Steam from my shower has fogged up the mirror. My face is distorted in the reflection I comb my hair and each drop of water that drips from my dead ends triggers the sprout of another goose bump on the inside of my left thigh, my nipples ache from the biting cold air that couples with November each year. Don't open the door I growl to myself as my boyfriend, if you could call him that, barges in; two mugs, of steaming coffee in hand. I'm confronted with a wave of morning frost that I've been sheltered from, up until now, by the cotton of a bathrobe. He smiles at my grimace. He sets my cup in front of me on the edge of the sink and places his own coffee, diluted with a heavy cream that tastes like it should be solidified and stuffed into a pastry, on top of the shelf that normally houses my toiletries but has been littered with his own means of sanitation. The bathroom is anything but roomy and we have to squeeze to fit in both of our morning rituals. Today won't be an easy hair day, the shower radio boasted the fact that the humidity would round off at 90% a record high. My boyfriend has departed for the shower so I can bend over without the scrutiny of his gaze telling me without words I've put on weight. The freshman 15 they call it but med school is twice as hard as college was, and the bureaucracy of my future looms ahead of me mocking me. I have at least 6 years before I'm anywhere that means anything. After late nights filled with research papers and days gorged with work hours I'd stuffed into any empty slot in my schedule, I find comfort in comfort foods. Macaroni and cheese, brownies, subs, pizza, bagels anything overloaded with carbs and lacking in nutrional value. He exploits himself to it right along with me but his slim stature hasn't been the slightest bit affected, bastard. I jump as wet hands grab my rear and caress their way across my hips and onto my thighs. I go along pinning my hair back even as his hands wander farther and farther into my crotch, his lips locate my neck. I turn abruptly around breaking contact. Reminding him I don't have time I search the drawers for my frequented shade of lipstick after an in extensive search I momentarily give up and swipe mascara on my lashes, then habitually turn away from him as I fish for my under garments underneath a heap of clothes I presume he'll be wearing today. He grabs my intimates out of my hands and throws them back into the pile I had only this second fished them out of. Before I can respond, which I had planned on doing with a few choice words, he has picked me up placed me on the edge of the sink my ass knocking, by now, lukewarm coffee and its holder to the floor. And he's got his hands in my hair messing it up kissing me all over my face and somehow in doing so smearing my not so dry mascara with his wet stubble, he always shaves every third day after I've exited the bathroom. Pushing him off of me without leaving the sink top I yell at him profanely, but before I make a dent in my tirade I start to laugh, laugh and laugh and cough I'm shaking with silent laughter, that scratches my throat red and he laughs with me although a bit dumbfounded.
"I know" I croak through laughter "I know what this is about" I attempt to clear my throat. And I can't help but notice him stiffen and then jerk to pick up the mug and clean up his mess. I jump down and start fixing myself as he works wordlessly to separate our clothes.
"I know that when you borrowed the GPS on my phone the other day, the uh detective in you came out." He's a bouncer at a night club and a security guard at a hospital but he wants to be a detective. No matter how much he denies it, going to med school and all, he's wanted to be one since he was eight years old. When the city's top detective, coming home from a day of work, noticed him crying alone on the street, he had lost his cat. The inspector stayed out with him all night until they found the cat, caught under a neighborhood fence. He wrote that story in a letter to his future self. I doubt he's forgotten it though. I know he doesn't want to be in med school, and I know why he likes me so much, because I don't either and I admit it.
"Is that right?" he grunts as he buttons his pants. I hesitate ordering the words in my head so not to embarrass him, he's so easily tormented by the things I blurt sometimes. He picks up his coffee sips it and scrunches his face up in distaste. I guess he decides it's not so bad because he goes for a second sip.
