The prompt this time was the five-word free write. For a description of this prompt, click here.
The five words, and what I wrote in response, are below.
As if having my Dad in rehab wasn’t bad enough, Steven’s cousin, Raymond, decided to show up on that rainy day, asking to crash on the couch.
“Steven’s in Vancouver on business,” I told him, knowing it wouldn’t deter him. He was calling from a pay phone at the train station. I didn’t even know pay phones existed anymore, but Raymond didn’t believe in cell phones.
“That shit gives you cancer,” he used to say so eloquently.
“Steven will be back on Monday,” I said, hopefully, but Raymond wasn’t deterred.
“Well, I’ll be heading to LA on Sunday night. I can just crash with you for a couple of days, can’t I?”
“LA?” I aked. “I thought you were living in Vietnam now.”
“I am. My flight back there leaves from LA.”
I had grown used to Raymond living across the ocean in another country. I liked having him far away. The farther the better. Mongolia would have been nice, or the South Pole.
I didn’t want to be alone in the apartment with him. I didn’t trust him (or myself) after what happened the last time. But he was the closest thing Steven had to a brother—they even looked alike—and Steven had always been loving and loyal to Raymond. In other words, I didn’t really have a choice.
“You still have keys?” I asked. I figured I could conveniently be out for the night when he arrived.
“Jimmy,” he said—he was the only one who called me that, other than Steven—”I don’t know where the hell those went.”
When he arrived, I was baking a spelt and sesame loaf. Everyone knows that means I was anxious. I always bake bread when I’m anxious. It calms me down.
“God, that smells great!” he exclaimed, dropping his duffel near the door and grabbing me. Raymond is about seven inches taller than I am; he’s burly and furry, a bit like the lumberjack on the Brawny paper towel packages. He looks like the straighter version of a Tom of Finland drawing, though Raymond would be the first to tell you that his sexuality is “fluid,” something he feels proud of.
“You look great, man,” he said, holding me out in front of him and looking so deeply into my eyes I blushed and had to look away. “Been doing a lot of yoga?”
“Yeah, and also running a bit.”
Cally, our seven-year-old Calico, came running right up to him, rubbing on his legs and purring loudly. She hates everyone, but she can never get enough of Raymond.
“Hey, baby,” he said, leaning down to pet her. I could see the curve of his deltoids through his shirt and I felt myself rush with arousal. “Are you going to sleep with me tonight?” He was talking to Cally, but I knew the invitation was open to me as well.
It was going to be a very long weekend.