Splendid Habits

We have a routine. This boy and I. A routine for just about everything. When we make love we start with slow kisses, lip kisses, neck kisses, thick sucking kisses. Then he performs light stomach kisses, and below stomach kisses. When we are both spent we lie there, naked, in dirty sheets; it’s the one time I don’t care about lying in dirty sheets.

When we want ice cream we want it at the same time. Chocolate ice cream, with lots of chocolate bits in it. I don’t believe him when he says he wants the same kind I do, but I like that he pretends to anyway. He usually lets me choose, but when it’s his turn he picks something he knows I’ll like, too. We sit in front of the TV eating right out of the carton, a paper towel wrapped around the outside so our fingers don’t go cold. We gorge ourselves on brownie chunks and gooey twirls of fudge; we lick our lips and devour our icy treat.

When we sleep I am always on his left and he is always to my right. He curls his body around mine when I want him to and keeps his distance when I want the space. I do the same for him. When I get up in the night to pee I have to scoot to the end of the bed because my side is against the wall. I stumble around blindly, searching for the moccasin style slippers I bought for him two Christmases ago. I feel like I’m being quiet. When I’m done I scoot back up the same way I came, and curve my body into the shape of a crescent moon. He hooks his top arm around my waste and pulls me into his nook; he breathes warm breaths into the place behind my ear.

The Yard Pool

It was April, and the copious amounts of spring rain had transformed our bowl shaped side yard into a muddy swimming pool. The pool came every year like clockwork; it started as a stretch of waterlogged grass in early March and slowly gained inches when the ground couldn’t hold anymore. My brother and I trudged knee-deep through the water, the brown prickly moss tickling our bare toes.

My father watched us from the porch, a dampened cigarette held effortlessly between his lips. He walked slowly down the porch steps and across our gravel driveway; the gray rocks crunched beneath his brown suede loafers. “Do you kids want to go play in that big mud puddle on the corner?” he asked. My brother and I looked up at him, confused. We weren’t supposed to play in mud. Even in our play clothes we weren’t supposed to play in mud. My father didn’t wait for a response. “Come on, let’s go.”

We trailed behind him along the outskirts of our yard pool and across the street to the mud puddle. We stood hesitantly on the edge, certain that this was some sort of joke. “What are you waiting for?” my father said. I hiked my gray cotton shorts up a bit higher and waded hesitantly through the brown sludge. My brother followed in after me. Before long we were having the time of our lives splashing and rolling in the forbidden mud. Cars drove by and honked at us because they thought we looked funny. Then my mother drove by and honked over and over again because she didn’t think we looked funny. My father had us follow him back to the house where the yelling started up again. I licked my thumb and hastily rubbed a dirt smudge off my brother’s chin before going inside.