from the building
he follows me home. stuck to my image like a bad childhood nickname that’s never quite shaken away. we don’t say much to one another, but when we do he never uses my name. calls me shortie, which raises certain equal levels of irritation and intrigue. endearing in a very i’m-tryin-to-be-down-middle-class-white-boy kind of way. on the bus, i don’t like the way he looks at me. mostly i stare out the window and wish he’d decided to go home. at my place he curls up on the couch. flips the tv. dozes in front of sports highlights. oblivious and tired, i change my clothes. go for a run. lacking the necessary energy. realize i’ve not eaten all day. turn around for home. he sleeps through my return. through my shower. i put the kettle on for tea and say, what are you doing here? he shrugs his shoulders, as if to say, i don’t really know either, and simply says, nothing. we’re the moment of apathy intersected. mostly, we couldn’t care less. afterward we pile under the blankets and watch a movie. he lets me push my feet under his leg on the other end of the couch. comforting and disheartening at the same time. all i want to do is fall asleep. but i wait for him to leave.