His living room was modest save the fireplace. Small, in fact. More like a den and given the situation, the room was darker than it normally would be but it also felt dark. Really, a square the size of a one bedroom, and unwelcoming. Like a cave. Besides the crackle of the fireplace, nothing lived. There were, again, no pictures. There was no furniture except an end table between the two seats: an armchair and a couch. He gestured to the armchair.
“Please, get comfortable.”
I looked behind me before sitting. A habit with cats but also a feeling of mist everywhere. The whole room felt like it needed to be dusted: stale and languid and noxious in some minor way. His wife may have picked out the burgundy throw pillows to match the drapes but the focal point was his: one large painting of a rowboat docked on a lake, trees in the distance. This was his motif. This was the home of mundane lonely man with no taste or value. The couches were tan, fabric, two pillows. The armchair matched with a similar color throw blanket hanging over the back. The walls were light green, sort of an easter green, or tan, I couldn’t see exactly. She did this. That painting is his though. He probably bought it. She took everything else and he hid all the pictures.
“Nice to be by a fire, huh?”
I nodded. My hands were on my knees and I was on the edge of the armchair. He was on the seat of the couch nearest the fire. There were two windows on either side of the painting, both curtained, that dark blood red and closed. No light peeking in. This room was too dark. I suddenly became nervous and almost stood up.
He was watching me.
I nodded again. A nervous habit. Keep nodding.
“Where is your bathroom?” I stood up.
“I’ll show you,” he also stood up.
My boots were heavy, wet and I tried to pick my feet up when I walked. I didn’t want him asking me to take them off. Draw no attention. I was probably tracking mud throughout his house. He had said nothing about me wearing all my clothes. It’s freezing.  He took me back through the dining room and around the kitchen, on the other side of the wall. To see the layout. There was a couch and a hassock and some blue thing, like an old toy, almost looked like a dog toy, on the floor. I couldn’t make things out. He hadn’t lit any candles or used a flashlight, opting instead to lead me with his assurance. I swooped down to grab the straw as we passed the front without him noticing. Maybe he never noticed it dropping, laying. Elation, pure elation, just from touching it.  I even felt the tingle rise in my chest as soon as my knees cracked on the way back up. Quickly, I placed it in my coat pocket, the coat I had yet to take off. Fingering it, a smile spread across my face when he turned to show me the entrance. I was beaming and he was smiling and there was an exchange. I missed you. Feeling it in my pocket as I walked the step up.
“Watch your step,” I said.
Clenching it. Clenching jaw. Clenching the plastic. I stood at the mirror, flame dancing below it, my face a haze of sneer.
“Do anything you want tonight.”
I took my hands out to unbutton my pants and pull them down and then stuck them immediately back in my pocket as I sat on the toilet. My joints had a rhythm to them. The shut of my teeth started, then the twisting in my finger tips, then I began to hum. Reunited with an earlier thought, sorrow fell away. They say excretion is one of the first joys we learn as a kid so is clutching, touching, grabbing. If you asked me right then what I felt, I’d say incanting.
I’d say enraptured.
Took my hands out to wipe to flush.
I’d say joyous.
Wash my hands.
“How would you describe me in three words?” I asked him once.
Dry with light green towel sitting on hamper. It was moist.
“Umm, from what I know….steadfast.” 
I threw the door open and placed my right hand back in pocket.
“Good?’ he asked.
He led me back to the living room past the larger couch and space but no fireplace and I noted. He said nothing as we passed the front door.
“How would you describe yourself?”
He gestured again to the armchair.
“May I take my shoes off?”
He looked up at me from the bed. I kind of towered.
I went to grab the candle off the candlestick.
“I am not sure if I want to say experimental or the other word I am thinking of.”
I walked back towards him with the candle stick.
“These,” I looked down at him, “are not safe for wax play.’
I began to drip the word vengeful on his unshaved chest.

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