I was thinking about my college days recently, harkening back to a time when I shared a house with two other people. One was awesome, while the other was, shall we say, a bit rough around the edges and prone to double standards, but overall a person I could tolerate.
There is a special kind of tension that exists only in shared living spaces. Not the dramatic, door-slamming kind. Not the screaming-match kind. The low-grade, passive-aggressive, “who moved my stuff and why is the sink suddenly a crime scene?” kind.
It usually starts with something small. Harmless, really. Like leaving a couple of dishes in the sink overnight like I did. We didn’t have a dishwasher so if you used the dishes, cups, and utensils, you washed, dried, and put them away. Two plates, maybe a mug. You know, the kind of thing any reasonable adult would look at and think, “They’ll get to it in the morning.”
But no. Apparently, this is not a minor oversight. This is a moral failure.
You are informed—politely, but with unmistakable judgment—that dishes were left. As if the kitchen had been violated. As if hygiene itself had been disrespected. You nod and apologize. You accept your role as the flawed human in the household ecosystem.
Then, a day or two later, you walk into the kitchen and discover both sinks completely full. Not “a plate and a fork” full. I’m talking archaeological dig full. Pots. Pans. Bowls with hardened mystery sauces. Utensils forming a tangled stainless-steel ecosystem. Water glasses with rings like they’ve been abandoned since the Ford administration.
So let me get this straight.
Two dishes overnight = unacceptable. Both sinks packed like a football stadium on Super Bowl Sunday = apparently fine. The rules, it seems, are not about cleanliness. They’re about whose mess it is. And then there are the disappearing objects.
At one point, a J-cloth lived in a ceramic frog that sat by the sink. The frog was decorative but also functional, like a whimsical little butler holding cleaning supplies in its mouth. A noble creature. A symbol of order. Then, one day, the J-cloth was gone. You replaced it, but that one disappeared too. You replace it again and yes, number three goes missing. You’re replacing what you shouldn’t have to unless it has seen better days. They weren’t dirty or torn up, they were just gone. And so was the frog that mysteriously hopped away. Then the kitchen clock vanishes. It wasn’t moved to another wall (it was my clock), it just disappeared. It wasn’t expensive but it was mine. I don’t know where it is, said my rougher housemate, but curiously, it was back on the wall two days later.
It’s like the house itself occasionally shed belongings into a parallel dimension. A Bermuda Triangle for small domestic items. You half expect my awesome roommate to casually ask, “Hey, have you seen the toaster and the microwave?”
But nothing quite matches the audacity of the toilet paper announcement. We each had our own bathrooms. Separate domains, sinks, showers, and supplies. Independent nations, if you will. And yet, one day, the proclamation arrives: “We’re running low on toilet paper.” Not “I’m running low.” “We’re.” Collectively.
As if this were a communal resource managed by a central planning committee. As if my roll had been secretly contributing to some invisible household TP stock exchange. No. You are running low. I am not. My bathroom is fine. My shelves are stocked. My paper situation is stable. I do not require emergency rations.
I understand there’s an implied spirit of sharing in housemate situations. Milk or cream for your coffee and tea, sure. A roll of toilet paper during a genuine crisis. Sure. But this wasn’t a crisis. This was a supply-chain oversight being rebranded as a group responsibility.
And finally, the couch. The shared sectional that was larger than a few small countries. The one that absorbs everyone’s crumbs, body heat, and existential sighs. This is not a bedroom. It is not a personal nap zone. It is not a semi-permanent nesting area complete with blankets, pillows, and the subtle territorial claim of “I was here first.”
There is something psychologically unsettling about waking up and finding someone has essentially moved into the living room overnight. Like discovering a raccoon has made itself comfortable on your sofa and now regards you as the intruder. Go to your room. That is what rooms are for. Privacy. Sleep. Horizontal existence without witnesses.
The couch is for sitting, talking, and watching TV with maybe a snack. None of these things, on their own, are catastrophic. No friendships are ended and no leases are broken. No dramatic confrontations unfold. But they accumulate. A dish here. A vanishing frog there. A body camped out on communal furniture like it’s a studio apartment.
And what you realize, living with other adults, is this: Shared space is not really about cleanliness or supplies or furniture. It’s about unspoken rules. And the quiet, ongoing negotiation over whose version of “normal” gets to win.
John Berkovich Talks 