The Rush

And Then I Knew (Prompt Any Image  (122 Brian crying) & the word: Box)
 

The world stopped and then I knew. I knew all the answers to the questions I never allowed myself to ask. I never thought that I deserved to have them as anything more than passing thoughts. I've been lying to myself all these years. I can't lie anymore, not when I have the answers.

You know you are a good advertising executive when you yourself can become a product anyone will wait in line to buy. You know you are an even better one when your own mind starts to believe your fantasy and the things you've always hated about yourself are buried so deep inside of you. Your world and the people within it have adjusted to the unyielding image. You are now in demand. If you think for a moment, you'll be allowed to change, to grow. You are sorely mistaken.

That's me. The one stuck in a pre-made highly manufactured box. Or, it was me. Before he came along... before I became what I am today.

I didn't have to be the one to spend time in unwrapping myself. He showed more patience in the unwrapping of me than I could have ever expected from anyone else. He was the only one who persevered and actually pulled out my operating manual. It freighted me and thrilled me when he started to read the indecipherable words. He learned how I worked, what my qualities and flaws were. He handled me like I was fragile, but also, priceless. Enough so that it actually ended up making me stronger.

I got accustomed to him like a touch that was like no other. I started to crave it all. I was no longer an item. I was still Peter Pan, but he'd been the one that made me into a real boy.

When I first walked in and saw him there, I felt so relieved when I saw the amused expression on his face. He didn't make a big deal of my presence, but I could see it in his eyes that he wanted to. They played that song and we danced.

We danced in an ecstasy of joy all the way back to the jeep, singing the lyrics like a bunch of drunken Irishmen who'd down too much whiskey. But I hadn't had a drink, and I know he hadn't either. To put it bluntly, we were drunk on love. There was no other way to describe it. I know... who would ever believe that I would feel this way? Who would have dared to think that I would actually use that line to describe the feelings that I felt that night? Certainly not me. I would not have allowed those thoughts to even formulate themselves into my mind, and ever more so... into my heart. I have another one of those cheesy little thoughts too. But I won't share them. It's still private to me.

There isn't much more that I can bring myself to say about the dance that doesn't make me want to scream so loud the hospital staff would think that I was the one that had been nearly murdered. That is if he hasn't been. I don't know yet. I'm still waiting. I try to force my mind to relive only those beautiful days where he was alive and well. I wouldn't dare picture anything else.

But it is possible that any horrible images of what has happened can actually reflect in reality. It's possible that my screaming his name did more damage than it did good. My throat pushed out the warning too late. My mind had been momentarily disconnected from my body at the sight of this unsuspecting person's approach. I just knew what was coming but I my disbelief that it would happen to him caused me to freeze in time.

The swing of the bat and the crunch of his skull connecting with it came not a second later. He fell to the ground... lifeless... the bat dropped beside him as his attacker tried to walk away like nothing had happened. How I wish nothing had, but it did. Otherwise, I wouldn't have been the one to lift his limp body into my arms. I shouted to a God I didn't even believe in. I cried as I clutched him to me, breathed in the scent of his blood, and leaned down to kiss his lips. I would never have known what it felt like to place my mouth on top of his and feel absolutely no breath. No life.

The events carried on from the parking garage to the hospital are a complete blur to me. I don't think I'll ever be able to sort it out. But I'm here now. I'm real. He made me real. He made me grow up. I'm not a lost boy any longer. I feel it all and it's because of him.

I'm sitting in a cold plastic chair wondering if the blood I'm wearing contains the drops that passed through our lips during what may have been our last kiss. I'm remembering that smile, the first time I saw it. I'd never seen it as bright as it was tonight and it was only for me. Am I selfish to think that it was? He'd never smiled like that before he met me. I was the beginning. But was I now, also, the end? Would the blood on the scarf around my neck be what would tie me to him for the rest of my life? Would my tears be enough to express my guilt in all of this?

It was that memorable kiss that we shared in front of all his classmates that provoked the attacker. I'm sure of it. He was disgusted by it because of his own jealousy and insecurity. His inner violence was unleashed because of an act of love.

I am disgusted with myself for getting carried away. I should have known better than to think anything with us would be simple.

Would he want me to save these tears? Would he want me to wipe them away? I'm so numb with my want for his life that I can't bring myself to even try to stop crying or clean my face. My mouth tastes coppery from when I kissed him last. The blood poured from his mouth into mine unexpectedly and I tore myself away shocked. I thought for a moment that maybe I was the Prince trying to awaken my blond beauty.

My skin is sticky from blood and sweat. I feel so detached from it all that I'm not sure I'm even alive right now so I could care less what the packaging looks like.

I am real. Deep down, it's what I've always wanted to be. But without him, I have no light to illuminate this darkness. I want him here to comfort me. I want to switch places with him. I want to have a chance to read his manual. I want him in my life. I don't want to roll the end credits now. I want him to live. I want to un-wrap him carefully and take my time with every piece that is revealed to me. I want to let myself smile only for him, once again. I want to make him feel like the Prince. I want it all. I don't care if it hurts. I'll get through the pain.

When he turned and looked at me, right before he walked away. It was then that I knew why he was called Sunshine. I knew then that I knew I loved him. I knew then, that I would always want to see him smile. And he will. I'll make sure of that.

 

**
 

3Some (Prompt: Screenwriting)

 

(The scene opens with the camera fading in and quickly circling around a busy, loud diner. It slows and pauses on the door way as the jingling of the bells on the door are barely heard over the restaurants ruckus. A tall, gorgeous auburn haired man enters and looks around the crowded establishment. His gaze rests on the line of booths against the windows to the right and he walks down the cramped isle, stopping and sitting in a booth's empty seat across from a short black haired man.)

"Hey Mikey."

"That seat is reserved."

"Ha! For who? Do you have a dinner date?"

"No. It's reserved for a friend."

"Hmm... Well, I am your best friend so I think that qualifies."

"Yeah, if you were Brian Kinney."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I don't even know who you are anymore Brian."

"What is your malfunction Mikey? Do I need to get out my driver's license and show you I.D. or what?"

"I told you I don't..."

"You don't even know who I am anymore."

"This isn't funny."

"No, you're right. It's not. It's pathetic."

"Briiiaann!"

(A red haired older woman, pops up at the end of their booth. She smiles at the boys and pops her gum as she holds a pad of paper and pen in her hands.)

"What can I get my boys?"

"A clue."

"We don't serve that on the menu Brian. Though, there are times I wish we did. What's going on between you two? I could smell the tension over the pink plate special."

"Ma! This isn't funny."

"What isn't darling?"

"Deb, your son here seems to think I'm not Brian Kinney."

"Oh, baby, are you sick."

"Get your hands off my forehead. I don't have a fever. I'm not sick."

"Temporary blindness maybe? Cause I'm pretty sure that boy across from you is Brian Kinney."

"He is but he isn't. I don't want to discuss this with you. It's between Brian and me."

"Right. So, Brian who isn't Brian Kinney, are you going to order dinner?"

"Turkey on whole wheat, hold the mayo, and..."

"A cup of coffee. I'm not sure why I asked."

"Are you calling me predictable, Debbie?"

"Well if the..."

"Ma, I'll have a ham salad sandwich, chips and a Dr. Pepper."

"There better be a please at the end of that I missed?"

"Please mother?"

"Now, that's my good boy. It'll be out in a jiff."

(The waitress turns and leaves them. Hustling out of the camera's sight as it turns back onto the two men.)

"Stop snickering, Brian."

"I can't help it. It doesn't matter how many times I see it, Mikey."

"Shut up, Brian."

"You're such a petulant child. But I love you."

"Right."

"Quit pouting and tell me why you're so pissed off. I really don't think I've actually done anything that..."

"I don't expect you to apologize for not meeting me at Babylon last night. I'm sure something came up."

"What are you talking about? I never told you I'd be there."

"Of course not. No commitments right?"

"Mikey, I told you that I might not be able to make it out. You saw how freaked Justin was last night at Gus' party."

"Don't. Okay? Just don't. It's like I said. I don't even know you. Ever since I came back from Portland you've been a completely different person."

"What did you think was going to happen? I have responsibilities."

"Hmpf. You have responsibilities?"

"You're damn right he does."

(Suddenly the red haired woman is back, this time she's slid herself in beside Brian. Her face is tight knit and she glares across the table at her son.)

"Ma, I thought I told you this is between me and Brian. Aren't you working."

"Don't take that tone with me, young man. I'm allowed to take a break until your orders up."

"Fine."

"Don't pout, Michael. It'll give you jowls. Now back to you and Brian. What's this about you not thinking he has responsibilities."

"I know he has responsibilities, Ma. One of those responsibilities is being my best friend."

"So now I'm your best friend am I?"

"Brian, of course you are. I just don't like the way you've been acting lately. It's scaring me."

"What? Because I haven't been out every night partying? Like I said. Justin was really freaked after remembering the attack. I couldn't leave him alone at the loft."

"He isn't you're responsibility."

"Sunshine is his responsibility, Michael. Not only that, but Justin is who Brian's number one priority is. Isn't that right, Brian?"

"Put the evil eye away, Deb. I'm not arguing with you. We're in complete agreement for once. Mikey is going to have to get over the fact that he doesn't come first in my life."

"What? Brian how could you say that?"

"Michael. You were the first one to get to the hospital that night. How could you think that it'd be anyone but him right now?"

"Brian Kinney, I don't think I've ever been prouder of you than I am right now. Mwwah!"

"Thanks, Deb."

"Brian, I get that you were messed up by it. I do. But that doesn't mean that you have to baby sit him 24/7. He's an adult and can take care of him self! He doesn't need you. I do!"

"Michael, you need to watch your mouth."

"No Ma, I won't."

"Deb, do me a favor and put my sandwich in a box when it comes up. I'll meet you at the register."

"Brian..."

"It's fine Deb. And, wrap up a couple of lemon bars too."

"Sure."


(The waitress gets up and once again leaves the two men alone facing one another intently.)


"What do you think you need me for, Michael?"

"You're my best friend, Brian."

"You don't seem to think I'm acting like one. Hell, you seem to think that means something totally different than what I do. And, actually it's you Mikey who isn't acting like one, not at all."

"Don't go."

"Listen, Mikey. You seem to think you need me and you are wrong. You survived this whole time in Portland with the Doc with out me and you're still alive. I survived with out you too."

"We'll always need each other Brian it's what..."

"Mikey, you don't get it do you?"

"No, I don't. Why are acting like this. I don't get why you won't just spend a little time with me. Justin's a big boy. He can take care of himself."

"No. He can't."

"Of course he can. That little shit's been..."

"The little shit's had brain damage, Michael. Brian Damage! He wasn't dropped on his head as a baby, like you apparently were..."

"Brian!"

"He was beaten in the head with a baseball bat. He's scared of everyone. He gets panic attacks from just about anything okay? And it isn't his fault. We can be sitting on the couch watching television together, like, like before....and in a split second he'll be having an attack, screaming and crying and blind to the world around him. He gets so consumed by fear that he can't breath, and sometimes he throws up or passes out. Those are the good panic attacks. The ones I've learned to deal with, at least as much as I can.."

"Brian, I..."

"Don't. You let me finish!"

"Okay."

"In the middle of the night he has nightmares. I'm not talking ghosts and goblins here, Mikey. If I'm not already awake from the one previous ones, watching over him, he usually ends up hitting me awake with one of his flailing limbs. You see, sometimes I can't wake him up from the nightmares. Sometimes I just have to move him to the middle of the bed so he doesn't roll off and hurt himself. I sit there, helpless, waiting. I just watch as his body jolts around and hope for it to stop. When it does at some point, long enough for his mind to calm down so he wakes on his own he usually has a panic attack. He won't let me touch him but he begs for me not to leave him. He cries and yells and looks at me, wanting to be in my arms. I cry too, cause I want him in them. I want to hold him and make him better. I want to be strong for him. I want to touch him. But he won't let me. Until last night. After he remembered the attack we finally made love for the first time."

"Brian!"

"Shocked are you? I know. I said made love, Mikey. Amazing isn't it? But that's what it was. It wasn't fucking and it didn't have a damn thing to really do with sex. It was all about him finally be free enough to allow me touch him and for him to let me be really with him. It was such a rush."

"I can't believe your telling me this, Brian."

"But you won't tell anyone, will you, Mikey? You're my best friend, and best friends keep secrets right?"

"Yes, yes, Brian. Of course."

"So then because you are my best friend, you have to understand why it is that Justin is my priority. You see then why I stay with him. It isn't only because I'm the only person he trusts right now. That is true, but it's more than that Mikey."

"Yeah."

"You understand why I chose to stay in with him and make love to him last night, instead of going out clubbing with you. Not to mention the fact that it pains Justin that he isn't ready to go yet. But you understand don't you, Mikey? He needs me. And I need him to need me. More than anyone else."

"Yes, Brian, I do."

(The camera pans back and the two men stand and embrace in a quick hug.)

"Thanks, Mikey."

"No problem, that's what friends are for."

(The camera moves to follow the gorgeous man as he walks up to the counter behind the register where the waitress is standing, smiling at him. She hands over a paper bag.)

"Twenty cover it, Deb?"

"Of course. I went ahead and put in a cheeseburger and fries for Sunshine."

"Thanks."

"You gonna tell me what you and my son were whispering about over there."

"Nope."

"Didn't think so. Tell Sunshine we miss him around here."

"I will. Bye, Debbie."

"See you later, you little asshole."

(The camera follows Brian as he walks over to the door and opens it. The scene ends and the camera fades to the jingling of the bells on the door.)
 

**

Loss and Leases (Prompt: Any Event (Prom) Word: Trapped


 

When I woke up the first time I had no idea where I was. As soon as my eyes started to flutter open I could hear a voice calling my name, but then I fell back into the abyss from which I'd briefly awoken. The second time, I had more feeling in my body and it ached as if I'd been hit by a truck. Turns out, it was a baseball bat.

The breathing tube in my throat made it impossible and painful to pronounce any of the questions I wanted to ask about my surroundings. It didn't matter though. I was alone this time. There was no soft squeeze of a hand in my curled fist. My name was not spoken from my mother's lips in a worried, yet relieved gasp.

My ears heard beeps and noises that got louder the more I became aware of myself and of my body's existence in the cold space it occupied. A chemical sting assaulted my nose and I so badly wanted to lift my arm and scratch the burning tingles the air left in my nostrils. I was too weak, but I would learn that it was much more than that. My eyes felt raw and crusty as I looked up to the ceiling above. My head throbbed along with my heart. The lights were low in the room, but the overhead light above made me realize that I was in a hospital bed. It shone bright and irritated my eyes and mind to a point in which I could not fight them from closing again.

My last thoughts were of the large bandage that I could see out of the corner of my eye. I wondered how it had gotten there. It was painstakingly obvious that the agony I felt was caused by what was hidden underneath the white material. I didn't score 1500 on my S.A.T.'s for nothing.

The third time I woke up was the last time I'd have any sleep that wasn't attended by nightmares and fear of the unknown for a long, long time. I had no way of knowing that I had my very own guardian watching over me every night. Doctors rushed around me, touching me, prodding me, and asking me questions. All I wanted them to do was to leave me alone. Not to come so close to me. To not touch me! I could clearly see them all and hear their words of comfort that did nothing to ease the distress I felt from being completely overwhelmed with their existence.

They thought I was scared because I'd just come out of a coma, but I had no idea why I was in one in the first place. It wasn't only that. It was so much more. I flinched and bucked away from them like a rodeo bull that'd been tormented while caged far too many times. I hated them all. I wanted to die or go back into that dull sleep I'd come from. At this point, it was my only means of escape.

They didn't know that my moaning and screaming around the plastic going down my throat was because I was scared of them. Of all of them, even my own mother. She tried to calm me with soothing words, but they were all strange to me. Her touch was strange to me. It made my skin crawl and burn as if I'd been branded by each gesture. I hated her too. My mother, the one who had sat bedside me until I'd woken up.

She told me later that the second time I awoke, she had only begrudgingly gone to the bathroom in fear that she would miss her last chance of ever seeing my eyes on hers again. I only loved her then.

Weeks passed and I was able to look in the mirror at myself without cringing. I was able to think that one day I would truly get my beauty back. I thought that if I didn't look so broken, perhaps I wouldn't feel that way either. My blond hair had grown back from where they had shaved the spot, hiding the outward scar but doing nothing to hide all of the inner wounds. They had drilled into my skull to release the blood that had built up, but they released much more than that.

I had died. I died while they were operating, piecing together my brain, stitching together and separating pieces that should have been or shouldn't have ever been touched. Touchy subject touch was.

I knew nothing of what my mother and friends referred to as 'The Bashing'. I had no memory of the prom, the couple of the days leading up to it or of a dance that I was told was so romantic that it sounded completely unreal, and it was... to me.

In my head, it was a story that had happened to someone else. Yet, I owned its climax so vividly that I couldn't escape from the fall that came after every good release. I couldn't bring myself to turn the pages and put more ink on the blankness of the page when I didn't truly believe what was written before them. I didn't believe the words I wrote because they were as foreign to me as if they had been scripted in a language I knew with certainty that I could never learn.

She blamed him... my mother. She blamed my guardian angel. Though I had no idea my lover and my guardian angel were the same person until years later. How I doubted my visions or my gut instinct is beyond me now, but there was so much doubt back then it only seemed right that I didn't see all that he had done. She blamed me in retrospect; though, I'm not sure she realized it.

By blaming what she thought was only a lifestyle I could pick or choose to have; it meant in turn that she blamed me for being who I was born to be. I couldn't be some different version me, not in that way or a version of me that would appeal to others. My attacker could not have that too. My mother didn't look at it that way though, not consciously. When she realized that I was better off being who I was and loving who I was despite what happened, she finally blamed who was really at fault. My attacker.

I blamed hate. Oh, I blamed the near-murderer too, don't get me wrong. I blamed a boy I'd grown up with. A boy that I had lustful thoughts of; a boy who had returned my affections and then hated himself for it; a boy who would never be man enough; a boy that would never know the true measure of a man; a boy who had become jealous of me, of me and the loving relationship I had with my man; and a boy, by these results, must have been insecure of his own sexuality.

We had what he never could: the ability to overcome hate and fear and the strength to express our love for one another, no matter the cost. The boy couldn't have done that because he was consumed with hate and fear to the point that his jealousy and frustration with himself came out with violence.

Even though I couldn't remember our footsteps or the music, I could never forget the beat of his heart that was always beside mine. I felt it that first night and it was the only thing I could bare to be close enough to feel then. He was always the one.

He tried to recreate that dance with me; the dance that we had shared at my prom where all of my classmates stood in awe at the love that reverberated between us. My arm and hand shook from the exertion of simply touching him. Not because I was so excited to be near him for once, but because of my insecurities. My shorter legs were clumsy against his long strong ones as we danced to a song I mistakenly told him I thought was corny.

The pain in his hazel eyes clearly showed guilt and sadness at my statement. The mist that clouded over them, added to the tortured expression on his handsome face which was almost too much to bare. I became frustrated and wished that I could remember. I hated myself in that moment for making this more painful for him. He then told me he wished I'd been there with him in his memories of the dance. As if I wasn't truly there. That hurt, but it was true. He later told me he wished he could forget. His voice choked with emotions I wished he never had to feel in the first place. I only hoped it was the pain that he wanted gone and not the memory he had of his declaration of love to me.

We stared into each other's eyes, my blue eyes apologizing for so many things that I couldn't change and I saw his love and regret in his own. He was so far away from me then, away from us, trapped inside a tragic memory until I took him into my arms. I was able to touch him and comfort him but I was not ready for the full impact of his touch quite yet.

All of it, made me realize that every time I'd listen or even think about the song in the future, that word would never describe what the lyrics and music meant to us, to him that night. It had only been ridiculously romantic. I didn't remember the dance or being hit in the head with the bat. Not for a while. I didn't remember the sound of his voice calling my name to warn me, making me turn my head at just the right angle which, by chance, caused me to live. I didn't remember any of that until a child's birthday present brought it all into swinging focus.

His child's first birthday, the anniversary of the night we met. Irony seems to take cheap shots at he and I. Of course, with what I did remember, I was still left without the memory of the dance, of the beauty I'm sure we were in each other's arms until it was stolen from us. From me and tainting him. Instead I held onto him, buried my head into his chest, and swayed as the images raced behind my eyelids. I clutched his shirt in my fists, my entire body seized up with each new revelation. He held me and grounded me like he'd done so many times before, whispering his love with actions as his words soothed my ears, breaking into the manic inside my head.

I was able to accept his touch the way I had before so many times. I was able to feel him deeper within me than either of us would have ever thought was possible. I wasn't scared of getting too close. The only fear between us that night was the fear of having to let go. He didn't say those three letter words. It would take another near-death experience years later for me to hear those words, but I saw them in every change of his eyes and I heard them with every kiss of his lips.

I still could not let anyone touch me but him. Every time I went out in public it was a test to see whether or not I could hold it together long enough to reach him, to stand by his side. I could remember the times that I walked proudly and without fear and that perhaps frustrated me even more, because I could not understand why it was so hard for me to do something that seemed so normal.

Why couldn't I walk a block down the street by myself in broad daylight? Why in the sunshine was I still afraid of the dark? Why did someone bumping into me cause sweat immediately to run out of my pours and my blood to run cold?

He held my tired cramped hand until I was able to do that on my own. I absorbed his soft warm skin into my gimp hand like a miracle salve for the soul. With that new sense of freedom, I realized that there was still so much more to overcome.

I was an artist. I wanted to draw, paint, and sketch the feelings within me. I needed them to pour out of me so badly. I knew that the paper or the canvas would not be frightened and would not forsake my dark thoughts and my anger. The canvas could not hurt me when I expressed my love for him, my lover.

It was made evident over a short time, that I had no tool left within me anymore. I was trying to sketch my muse only to see his beautiful shape molested, there would be no art. I had lived. But, had I really? I had no form of expression left within me anymore.

How could I go on without being able to create? How was I supposed to express myself, my need to be an artist, when my hand was as unsteady as a two year old holding a crayon?

I would have been happy coloring inside lines, but it wasn't only that. The injury to my brain had caused the nerves in my right arm and hand to short circuit, and it was painful training my muscles in therapy to make up for the lack of my brain function. I was taught to pick up a paperclip, it hurt to curl my hand around a tennis ball, but for some reason I thought I could just go back to drawing again. There was no way I could forget how to do that! Right?

I hadn't forgotten. I had lost the control and the ability to a hold a pencil for more than five minutes without my hand balling up into a fist so tight, that my fingernails would cut deeply into my palms. There was nothing I could do. There was no quick therapy for my gimp hand. The miracle salve may have been transferred through that hand but it hadn't retained any of its healing ability. The hope to release all of my anger at what had happened to me and to him was so palpable. I could see a million works of art coming from it before my eyes. The injustice that occurred so unfairly wanted to burst forth into my art, as everything from me always had. But it couldn't.

I had to learn new ways to achieve simple techniques of drawing, by using a computer that he bought for me. Of course my anger at what I thought was false hope kept me from it at first. However, the pull of inspiration my lover constantly was to me, brought me toward accepting my new self.

I had to learn how to walk down the street again by myself. He had taught me.
I had to learn to let go of who I thought I would be and take steps to become the man I would be. He built those steps. I learned that I wasn't the only one who had been hit. My physical and emotional injuries were inside him as well. He had been witness to it all and had felt guilty. Not only because of what my mother had said to him that made him stay away from me at first, but because he had felt helpless.

I learned that I had to help ease his guilt and pain to ease my own. I loved him. I had to learn to control the anger that welled up inside of me, anger I wanted to unleash on the boy that had hurt me, that had taken away so much of my life. Years later, I had the opportunity to move on, away from him, and I did.

I also had to learn what real love was. It was everything he gave me, everything he was to me, everything we were together, and everything we grew to be. I learned to love my new art. He always thought I was talented, but now he thinks I'm brilliant. I learned all about the love I had for him. It grew as I did, as we did.

I learned to love myself. He loved me to the point that he gave me everything I ever dreamed of. And I had to learn to have love for the loss. It made me appreciate the gain. How else could I grow otherwise? How else could I not let my attacker win? How else could I still be beside him and him beside me?

There is no other way. There are only so many new leases. There are far fewer new chances at life.

**

Good Morning (Prompt: Double Dialogue)

 

"Mmmm."

"Morning, sleepy head."

"Well that's one way to wake up."

"I know of many other ways to get you up."

"Why don't you get up here and I'll return the favor."

"No time, Sunshine."

"Ouch! No hitting. My ass is sore!"

"You need to get that bubble butt into the shower."

"It's only noon. I don't want to get up."

"Get your head out of the pillows and under the shower head. You are giving a perfect example of Michael's whine. I'm
going to have to name you Michael Junior. I definitely don't see any Sunshine in this bed."

"Fuck you! I'm going back to bed. Wait, did you say shower and head?"

"Yes, I did. Now, get in the shower because your therapist is going to be here soon."

"What?"

"Did I stutter? Is your brain so sated that it's made it impossible for you to understand a simple sentence?"

"No. What I can't understand is why my mother is paying to have him come here. You know she can't afford it."

"You're right. She can't, but I can. So get up and meet me in the shower. I'm tired of repeating myself. You're making me sound like I'm your..."

"Daddy?"

"Do you want me to get the..."

"I'm coming. I'm coming."

"I'll see about that as soon as you meet me in the bathroom."

"Yeah, yeah. I told you. I'm getting up!"
 

**********

"Christ! That water is scalding hot! Why do I have to remind you every single..."

"Shut up already! I'm turning the hot water down."

"Why did you have it up in the first place?"

"I had to do something to get this crusty..."

"Oh, stop complaining and scoot over."

"Me, complaining? You were the one who came in here complaining to me, 'Oh Brian, the water is too hot. I can't take it on
my oh-so-sensitive-porcelain-creamy-alabaster skin."

"Fuck off! Wait... you just called my skin creamy?"

"Did you also hear the mocking tone in my voice? Or did you, as usual, only zero in on the one sickeningly sweet word of my sentence?"

"Of course I did. It was ridiculously romantic!"

"Shut up, Sunshine."

"No Brian. I think you should show me how much you love my creamy sensitive skin."

"Hand me the body wash."

"Thank you, Brian. Now, don't forget to get the really-dirty-hard-to-reach areas."

"What are you? A commercial for Lever 2000?"

"If you want to look at it that way. Now concentrate on finding part one thousand twenty-one."

"Oh? What part is that, Justin?"

"Do I really need to spell it oou...ohhhh."

"Did I find it?"

"Oh, yeah. You found it all right."

"What number is this spot?"

"I...don't....think.....they....considered...that....one."

"Well they need to change the name of their product then don't they?"

"Yesssss!"

"Are you feeling better about waking up early?"

"Yes, thank you."

**********

 

"You're welcome, Sunshine."

"Huh? What?"

"I think I may have to put an end to our mourning activities if it's causing such huge lapses in your memory."

"You can try and distract me all you want. But I'm sure you were using my mental lapses to your advantage. By the way, I haven't forgotten what you did, Brian."

"I didn't do anything you weren't begging for."

"I don't recall begging you to pay for a private physical therapist to come to the loft."

"Hence, the mental lapses."

"Hey! Don't walk away from me!"

"This is me going to the kitchen. I can hear you from anywhere in the loft and even if I couldn't I'm sure you'd be following
me anyway. You always do."

"Uh!"

"Stop looking at me like that. Here, eat this quick. The guy's going to be here any minute."

"I don't want any fucking cheerios! I want you to tell me why you did this!"

"It's not a big deal. I'll get you a cup of coffee."

"Brian, look at me."

"Hmm?"

"You did not have to do this."

"It's just better this way. A little cream, right?"

"Brian, stop. What are you talking about? The arrangements were fine the way it was."

"Yeah, well now it's even better."

"Fine. It's too early for me to understand your evasive answers. We'll talk when you get home."

"Uh, where am I going?"

"To work."

"I'm wearing jeans and a tank top. Does it look like I'm going to work?"

"Fine. Wherever you are going then, when you get back from there we will talk about this."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Well, you don't need to worry about me being here. The therapist will be here. It's not like I'll be alone for too long. Now,
why haven't you gotten dressed for work yet?"

"I already told you Sunshine, I'm not going to work, or anywhere for that matter. Now eat your fucking cheerios."

"God! Do you know how much you sound like Debbie?"

"Justin."

"Brian."

"Justin! Are you asking me to compare your maturity to Mikey's again?"

"Fine, fine. I'll eat my fucking cheerios."

"Good."

"Thanks for making me breakfast by the way."

"I poured milk into a bowl of oats."

"In which I am eating for breakfast."

"Whatever."

"Mmmmm, these are good."

"Be careful."

"What?"

"The way you're shoveling that down your throat. Could be potentially problematic. See? You were hungry."

"I'm always hungry."

"Just eat already."

"Vu don hafa ve beer."

"Don't talk with your mouth full."

"Ha! You didn't seem to mind last night."

"If I haven't taught you the difference by now I'm not sure I ever can!"

"I'm all done."

"What? Justin, do you even taste it going down?"

"Oh, I always taste it... especially going down."

"Ha. Ha."

"Are you going to see Mikey? The session shouldn't last too long so..."

"Are you trying to get rid of me?"

"No. It's just the session is probably going to be really boring. You'll have much more fun with Mikey."

"If I wanted to have fun today, I'd go to the baths."

"Oh. So you're sticking around the loft?"

"I said I wasn't going anywhere, Sunshine."

"I know, but...."

"Justin, will you fucking drop it already?"

"Yeah, I just..."

"Listen to me Justin. Are you listening?"

"Yeah."

"I'm right where I need to be."

THE END

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