- Zachary lives in Guelph, Ontario, Canada.
The two share the clouds as cream swirls in fresh coffee. Eyes lock, or read aloud for discussion. Sunday brunch is looked forward to. How are the eggs? Delicious, as always — for one, scrambled, the other poached. See this article? Yes, it’s true that women’s rights is the issue of the day. What’s a nine-letter word for ‘a positive feeling of liking’? What’s this 13-letter phrase for ‘begging soldiers’? ‘Troop pleaders’, and the two groan in unison.
It takes three hands to wash the dishes and drink wine at the same time, so the fourth is free to stroke silk-soft skin. Sometimes it’s ticklish.
Unplugging the smoke alarm to light a joint sets off a beeping of its own — an ironic warning that the alarm is now unplugged, igniting panic from behind the bathroom door and a rush to finish up.
On Halloween, a plastic spider is tucked into the underwear drawer — a prank that causes a scream but ends in a hug.
Tweezers and shower water can be shared, but is that pee? Never flush the toilet at the same time, because it makes the shower burning hot. A glass of cold water poured over the curtain, though, is always funny for the pourer.
It’s difficult to share, but also quite sexy when a baggy t-shirt from the past clings to bra-less breasts as a pyjama top. With trial and error, the best cuddle-to-sleep ratio is established: fifteen minutes of spooning, then turn to stretch out. It is imperative to kiss goodnight. Only one will want to read, and will always give up early as a compromise.
Video games and pornography, sketch pads and pastels; all hobbies gather a little dust. The bathroom trash fills with condoms, but then there are none, then tampon wrappers. This latter collection is from a one-handed task that occasionally gathers four eyes.
The refrigerator fills with fish, shortening, the leftover apple atrocity that ended up more soup than pie. Laundry baskets fill in half the time, especially of bed sheets and towels. Working together to clean is generally a tie because the act takes half as long but needs to be twice as frequent. There are boxes of tissues now, candles and moisturizers in every room. The clock in the hall ticks and tocks, but it’s hardly audible over the breathing. There’s a lot of sleep — why get up when so content?
And so the new printer cartridge spits out flawless art and things seem like they’ll last. There’s a long, soothing sigh. Life is Times Square and the ball is lit and this new year is perfect and clean and in this moment there’s a chance it will stay that way forever.