LITMIR.BIZ

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didn’t want to get their asses kicked for their fat friend. I was able to tell them that they would run. But then he had to chime in that bit about the fat guy being funny sometimes, but not funny enough that his friends would get their asses kicked for him. He said that because he knew that this would push the fat guy over the edge, and then he’d take a swing. After that, I was just a spectator.

      The screams of the fat guy brought me back. It’s always like that. My red-friend stays long enough to do the damage and then disappears to make me clean up after him. So I came back right after the fat guy started screaming and I looked up at the two sheep-friends and I’m guessing that they saw something pretty scary in my eyes because they bolted like they had a cattle-prod stuck up their asses. Of course, it wasn’t actually me being mean or threatening or anything, it was just me waking up from wherever my red-friend stashed me while he did his deeds. Oh shit! That’s why Bran looked so scared when I walked over to him. It was pretty clear that he didn’t remember me for all the times I gave him money, but I didn’t understand why he looked scared. It was the first time he had looked at me. And, in his defense, he had just seen me (or sort-of me) break a guy’s arm. Maybe that had something to do with it. But no, he saw that confusion in my eyes as I was getting my shit back together. And that’s when I saw his eyes for the first time. They were this dull green, like the ocean when it’s full of algae.

      But when he looked at the breakfast I had prepared after his thirty-minute-long shower, those eyes were the brightest green I have ever seen. My first thought was that he had washed his eyeballs. But that’s pretty ridiculous, right? He didn’t wash his eyeballs. Maybe what I did had such an impact on him that I had the power to actually change his life? Could that be? Did I want this to be? Could I handle that much responsibility? No. No. No. No. No. That wasn’t it at all. Couldn’t be. I was being ridiculous. That’s why I needed this shower. My mind was racing to stupid conclusions, and I needed an excuse to get out of there. And now, this shower that should have been letting my mind relax is not working. And now I can feel the heat rising inside of me and I can feel my cheeks getting hot and I have to calm myself. I start breathing in and out like my old therapist suggested and I breathe in a big stream of water and now I’m coughing and choking and I drop to my knees and I feel spent as the water cascades down my back. And now I’m crying. I’m still a freaking mess, six months after my twin brother died. Shit.

      ***

      I decide that I’m not going try to figure anything out. I won’t try to control anything. I won’t try to find a pattern or develop an algorithm for what happens. I’ll just let life take me wherever it wants. I dry myself off, throw on some sweats, and return to the kitchen. He’s still there, still eating, a slight smile on his face, like this is the best meal he’s ever eaten. And his head is bobbing just a little bit as this Ramsey Lewis song is playing through the speakers. He looks up at me and smiles bigger, his bright green eyes boring into my soul. He finishes chewing, sets his fork down, wipes his hands on the napkin that’s neatly folded in his lap, and takes a sip of OJ.

      “I don’t want to exaggerate or anything,” he starts to say. “But these are the best damn eggs I’ve ever had.”

      “Glad you’re enjoying them,” I say. I hear my voice echo over the piano song. “Don’t let me interrupt.” I gesture to his plate, and he picks up his fork. “Go on, eat, please.” He scoops up some eggs, picks up a piece of bacon, and goes back to eating. I walk into the kitchen and start cleaning up.

      “You don’t have to do that,” I hear from behind me. “I can clean up.”

      “No worries. I got it.” More sounds of eating from behind me as I wait for the running water to turn hot. The dishes take me about three minutes, and when I turn around, he’s right there behind me with his plate. And he’s looking at me with those eyes. “Thanks,” I say as I take his plate and wash it.

      “Thank you, dude. I was so fucking hungry, I couldn’t think straight.”

      I laugh. “Glad you enjoyed it. You want something else to drink? There’s water and stuff in the fridge.”

      “I’m good, thanks.”

      I finish with the dishes and turn around and he’s still there, a bit too close, like right at the edge of invading my personal space. I push past him, brushing his shoulder as I get a bottle of water from the fridge, and I walk to the picture window. He follows me and stands next to me. I look down at him as the faint smell of coconuts wafts up to me. “You clean up nice,” I say, using deliberately poor grammar.

      “Hard not to in that amazing fucking shower.”

      I laugh again. “Yeah, nice showers are a thing for me.” We fall back into silence for a long moment. The rain has cleared, and I can see the whitecaps of the small waves as they crash on the beach outside of my window.

      “So what now?” he asks. I turn and he’s looking up at me, green eyes blazing.

      “What now what?” I say. Did I really say something that stupid? What now what? WTF?

      “Well,” he says slowly, “I figure you want to fuck me, or get a blowjob at least, right? I mean, that’s cool and all, but I’ll need, like, two hundred bucks for a BJ and five if you want to fuck me.”

      “What? No!” I protest. I look at him and see a look of confusion. I calm down and speak softly, trying to reassure him, “Yeah, this isn’t that.”

      “What isn’t what?” Saying stupid things must be contagious.

      “I don’t want to fuck you, and I don’t need a blowjob. Thanks for offering?” I say, kind of like a question. “Wait. No offense. I mean, if I was into that stuff, I guess it would be fun, right?” Now he looks confused again. “What?” I ask.

      “You don’t want to fuck me?”

      “No. But thanks.”

      “So what do you want?” Bran asks, still confused.

      “What do I want? World peace?”

      “I don’t think I can help you with that,” he says. “Anything I can actually give you?”

      “Nah,” I say. “I’m good.”

      “So what now?”

      “What now wh—” I stop myself. “Now we go to bed, I guess. I’m tired.” I look at him, and he still looks confused. “I’m going to bed. Can we talk in the morning?” He doesn’t answer, so I turn and walk towards my bedroom. For some reason, he follows me. What? I stop. “Dude, your bedroom is back there,” I point him back towards the guest room. “Good night.”

      As I continue to my room, I can tell he hasn’t moved. So I just go into my room and close the door. He’ll figure it out eventually. Or will he? I strip naked and lie down on the bed. I close my eyes and feel how tired I actually am. I’m coming down hard from the adrenaline rush, but I can’t sleep. Shit. I can tell it’s going to be one of those nights. One of those nights when I can’t quiet my mind. I’ll lie awake for hours and hours, finally falling asleep about fifteen minutes before I have to wake up. So tomorrow will be completely ruined. And even knowing it’s pointless, I lie there with my eyes closed, trying to will myself to sleep. I glance at the spot on the ceiling where my clock projects the time in blazing red numbers: 2:36 a.m. I close my eyes again.

      ***

      And now it’s 4:12 a.m., and I haven’t slept at all. I reach down and grab my cock, thinking for a moment that maybe if I jack off I can get to sleep. But nothing else seems to be working for me tonight, why should my cock be any different? I get only semi-hard and give up. Now completely frustrated and a little pissed off, I get up, put on my sweats and T-shirt, and walk down to the guest room. I listen at the door for a moment, thinking I might hear my guest snoring and change my mind, but it’s silent. I knock softly and am startled by the immediate reply.

      “Come

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