Sweetie

You have not slept since 3 pm yesterday. Your hair is blond (maybe) and you are ordering donuts at 5 am. Your blouse hangs off one shoulder, letting your partner know you are interested, definitely interested. Your partner’s hair is red and he keeps it cut short to hide the fact that there is less of it today than yesterday. You overlook the loss of hair for the sake of his biceps and buttocks. You talk loud and slur your words. The clerk is confused and you have to repeat your order several times. Donut holes. 8 of those, 6 of these, 4 glazed, 4 powdered. Oh and yes, one Strawberry and one Maple.

Your partner puts the back of his hand on his forehead and says in Scarlett O’Hara’s voice. “Maple? Maple? Why chil’ you must be mad!”

You laugh too loud.

Minutes from now you will be snuggled in the loft across the street, firing up the hookah or bong or whatever and eating donut holes faster than you ate pizza the night before. You and your boyfriend, yes please let him be your boyfriend, it has been so long since you had one of those, will wrestle and manage some form of love. You will loose consciousness in a rapture of sensation. Another day will pass as a taxi down below carries a businessman off to his cubicle.

You will wake sometime around noon. You will see your partner is nearly bald. The sunlight will have aged him at least a decade as you slept. He will lie on his back hiding the gorgeous butt and instead show you a belly that has not seen abs since high school. His prick will be a wilted cucumber above two small prunes. Your underwear will hang from the lampshade. The garbage can will overflow with beer cans. The pizza and donut boxes will be nearby – left there in a half-hearted attempt at cleaning before you passed out.

You’ll fire up the bong or hookah or whatever to get the strength to call your father. The phone will ring in his cubicle.

“Hey Dad.”

“Hey darling, what’s up?” You’ll know he is pretending not to notice the stoned tone of your voice. You’ll know he knows you are simply calling for money. Money is the only reason you ever call him. You feel it is his duty to provide it. After all he was the one who brought you into this world. You did not have a say. You never got a vote. It is his fault that you are here, now he should accept the responsibility.

“Uh Dad.”

“Yes sweetie?”

You hate when he calls you sweetie. It is the same term he uses for your Mother. You are not your Mother. God no. No. No. No. Not your Mother. The one who hates you and who slices you up so bad with her dry insults that you can hardly stand to talk to her. But your Dad is unconscious most of the time. Sweetie is the only term of endearment that he can think of. So you accept it from him. Only from him though. Anyone else who calls you sweetie will be slapped silly.

“Dad, I can’t make rent this month.”

Silence. You really hate this part. The little waiting game. You have stated the problem. His job is to solve it. He so desperately wants you to ask him. You so desperately don’t want to.

He caves, as he always does. “How much?”

“A thousand or so ought to do it.”

“Western Union okay? Or should I wire it to your bank account?”

“Whichever is easiest for you Dad.”

“Your bank account then.”

“Oh, and Dad.”

“Yes sweetie?”

“I love you Dad.”

“I love you too sweetie.”

The click of the phone in your ear will sound like the lid of a casket closing. You’ll know you have thrown away just a little bit more of the closeness you and he shared. The images of him bandaging the “boo boo” when you were six, buying you the car when you were sixteen and hugging you when your first true love left you will fade a bit more.

You will take another hit from the hookah or waterpipe or whatever and nestle against your new boyfriend (even if he doesn’t know it yet). You will fluff up the prunes and try to rouse the cucumber. Nothing. Just deeper snores.

Sighing, you will roll on your back and rub yourself. You may have to take another hit or two, and you may have to rub for quite a while, but eventually you will find sweet release - a moment when there are only donut holes, firm buttocks and laughter; a moment when you don’t have to feel so far from all you once loved; a moment so joyful that you don’t mind when your new boyfriend wakes and calls you sweetie. You will snuggle close to him. He will hold you close. Maybe not forever. But close enough for now.