A Proscriptive Relationship

A Proscriptive Relationship: 13

"This is my apartment," Mr. Heywood said, opening the white oak door to apartment two hundred and fifteen. "Sorry, it's kind of messy... I'm missing a lady's hand, you know?"

            Raising an eyebrow at him, I stepped into the apartment. It was too dark to see anything so I stood idly by the door, feeling Mr. Heywood brush past me. Seconds later light flooded the room. I surveyed the room while slipping off my shoes. It seemed like Mr. Heywood liked to color code. A love seat, a recliner, and a couch that surrounded a large plasma television were all made out of the same crimson leather that matched the color of the paint on the walls. White pillows were set up on the furniture, matching the trimming of the room. There was a deep brown coffee table in the middle of the furniture, and on it was a small bowl of candy, filled with M&Ms. A large shelf of DVDs was set up next to the television.

There were a few magazines and newspapers scattered around on the ground, a few dishes were on the coffee table, and a few jackets were tossed on the backs of the furniture, but other than that it looked rather clean to me. Especially for a single man living alone.

            "It's actually a nice place," I finally commented, going over to the leather sofa and pushing my hand into it. "And clean."

            Mr. Heywood chuckled, picking up some of the dishes off the coffee table. "Thanks. Are you hungry?"

            As if on cue, my stomach rumbled. I looked down in embarrassment while Mr. Heywood snickered.

            "I'll take that as a yes. I'll order some pizza. Take a seat and make yourself at home. Is pepperoni alright?"

            "Yep."

            Mr. Heywood disappeared into the kitchen and I walked up to the T.V, picking up a photo off the stand, and looking at it. A younger Mr. Heywood was standing with two people I assumed to be his parents. He had a carefree grin on, his messy hair falling in his face. His jaw had the same low, square structure as it did in the present. Smiling, I set the picture down and wandered out of the living room, going into the hallway attached.

            The first door was open, revealing a very clean and white bathroom. For moment I was tempted to see what kind of shampoo Mr. Heywood used but I forced myself away. What was I, a stalker? The next door was the laundry room— which showed Mr. Heywood's true nature. Piles of laundry that nearly reached the ceiling resided there. I quickly shut the door and moved on. The last room was Mr. Heywood's bedroom.

            Pausing by the door I stuck my head in and looked around. It was a pretty average room. The walls were brown, and the floor was made out oak wood. Another large flat screen T.V was on the wall, and there was a big, brown, leather couch across from it. A large king sized bed was placed against the far corner of the room. To my surprise, it was made. The comforter was the same color as the walls, and the pillow sheets lighter shades of brown and white. Mr. Heywood was very coordinated.

            Just as I sat down on the leather couch in the living room, Mr. Heywood came out of the kitchen, holding the phone. He put it back on the receiver by the door and took a seat on the couch next to me, turning on the T.V. "Do you want to watch anything in particular?" he inquired, giving me a sidelong glance.

            I shook my head, keeping my hands clasped tightly on my lap. Mr. Heywood flipped the channel to a soccer game, turning up the volume. My palms grew sweaty and I quickly wiped them on my pants. What was there to be so nervous about? Oh yeah. I was alone with my teacher, in his apartment, on his couch, with these feelings I was trying to force away before they came something. This situation wasn't helping at all— but it wasn't like I had any other choice. No one liked sleeping outside in the cold. And no one in his or her right mind would choose that over going to spend the night at someone like Mr. Heywood's house.