The Metaphysicist (Kill Your Darlings) | Featured

go to sleep, white devil

However, none of that vendetta business will occur if I simply use Lucien's bathroom, but how can I do that when there are unkempt toothbrushes practically everywhere? With the agility that old antique store owner says I retain inside this frail body of mine, and that old antique store owner happens to be one of my best friends, so I'll try just for him. Scooping in a great deal of energy, I leap onto a clean spot upon the alabaster tile where the toothbrushes dare not to enter, and my own toothbrush is nearly catapulted from my hand with the impact, but I ground it at the last moment, my breath jittering from it all.

I ready myself to brush my teeth, but I'm stopped prematurely by a concerned Lucien clad in a flannel and a tank top rushing into the bathroom, swinging around the threshold with most of his body sheathed in the mystery of the blue and white partition, and he jumps from jagged breaths like I do, both ushered into this state by the actions of each other. "What was that, Allen?"

Electing to ignore the question to redirect Lucien's focus to the atrocity called his water closet, I point towards the general space with convoluted gestures. "Do you see the wreck that is your bathroom?"

Lucien glances down at the mess upon the tile, bewilderment burrowed in the creases of his brow. "Why are there toothbrushes all over the floor?"

Does he seriously not know where these came from? It's his bathroom, not the bathroom of some straight boy who insists that this place is his because straight boys feel entitled to everything. He's definitely not straight, and shouldn't he be aware of where the toothbrushes originated from? Are they even his? Does he collect the saliva and bacteria from his family members or forgetful sleepover guests? Will I be next?

Despite every fear undulating inside of my mindset, I roll my eyes to opt for sarcasm. "I've been asking myself the same question."

A sigh sheets Lucien's esophagus, completely clueless about what this could be, until a burst of sunlight from his eyes contrasts violently with the dark of the night, and he grips an idea. "There's a cat who's been visiting my apartment for some reason. I don't know if it's a stray or hates sticking to one place, but sometimes it jumps through the window and knocks things over."

I glimpse the window to whom Lucien is referring, which he's conveniently left open to prove his point, the curtains waving their elongated fingers with the wind of the New Jersey city streets that is permitted to coast into the apartment because of Lucien's mistake of opening it and sustaining it like that.

Why has Lucien never thought of calling an animal shelter for the cat? He can't be sure whether or not the cat is a stray, but if he calls the animal police, then the owners may step forward and revise their parenting skills. On the contrary, Lucien is cold to the public -- not in an arrogant way, just in a way that prefers not being sociable when it isn't necessary -- so calling the animal services is off the table, and it's not like my stuttering self could call them, either, so I guess the cat is doomed to our hectic writing sessions and peculiar screaming for the sake of one of Lucien's philosophy lessons.

But the cat is the least of our problems, as the bathroom is irreparably dirty, and the cat isn't even here right now, so we'll deal with it when it actually is. For now, I devise a plan to brush my teeth while Lucien watches from the doorway, and that plan is to freeze myself in this position of safety and stretch far enough to spit into the sink, and I succeed with that through Lucien's amused expression that I wish he would cut out.

Next comes the most difficult part of choosing the sleeping arrangements, as there's only one queen sized bed, which is adequate for either one or two people, and Lucien may kick me out of it to sleep on the floor.

My companion notices my uncomfortableness about the arrangements, and it's not so much that I'm worried about sleeping with Lucien, rather that I'm worried about his responses to sleeping with me. Should I have toted a sleeping bag to his apartment? Because I don't have one, and I assume Lucien doesn't have one, either, but he's not the type of person to sleep on the floor or force anyone to sleep on the floor. That, or he's a homoerotic metaphysicist who will willingly invite me into the bed as if he's a child only seeking a bedtime story from a comforting person.