The Young Domestic

The air mattress and I twinge in defeat when his feet hit the floor. I’m awake now though my eyes wouldn’t know it. He’s out the door and into another. I hear his morning ritual, his nausea. His stomach wretches and my heart responds. He gets his sea legs and bursts back into the room letting the door slam wildly on the wall. I think of his mother - that’s coming out of his pocket. But he’s already on youtube because it’s morning and that means morning music. He lines up the same two songs we listen to every day and recites them with unadulterated enthusiasm. He pours coffee, lights a cigarette, and sits on the patio in a simultaneously comfortable and flamboyant fashion. Small-minded people attribute it to being French or gay, of which he’s neither, really. I sit across from him and drink him in as I fidget and try to look alluring. He loads the dishes, gives me tasks, and rewards himself with another cigarette. He puts on different clothes and shows me how to pull weeds in his mother’s garden while educating me on maintaining healthy plants. I try to look patient and interested, but it's hot in the sun and I want to kiss and touch and eat and watch tv and fuck again.