Charlemagne

Worry

All day I have been worried about Charlemagne's upcoming kissing party. The idea of a bunch of writhing and slurping men is bad enough, but what if it leads to sex? I just don’t want to be there. I tell Tamara what’s up, and she texts me back:

Don’t go there! Friend!

I ring the doorbell downstairs to be let in. When I knock on the door the apartment, he opens and is standing there in his shorts and t-shirt holding a martini. His eyes are bloodshot.

“Hey, Charlemagne.”

He stands in the doorway leering at me and then lets me past. No one else is around. This is not good. I walk straight to the bathroom and he follows me in. There is no toilet in the bathroom proper, which is a relief, because being followed into a room with a toilet is definitely worse than being followed into one without. I start to brush my teeth while Charlemagne stands next to me, far enough that he won’t feel like a creep to himself.

“I don’t even like American boys!” I can see in my peripheral vision that his face is distorted with anger and has changed color.

“Neither do I,” I say through toothpaste foam, quickly withdrawing the brush from my mouth.

“We can never be together!” He makes a fist, raises it above his head and slams it full force on the washing machine.

“You’re right.” I spit out the toothpaste and striding out of the bathroom tell him, “I’m pretty beat, man, I’m gonna hit the hay.”

I let a safe amount of time elapse and crack my bedroom door open. I have a straight view down the hall to the front half of his bed. He’s laying there with the lights all on, the TV on with the sound off, awkwardly on his side with his neck and head drooping down onto his shoulder. It has to be terrible for his back. Come to think of it, he also carries all his books in a duffle bag that he carries with one arm.

I’m not afraid, but that doesn’t mean I’ll sleep tonight.

Xenophobia.