[as per V--'s request]

Six Times in Four Months

An eye crusted shut by sleep is rubbed by thumb and forefinger. The morning has brought sunlight to the window on the east side of the building. Toes wiggle as legs stretch, a body adjusts to the temperature around it. Only cold is felt outside of the patchwork quilt. Storm windows would certainly help in keeping the warmth within the living area.

Another eye, also encrusted by sleep, opens slightly, then an eyelid exerting more strength pushes open wide, letting in the light. Good morning. Yes, good morning. And even here the legs stretch. But the legs stretch toward the other set of legs and as the prospect of flesh on flesh draws nearer a magnetism of warmth begins to push them rapider to the other until finally they are together, connected as if one. Kinetic energy. The friction of a day’s growth of hair against that of a lifetime.

Good morning. Yes, good morning. And here is the weaving of limbs. Naked breasts pressed against a bare chest. The quiet comfort of winter is nearly void of comfortability to a room with too many windows and a thermostat stuck on room temperature. Yes. But. Yes, but, let’s do it anyway. Goose pimples rise but will drop as the friction begins again. And hiding under the covers will help to hold the heat in.

When it is over with there is a pitter-patter of cold feet on hardwood floors that have seen years of abuse, have seen years of feet pitter-pattering across, have seen the urine of animals, have seen it all. Oh. Oh. Cold. Cold. Yes, very cold.

Whoosh. A rush, a stream, a jet of water sending itself in a gently slopping arc toward the bottom of the ceramic tub. Oh, shit. A hand swoops down and removes a clump of long blonde hair mixed with short black animal fur. The mass is tossed into the waste barrel to the left side of the sink. Come on, hurry. And feet pitter-patter across the floor again. The bathroom floor accompanied by four feet.

The shower isn’t exactly built for two but it’s always been something that could be worked out when necessary. And in the white-grey of winter it is necessary to shower with someone else everyday, especially after sex.

The water rushes down on the bodies. The cold feet heat up too quickly, grow red hot with the differences in temperature. Each solitary bead of water hits with bee sting sharpness, like stepping bare-footed onto a tack. It’s momentary though, and as if flees the warmth continues the blood flow of previous activities. The top of a shampoo bottle is flipped and a young couple revels in the joy of helping one another wash each other’s hair. Shampoo is rinsed and hands move to the bottle of conditioner so the cycle can be complete.

The show is where teeth are brushed in the morning. A hand reaches outside of the shower by pushing the curtain aside and grabbing a tube of Crest® and pulling into into the warm water stream. One hand squeezes the tubes pale white, red speckled contents onto the bristles of a blue and white brush and immediately aims for the molars while handing the tube to another set of hands. These hands repeat the process, emptying the contents of the tube and tossing the empty tube over the shower curtain rod. It lands with a surprisingly loud thud on the hardwood.

Forward, backward, forward, backward. Spit, rinse, spit, rinse.

Soap is lathered on a loofah. Wash me. Naturally a hand starts at the chest level and goes back and forth from one shoulder, the left, to the right. The hand continues, washing the breasts, the stomach, the waist, the thighs, calves, and shins. Spin. And continues starting at the shoulder blades and stopping to watch the soap as it runs down the spine.

When getting clean can go no further it is necessary to step out of the shower and begin the day. Hands reach for separate Him and Her towels and dry themselves off. Laughs are shared as bodies go from warm to slightly less warm to cold and colder. Quick, let’s get dressed. And a race for the closet, two bodies careening down a hall and sharply turning the corner into the bedroom where the closed windows have decided to let the cold in regardless of design.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. It’s a sweater day, Roger. Yes, a sweater day, Roger. How unnatural it felt. But it was time to get dressed anyway. It was time to get moving. Besides... a stomach was hungry. Will you be joining me for breakfast? Yes, I will be joining you for breakfast.

Breakfast that morning is eggs with bacon and toast, lightly buttered. It is enjoyed in the breakfast nook. The view from this side of the apartment is nice. There is a drop off at the edge of the parking lot just outside the front door. The view from here is of tree tops, mostly pine trees. Heavily and tilting with snowfall. The branches bending. They can be heard creaking from the position at the breakfast nook.

On the windowsill a set of hands found the remains of a cricket, it’s legs stuck together in a tangled love song, no doubt symphonic on those summer nights. The other looked on with bewilderment in the eyes. The other body stood up, and moved to the trash can where the love-struck cricket was deposited into the black bag. What will you do today? Whatever you ask of me, love.

Then let me give you this list. One, please get dinner for tonight. Two, pick up the clothes from the dry cleaners. Three, Amelia has a kombucha tea mother for me. Take the jar on the counter to her and she’ll know what to do. Four, take my check to the credit union and deposit it. That should do it. That is a rather lengthy list, I should be leaving.

Feet and legs hurried towards the coat rack, grabbing a pea coat off of its hook and putting it on. A scarf for wrapping around the neck. And then a set of hands buttons up the buttons. A peck on the lips. See you tonight. Yes, I’ll see you tonight. And lips kissed lips good-bye one more time.

Roger returned having completed each task. A body that moved with the precision of an incredibly important solider with incredibly important tasks that must be carried out.

Hands were busy that night chopping vegetables and preparing meat. Fingers were busy that night stay away from the sharp serrated edges of the knives. And when all was said and done a delicious stir-fry meal was created. Hands picked up chopsticks, chopsticks picked up food, arms moved to the food to the mouth, incisors tore the fleshy meat, molars ground everything into a thicker paste, the tongue pushed it all down with a swallow and gulp.

That night was a relaxing one. After dinner was a movie, a romantic comedy that was acclaimed to be above average by most film critics. The two bodies were wrapped in a microfleece blanket as the disc spun around within the DVD player, the colors of the bodies on the television screen.

The bodies feel into sleep that way. Never making it to the bed; never making it past the couch.

Four hours passed before she woke up, finding herself colder than usual. Roger’s body was cold, frozen stiff. No. No. No. She ran quickly to grab her cellphone. She flipped it open, nearly ripping the top half clean off. She pressed * and then then number 1 and the phone’s display flashed quickly as it began dialing “Speed Dial #1.” As the phone dialed she moved to the hutch, pulling open the top drawer with force. Inside she found a manila envelope that had Roger silkscreened in a bold typeface. She undid the string on the back and removed a glossy sheet.

Please enter your 17-digit pin.

She punched: 2-5-9-9-9-8-4-3-1-1-0-5-9-5-5-6-7.

Thank you, please hold.

She didn’t hold for very long before a voice came on the line.

Mrs. Gibson, my name is Hamilton. How can I help you?

It’s Roger! He’s done it again. She was panicked.

One moment. The operator on the other line was typing, was pulling up records. Mrs. Gibson this is the sixth time in four months that Roger has malfunctioned. We’ll send a box along with a crew and a replacement in the morning.

But...







Dial tone.