, and yet, everything’s new. There are no games, no masks, no bullshit. They carefully inch closer to one another, mentally and physically, cruise back and forth through their respective pasts, explain themselves. A thumb strokes a birthmark. A half-moon scar is discovered under an eyebrow. Movements are studied, mannerisms charted. When she farts for the first time, he puts his arms around her, and they both laugh. This happens in bed, in the morning. Then he farts—this is at night, on the couch—while they’re watching a movie. They get into the habit of imitating one another’s farts. Naming them after the sounds they remind them of. A Foghorn Fart is a fart that’s long and loud, a Chicken Fart is a crinkly fart. Like the sound when you squeeze your palm under your armpit and your arm looks like a plucked chicken wing.

A Bullet Fart is loud and fast, a Silent but Deadly fart is pretty selfexplanatory, etc., etc., etc.

“I’m not going to pretend to be anyone other than who I am this time,” she declares. This is at the beginning of the relationship. “I’m not going to chase after some preconceived wet dream of the perfect girlfriend. If you play foosball, I’m not going to all of a sudden get interested in foosball. I hate foosball, and I hate greasy steakhouse burgers, and I hate doing it doggy-style. It does absolutely nothing for me.”

“Amen,” he says, lifting his glass. This is downtown, at night.

He knows the insecurity she’s talking about all too well from his previous relationships. Girlfriend #1 said she loved rough sex and his favorite TV shows. It became clear, as the relationship progressed, that she didn’t love either. Girlfriend #2 had lied about having read the same books as him, casually dropped quotes from them or facts about the authors when they were chatting on Tinder. Then they’d started dating, and every time he mentioned something about any of the books in question, she’d freeze like a deer in the headlights: “No, I still have to read that one, remember?” After Girlfriend #2, he’d sometimes look at attractive women and imagine what kind of potted plants they’d be.

Would they need a lot of watering, or a little? Every day? Every five days? Girlfriend #3 is a succulent. She can go without water for weeks without complaining. He watches her as she talks to some mutual acquaintances of theirs at the bar, slipping puns into the conversation that no one but

him picks up on. She’s self-confident and sarcastic, has a handshake that’s all business, a determined walk. He can’t imagine ever wanting to brush her away, like an insect. When they made it official on Facebook, their relationship gets 450 likes. He looks at their profile pictures side by side, and it occurs to him that they’re what’s known as a power couple.

They’ve said they’re not going to jump into the relationship without a life ring, but then all of a sudden, the attic apartment her aunt owns becomes vacant: a one bedroom that’s perfect for a couple, but a little too expensive for someone on their own. They each keep all of their belongings—don’t donate anything, don’t throw anything away. He discreetly marks all of his books. It’s just a little too early to try and make any pronouncements about the future prospects of the relationship—it’s only been a few months—and soon, the real behavioral patterns will manifest themselves, as will their margin of error.

When they do emerge, he welcomes them like a well-coifed hotelier. She finds it offensive that he never cleans up after himself. Cupboards are left open, the toilet seat up; there are plates on the table, glasses on the nightstand, dirty socks everywhere. At first, she makes a joke of it, says “my love” before or after her pronouncements, smiles or laughs while shaking her head.

Then come the exclamation marks.

Then everything is shouted, all caps.

This happens in small bursts, frequently before she has breakfast. She goes on manic cleaning raids as she waits for her oatmeal to cook, laying into him and ordering him about. When this happens, he’s got no choice but to gather his socks from the floor—preferably without saying anything. He quickly learns that hunger equals rage but that this can be remedied with food and coffee. She hums endlessly, tunelessly—notes that crisscross haphazardly through the apartment, like flies in search of an open window. In the shower, in the kitchen, in front of the TV.

She drinks an unbelievable amount of water (for some reason, this gets on his nerves), and she’s incapable of being on time. It doesn’t matter how early she starts getting ready. They’re always late.

He learns an easy trick for speeding the process along when they’re running late and she’s still not sure what to wear: he kisses his teeth, frowns (just a tiny bit, i.e. just by squinching up his eyes a little), and asks, “That one?”

He uses reverse psychology in other areas of their relationship, but very sparingly, so she won’t catch on. “The best thing about these independent females is how conveniently predictable they are,” he says to a buddy once, when they’re talking about women.

There’s a reason people talk about guys being “whipped.” He gets used to throwing his socks in the laundry basket and staying out of her way in the morning. Sometimes, he stops loving her, just for a little bit. The first time it happens, he’s alarmed. Feels bad. Steers clear of the apartment for a few days—loiters around the university and goes to the gym between classes. Dreads having to go home so indifferent to her. But then she gets a haircut. They go out that night and have some wine, and it all comes back to him in the blink of an eye.

How beautiful and funny she is. How sensitive she is to the world around her. How frank and sharp and ambitious.

He’s learning about love. It comes and goes in waves. It’ll be killing him, and then little by little, the minutia comes back into focus—how she slurps her coffee, always taking two sips at once. Slurp, slurp, then she puts her cup down. Or how in the evening, when they’re in bed, she flagrantly scratches her pussy.

When that happens, he rolls over, turns off the bedside lamp.

He notices that every pair of her underwear (or a lot of it, at least) has a hole right over her clit. Her pubic hair sticks through it and reminds him of a tatty troll doll.

“How come they rip so easily here?” he asks, pointing at her underwear on the clothesline. This happens down in the laundry room, late one afternoon.

“Those are from scratching,” explains his girlfriend, mischievously, guilty as charged, before striking a cute little pose to counterbalance the revelation. Kissing him long and hard so that he has no choice but to defer his revulsion.

She doesn’t shave any of her body hair, which is in style now. Her body hair (especially her pubic hair, armpit hair, and happy trail) is all thicker and darker than the hair on her head, which is a light, dirty blonde, fine, and glossy.

She feels empowered by it. Wears it like a badge of honor.

A few months after they move into the apartment in Laugarnes, she breaks the toilet rule. This happens at night, in the bathroom. They’re standing over the sink, watching one another brush their teeth in the mirror. She hip checks him, and he hip checks her in return. She’s cute. She can never keep the toothpaste in her mouth. It leaks out both sides of her mouth and down her chin. She spits, rinses her face and the toothbrush, lifts the toilet lid, pulls down her pants, and pees. A loud hiss fills the bathroom. He looks away and walks out.

Night after night she pees while he’s brushing his teeth. Farts as she does and adds Foghorn Fart-a-loo to their Fart Name Index.

Sometimes, a strong urine odor fills the room, and he has to hold his breath so he won’t gag. He thinks back to how they were when they first got together, honest, open about all their feelings, and sometimes, he almost snaps at her, almost admits that he can’t stand it—why can’t she scratch herself when he’s not looking, pee when he’s not looking, just stop drinking so much water period—but of course he knows that such requests would be taken as a declaration of war on her autonomy.

Then right before bed one night, he finds himself in a similar situation where he really has to go. She’s been standing over the sink, inspecting her face for what seems like forever, and he wants to get in bed with his laptop and watch a show.

“Can I go to the bathroom?” he asks. “I’ll be quick.”

“You can go in front of me,” she says without looking away from the mirror. Her mouth is open, curved into a horseshoe as she picks and prods at her skin.

“I just need a sec—you can have the mirror back right after.”

“It doesn’t gross me out,” she says, smiling at him in the mirror. “Just go. I promise I won’t look.”

Then she goes back to looking at something that’s she got pinched between her index fingers. It bursts. Out gushes hard, white pus. Not in one spurt—she has to squeeze it twice to get all of it. That’s when it happens. He turns from the doorway and gags. Hard, white pus. He gags again. His eyes tear up. Hard, white pus. He gags for the third time.

He holds his fist clenched under his nose and stumbles out onto the balcony. It’s still light out, only 10:30. White. The neighbors are sitting in their garden, having a beer. Hard. Someone’s been grilling tonight. He tries to distract himself by thinking of BBQ food. Rib-eye steaks. Baconwrapped scallops. White. No, bacon-wrapped dates. Fingerling potatoes in foil. Big baking potatoes in foil. Greek salad and potato chips. Beer. Good lager. An ice-cold bottle of beer. The neighbors notice him and wave. He’s standing there in his jeans. Shirtless. He waves back, turns away, and goes back inside.

She’s waiting in the hall in front of the bathroom, struggling to keep a straight face. She’s pressing her lips together. Her nostrils flare and relax in turn. “Are you okay?” she asks and then can’t hold back a smile. “Yeah.”

“Babe, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were so sensitive about that.” He goes past her and into the bathroom, locking the door.

When he’s sensitive about something, she makes fun of it. When she’s sensitive about something, he’s supposed to understand everything. She’s allowed to criticize him, but he can’t criticize her. It’s okay if she finishes the leftovers, but he’s supposed to leave a little for her, etc., etc., etc.

If he says anything about her being hypocritical, she starts laughing and admits that he’s right. But nothing changes. She’s constantly crossing lines he never gets to cross.

It’s at this point in the love cycle (the eternal merry-go-round of being in love or out of it), that he finds himself in the same frame of mind as he was with his former girlfriends. Within a minute of entering a bar, he’s evaluated all the women there. He’s not good at keeping himself in check when he’s drinking—sometimes, he lets himself chat up a cute girl, and then it takes all his strength not to take it one step further. It would be so easy—too easy; all he’d need to do is touch her waist gently as he walked by, give an answer that skirts the line between appropriate and inappropriate, play the lady-killer, but, like, JFK not BTK (he has to repeat this twice to his friend to get the laugh it deserves)—and jump into the chase.

There’s something about the summer. So much inner turmoil. He gives himself permission to talk to Push-up Boobs for an hour. This is at a bar on a Saturday night, out in the smoking area. She’s younger than him, a little insecure—she laughs when she doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do. He insults her with a smile, and she gets offended with a laugh, elbowing him so that her whole upper arm presses against him. He pushes her back and gets closer as he does. This is grounds for more touching. His eyes drift briefly from her face down to her pushed-up boobs. Then he gets a look at her necklace. A little gold chain with a name written in cursive. Bergdís Ósk. He forgets it as soon as he’s read it. Her sugary perfume blends with the strong chemical scent of her makeup. He knows his girlfriend would look at this girl and pity her. Something about the thought arouses him. He places a hand on Push-up Boobs’s bare thigh, as though to torture himself, then stands up and says goodbye. Takes the next taxi home to Laugarnes. He’s not even halfway home when he stops feeling horny. He’s not even through the door when he starts feeling guilty.

The next day, he wakes up early and makes her a nice breakfast; he buys sourdough from the bakery and fries eggs over a bed of spinach. She says she’s the luckiest woman in the world and he rediscovers her sarcasm, how cute she is when she laughs at her own jokes. Her pale, delicate ears (she has perfect ears), her pale, delicate fingers. The line of her throat, her hairline, her cheekbones. He can’t stop saying how much he loves her—he says it again and again. He thinks about proposing to her.

Then on Friday morning, he gets up, bakes banana bread and wakes her up with the promise of coffee. It’s perfect summer weather—warm enough to be outside in a T-shirt—and they scrabble out onto the balcony, lean back in kitchen chairs with cake plates on their chests, their toes crimped over the handrail of the balcony, either squinting their eyes to look out over the garden or closing them to turn and face the sun. Her hair is wet and

combed behind her ears. He’s got to give it to himself, the banana bread came out particularly well. He’d tried adding walnuts.

“The shower’s clogged,” she says then, without opening her eyes. “I know,” he answers, sipping his coffee.

“What are we going to do about it?”

“It’s your hair.”

“I’m not the one whose hair is falling out,” she says in an escalating lilt. “I did it last time,” he singsongs back.

She falls silent and takes a bite of her banana bread. He’s not going to clean out the drain for the second time in a row. Every time he does, it’s obvious that almost all of the hair is hers. Long and light brown.

“It always makes me gag when I do it,” she says.

“The trick is to use toilet paper. And then it’s just clean hair.” “But...” she starts. Hesitates. “Don’t you ever pee in the shower?” He gets a bad feeling. “No. Do you?”

“If I’m in the shower and have to pee.”

“Are you joking?”

“It’s so nice.”

He stands up, gets dressed, and leaves the apartment. Drives aimlessly around the neighborhood. This can’t go on any longer. He’s got to break up with her. How should he do it? At the kitchen table or in the living room? In the bedroom, sitting on the bed. It’s her aunt’s bed anyway. He doesn’t know if she’ll try to talk him out of it. His mind wanders to a future without her—he’ll get to be single and do whatever he wants to do. She’ll become Girlfriend #3, and then he’ll find himself Girlfriend #4 and then #5. He pictures the girl from the smoking area, Push-up Boobs. He could rip her to shreds without any repercussions. He’ll sit in a corner with Push-up Boobs, and his girlfriend will walk by and get crazy jealous. But then maybe she’ll be with another guy, too. Someone he knows. They’ll run into each other by chance at the 24-hour grocery store. This will be around midnight, and she’ll be with her new boyfriend buying latenight munchies, chips and candy.

Naked on a man’s lap, they’re face to face. She’s holding the guy’s head like she always holds his. He feels physically ill at the thought. Pregnant and lovely in a coffee shop.

With a little girl at the pool. The girl has her lips and eyes and ears. This is all to say if they break up. They don’t have to break up. He drives past the Laugardalshöll sports complex and decides to go to the gym. A few days pass. He stays away from the apartment as much as possible. Comes home late at night and acts like everything’s fine when he sees that she’s waiting up for him, sleeps with her even though he doesn’t want to, leaves home early the morning after. She calls him and tries to get him to

talk. Says she loves him. He gets out of the conversation by saying he loves her, too.

They get invited to her little brother’s high school graduation party. The party’s at her parents’ house, and they’ve rented a party tent and put it up at the far end of the garden. Her brother’s friends are scattered around the yard and practicing how to stand like adults. Crossing their arms and drinking prosecco. Most of the guys have high fade faux hawks (“their heads look like toothbrushes with a squirt of toothpaste on top”) and are wearing blue suits and light brown leather shoes. That’s the style that summer. The girls are wearing black blazers and summery cocktail dresses. They sit on the deck and talk to her relatives. They’re stiff, say they aren’t going to stay long. Have contradictory excuses: he has to help his mom paint the house tomorrow, and she has to be somewhere early to do something or another. After a few drinks, she puts her hand in his and says she’s sorry she peed in the shower. That she’s stopped.

“It’s a balancing act, that’s all,” she admits. “Standing up for yourself without stepping on the other person in the process.”

He says he’s sorry for having stormed out and for how he’s been acting the past few days. They kiss and feel better. They have a couple more drinks and get a little drunk in the corner there, at a similar pace to the kids out in the garden. They watch as one by one, a group of them poke holes in their cans with kitchen scissors, open them, and guzzle all the beer out of the little holes at the bottom. As they do, the others stand around with their phones in the air taking videos, laughing, cheering them on. The girls pose for their own cameras, taking selfies while holding champagne glasses or vaping. One of them is clearly the Alpha; loud and beautiful, she’s wearing a white dress and has big lips and smooth hair that’s dyed a deep brown. They watch as she twirls around three guys who are nodding at everything she says. Then she turns toward him and his girlfriend where they’re sitting in the corner and looks straight at him for a second, looks him up and down, and in that moment, he understands those guys all too well. If he were nineteen, he’d be nodding, too.

He hears a burble of feminine laughter next to him.

“Oh, I just don’t know! They all sound so good,” says his girlfriend in a Barbie voice with a stupid look on her face. “Now what do we have here?” she says, when a fourth guy joins the circle around Alpha Chick.

“Oh, now this one looks tempting! I could gobble him up with a side of fries,” she says, puckering her lips. “You know... Hommes frites?”

He laughs.

“Or perhaps the chef would recommend the filet mangnon instead?”

It gets colder and the older folks start heading home. Her brother and his friends get blankets or warmer layers and sit down at their table. They bum

cigarettes from Alpha Chick, who sits down next to him. She’s completely dominating the conversation at their end of the table. Cracking jokes and bursting into loud, shrill laughter. A massive artificial fur is draped around her shoulders, and it rubs against him every now and then. When she turns in her seat, he can see the shape of her nipples through her dress. Someone suggests they play a drinking game. Alpha Chick takes it upon herself to explain the rules: “Seven means waterfall, eight means you make someone else drink, or you can rain check, nine means a new rule . . . ” There are fifteen, sixteen people sitting at the table, and they all have to squeeze together to follow the game. Alpha Chick drinks a lot and drinks it fast. When it’s finally his turn, he doesn’t know what his card means, and she leans unnecessarily close and explains what he’s supposed to do. He smirks, does what he’s supposed to, then looks at his girlfriend, who looks critically at Alpha Chick, and then pulls a card from the deck. Ten. She’s supposed to drink ten times while the table counts. “Ten, nine, eight . . . ” A hand lightly grips his right thigh. He freezes, looks at his girlfriend taking her fourth to last drink, her third to last one. Alpha Chick isn’t looking at him at all, rather, she’s watching his girlfriend as she finishes. Laughs loudly when she’s done.

The next person takes a card. Another kid who’s graduating. He’s got his white, black-brimmed graduation cap turned backwards on his head. Himself, he’s sitting with both hands on the table. Both of her hands are under it, her arms tucked inside the fur—she could just as easily be resting her hands on the bench seat. His girlfriend is on her phone now, across from him.

The hand creeps its way up his thigh. Higher. Higher.

Strokes with one finger. Two fingers. He clenches his beer can. Tries to breathe normally. Feels his pants tightening. He looks across the table at his girlfriend’s brother as he draws a card. The hand strokes his swelling dick, which is thrusting down his right pant leg, back and forth, back and forth, and he closes his eyes and lets his mind go blank.