A Certain Man

I don't exactly understand how things ended up the way they are, but well—oh well?

He started out as some shady figure in the background, lurking around like a toothache waiting to happen. I dismissed his existence entirely, simply because he was as intriguing as a wooden log, and when he spoke, he had the charm of one, too. And his eyes didn't move. They never moved. A friend of mine saw him once (it was an accident, she never saw him again), and said he had the eyes of a fish. I guess he does. Big, round, bulging eyes that looked at you squarely in the face and just stared without emotion. His features weren't particularly handsome on their own, and when added up, they weren't homely, but not exactly attractive either. All in all he was bland, in both looks and personality.

Yet here I am, sprawled on his bedroom floor, multiple pairs of underwear scattered about (he insists on putting on a fresh pair right after we're done). He's in the bathroom, brushing his teeth (he insists on brushing his teeth afterwards, too). Him and his toothpaste kisses, they always taste like mint Aquafresh. I can't fucking stand it. It reminds me of that first hour at school; when everybody's sulking miserably in their seats, missing the warm comfort of their beds.

We're not really dating, though many would make that assumption. To be honest, I don't really know what we are. I frequent his place whenever I feel the need to; after a particularly nasty fight with my boyfriend, after a shit day at work, early in the morning or late at night. He's become my sanctuary, my very own island retreat. Whenever the world proved too much (or not enough), I'd come knocking on his door; one, two, three, and before I get to the fourth he would swing it open and say, "How can I be of service, miss?"

  And to his amusement I would say, "Love me."

(Only it's not really love, but another four-letter word. And he never finds it amusing.)

He doesn't say much. In fact, he hardly says anything at all. Maybe it's because I never shut up; going on about every single detail of my life. Sometime it's about my day at work, other times it's some random memory from my childhood—but whatever I'm talking about, he listens as if it's the most fascinating thing he's ever heard. And once I'm done, he'd give me one of his smiles. His entire face would wrinkle and fold into itself, like a deflated balloon, all except his eyes; his eyes would always remain unfazed.

"Do you want something to eat?" he asked, in that calm voice of his. He was so soft-spoken, words would just pour out of his mouth like warm honey. I love his voice, I love the way he talks; I guess it's the only thing about him I truly like. Rather ironic, seeing as he hardly speaks at all.

Without really waiting for an answer (it wasn't really a question), he placed a tray on the floor and sat next to me, "Put something on, you'll get a cold."

"And here I was thinking you'd appreciate my naked form."

"I do." he said, picking up a pair of underwear and placing it carefully on my lap.

"It's dirty."

"Aren't you the one who's always agitated by my, what do you call it? Obsessive hygienic practices."

"Doesn't mean I want to wear your dirty underwear."

"It isn't dirty. Put it on."

I promptly obliged, sliding them over my thighs while he silently watches over, "Now eat."

God, I love it when he's like this; all sexual frustration and fatherly concern. He always made sure to tread on that delicate line between them, careful not to sway one way or the other. Sometimes I wished he wasn't so careful, that he would tilt whichever way he preferred; but I'm not really sure which side he'd choose, and I don't know which I'd rather he chose.

"And here I was thinking you'd ask for another go."

"I will, once you're done eating."