I sat in a butterfly position in the center of Wyatt's king sized bed. Every few minutes, I swore I heard my Mom's voice critiquing my posture, and I straightened my back. He had positioned himself against the headboard.
A box of Jūnihitoe tissue moved between us like a hot potato.
Paula, his housekeeper, informed me that Jūnihitoe referred to the historical Japanese 12 layered robe. Apparently, these were $90 a box. We chatted for so long I forgot why I had come over in the first place.
I sniffled and wiped at my hot eyelids. Thick salty tears dripped onto the soft colorful tissues.
For weeks, his father insisted that Wyatt get a hair cut. He claimed his hair was getting to a girlish length. Girlish being the euphemistic term. This morning, Mr. Maganlith had had enough. He took a hair trimmer and went to town.
Hair was a form of self expression and his dad took that from him. When would he see that Wyatt was his own person?
"I hate it," Wyatt muttered.
His energy knew no bounds but today it trickled out of him like blood from a wound. No sign of life behind those brown eyes.
"The nerve—" I squeezed a cloth bag full of Wyatt's hair. You look handsome son was written on an index card inside of it. I reached over and hung it on his closet door. It'd be throw it out when he was ready.
"I look like I'm enlisting," his thin lips curved into a bottomless frown. Paired with damp and bloodshot eyes he was the epitome of misery.
I rubbed my hand over the prickly edges of his buzzcut. Rough and jagged. It didn't suit him. It wasn't right.
"It'll grow back," I said in a soft voice. His pain was mine. As if my own hair had been cut off.
"He never listens."
"I'll listen."
I meant it. I would listen to every one of his incoherent ramblings if it meant putting a smile on his face.
"I'm acting like a little bitch—" he covered his face blaming the tears on allergies.
"Does my little bitch want to cuddle?" I attempted to lighten the mood.
"Zayde, you weren't suppo... Nevermind. Yes."
He turned to his side. I inched forward, occupying the space behind him. For boner related reasons, I was to be the big spoon. With my back against the mattress I slung my right arm over his chest.
I liked cuddling.
We didn't have to speak. I tried my best but I didn't know how to console him. I wasn't magically gifted with the right words, the right tone, the right cadence.
We were just there.
Existing.
And that was good enough.
In that moment I was good enough.