Easy Come, Easy Go (A Futurescape)

Very, very choppy. Not sure if I like it or not. Was written for a timed writing prompt, so I don't really have a desire to change it, as experimental as it is. About 37 minutes of writing, two hours editing. I know it's pretty odd still.

Easy Comes, Easy Go - A Futurescape

    We needed to buy curtains, I decided, as the morning sun came up, casting long shadows across your origami-sleeping shape. I pulled my medusa hair out of my eyes and roll over, my nose almost in between your shoulder blades. You never woke up, but, bear-like, grunted. You swatted at me like a big lion, but I did not mind.
    It was only 4:58 A.M., and I wondered if the sun was rising earlier these days, or if the world was somewhat a broken top, spinning haphazardly in such a way that wakes the sun up as much as it wakes me now. The sun was cold and hungry, and I wasn’t sure if I should wake you. Oh, I wanted to, I really did; I wanted to burry my face in your morning-wood pubes, thick with dew, and wake you in a slow, excited kind of way; but the way your face looked, there, on your pillow, all squished like a newborn kitten; well, it hurt. I let you sleep. You sweated out the bed, anyway.
    I put socks on my long, thin feet so the stairs wouldn’t creek as loudly as I tiptoed down them. Socks suck up all toe-friction that the carpet might make, so I was surprised (although I shouldn’t have been, and you need to fix this, Love,) as the fourth step near the bottom groaned. I wanted to make you breakfast, but you hate my cooking; I burn the pancakes every time, anyway.  I forget what happens after the bubble-side hits the oil.
    The fridge was a greeting like Christmas; even in the corner, our little Charlie Brown Tree was a old friend by now, old and brown and smelling a bit like egg nog, or maybe ancient nut meg. I said, “Hello, Tree,” and looked outside to the puddles of rainwater. I hadn’t heard it last night, but I knew you had; your insomniac brain listened as every drop pounded on your eyelids, making them heavy; but you could not sleep even still, because you were excited, and aroused, and I vaguely remember your hard-on, but I thought it was only a dream. You say you don’t dream. It must be scary to sleep in darkness. You turn the light off, and it’s dark, sure; but the eternal darkness that lurks inside your eyes, man…I tell you, I don’t like the thought. It’s too non-being.
    The fridge’s light poured out on me like an impressionist painting. Old, but warm, and dull, in a kind of way that excited me. Like e. e. cummings. I noticed we were low on milk. I took my pills with water. It’s terrible and I gagged, but I wanted you to have milk for your cereal.
    I make some toast and snack (in bad habit,) of some of the fudge we bought at the Adult Day Center. They have a bazaar every year around Christmas time, and we had made our sweets last, much to my sweet-tooth dismay. Another day in Arcata, California. Our apartment is small, but it’s really the best home I’ve ever had. It’s these quiet, lonely hours that make me realize it is my home, and I made it; but you are my roommate and my beau, the one I share my c**t with. (Which reminds me, we’re out of condoms; but that doesn’t bother me as much as it bothers you.) I’d be extra lonely without you here, love; I’d be out of sync and my routine would fail. I wish you would wake up.
    Toast pops up. I put some nutella on it. I’m such a bad eater.

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    12:26 P.M. and you’re awake. You cobble, uneasily, down the stairs, like a scolded cat. I worry about you falling, especially with your sleep-drunk, earth-bound mindedness, but I know better. You really are your grandfather’s grandson. I see him halo over you like a fox, eager to please you in conversation and memory lanes, growing in your mouth like weeds.
    I put my mother’s copper kettle on and start to brew the tea. It isn’t tea for you, maybe, with the sugar you stockpile; you hoard it like you would a lover, and I am jealous. Tea should have a strong affect; it should drag you out, roaring like Daniel’s lions, then finish you off like lambs. But the theory of  tea is not real love, and our fingers intermingle like yarn then, and I realize we are felted together. You say, “Did the paper come?” and I shake my head, worried now. I know what you are looking for. I hold it up and you say, “Damn.” It had come earlier than usual; it must have still been wet outside when it arrived.
    The red text of the TV Guide drips on the table, leftover nutella toast cold and barren murking up dirty dishes.  God’s name was red text, and you gloom. I search for ways to sooth you.
    “Let’s do something exciting. The TV said gas is down,” I coo, godly; “I was hoping we could do indoor stuff today, little bird,” you say; “We have to pick up the needles.” Your brown eyes are clear now, and I am not inside them, and we gaze at the Charlie Brown Tree, who whimpers at me, pleading like a cow, whimpering, whimpering. The neighbor’s dog is in heat. I can hear it whimpering, whimpering, saying, Love me, love me; I am ever so loyal, and it kills me, because I know their death sentences are in my hands.
    I love you like I love the cool, crisp breeze; I love you like I loved my mother; I love you like prayers, and I am silent. “He’s already dead,” you say. I nod. “I suppose he is. He has a lot of needles he threw away. I guess it wasn’t worth it,” even though we knew it was, and you’re used to my poetry, so you sigh. “You talk to it like he was an addict,” and I shake my head, no. “I am the addict,” I say. You ask what’s in the tea. I pour some and sip. A Cheshire cat grin. “Orange peel,” I say, sipping again and swishing it around inside my mouth; “Cinnamon. Some thyme.” Again, a sigh. Again, our hands part, and you are gone from me for a little bit. I am not inside your clear eyes.

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    Bing Crosby vinyl piled in a corner. Good-by, Christmas; I suck up needles with an perverse vacuum. It eagerly eats everything, everything, anything it sees and anything we can think of; any bit we throw at it, it eats. It shouldn’t still be alive. My sister had a cat like that once. I look at the box of vinyl and place the Hallmark ornaments inside a bag, put them next to it.

     You should be back from the tree recycler soon. I miss him very much, that Christmas Tree. Time has begun again. The magic of Christmas, the warmth, the crinkling paper that glistened like fire; the buttons and ribbons, all whisked away, laughing, smiling, waving; the magic of Christmas is so much like the relatives we see only once a year, often forgetting how jolly and pissed they are. Then We miss them, (I do,) for a little, then Valentines comes and we’re full of the sex and the wine and we forget. That’s how it is with Christmas magic. Something reminds you of how it was without it, and then you just can’t remember ‘magic‘. It is the grandmother you always loved, but never understood.
    I hear your car stop outside and I go to the window and wave. Your face is grave, a sullen thing of the past; but I never minded the past like you did. You come to the door and throw your wet scarf on the coat-rack. I am cautious, now, dancing from foot to foot uneasily.
    “I hit a dog,” you say. I am over you in seconds, biting your ear and kissing your neck. I say, “Was it a stray?” You smile sadly. “Kind of. It was a hobo’s dog,” you say; “Maybe even a Christmas present.” Bah-hum-bug, I think; “Don’t depress yourself. Don’t make it so horrible you can’t hold on to it. No monsters dwell here, so do not give birth to vampires.” You take my hair and burry your face in it. You say, “Only mosquitoes, only mosquitoes. I gave him a twenty-dollar bill. He’ll go get drunk and it’ll be better. Is that what you wanted?” I smile and say, “Yes; it’s an even better gift than a dog,” I say; “Everyone deserves to get pissed on cheap spirits. That’s America.” You unhinge your face from my hair and break out into song.
    “I’ve got some real estate right here in my bag,” you begin; “Lets all walk up and go to America.” I join in, and no one knows the words; and we dance and dance and then we’re naked and there’s a sheet over the window, and the neighbor’s dog is still in heat, and she’s calling, Why don’t you want me, too? Take me, take me; oh, please, let me be somebody’s baby, and I smile, and I am somebody’s baby, and I forgot to tell you about the condoms, and I bark when you fill me with all that is you, and then we’re resting, and the excitement is over.
    “I needed you a long time ago. Where were you?” I ask, teasing. “I was in love,” you say. I remember the tea, and I wonder, will there ever be a better time?
    And I wonder, will there still be us next year? And I say a prayer and you hum a little song, and I don’t care about the future, then. I forget the past. Now is now, and I slide out of the covers and dance for you, naked, across the thick, shag carpet floor. I dance for you. I dance for you.

Author's Note

Very, very choppy. Not sure if I like it or not. Was written for a timed writing prompt, so I don't really have a desire to change it, as experimental as it is. About 37 minutes of writing, two hours editing. I know it's pretty odd still.