The Next Morning (ijuh - ch 3)

The Next Morning

I woke up bright and early at eight o’clock. I almost never got up that late, not even when I was out the night before, although I was almost always in bed by midnight.

My head hurt; my body was stiff. The couch was so comfortable that I didn’t wake up in the middle of the night or even readjust my body. I had a proper pillow under my head and a sheet covering my body with a blanket thrown on the floor by the ottoman. Mark must have put them there.

I stood up. The room was full of morning light. Mark had a southeast facing apartment so it was bright throughout most of the day. Beautiful. This would be perfect for growing plants.

I walked into the kitchen and got a glass of water from the refrigerator. My parents had been debating whether or not to get a water and ice maker in the door of their new refrigerator—I'd have to tell them it was very convenient. My stomach growled. This was the time I normally ate breakfast. On a regular day, I would have been up for at least an hour and gotten a lot of writing done.

I considered whether or not to leave without saying goodbye, then decided to give Mark half an hour before making noise. So in the meantime I sat down at the table, opened the old laptop, pulled up my gmail, and got to work on a new Google Doc. I ended up writing for about an hour. My stomach was really empty by the end.

My hunger forced me to log out and close the laptop, then open the fridge to figure out what to make for breakfast. On most mornings I had a quick bowl of cereal, yogurt, fruit and granola. Mark had a lot of fresh fruit as well as a tub of yogurt. But I decided to fry some bacon instead because it would make more noise than cereal and flood the apartment with an alluring scent to hopefully wake up what I was about to discover was a sleeping monster.

Mark hid the bacon under his pile of food in the fridge. Did he say his visitors can eat whatever they want? It took a while to find everything, seeing as his fridge was huge and I was unfamiliar with its organization, but I eventually had eggs, milk, margarine and bacon laid out and ready to cook. I felt a little bit like a fool. What if I cooked it and he didn’t get up? What if he didn’t like the way I made eggs? What if he got angry that I raided his kitchen?

Omelets would be better than scrambled eggs. Everyone likes omelets.

I started the bacon while cutting onions and peppers and adding them to a small saute pan. The bacon sizzled invitingly—only a few strips because I wasn’t going to eat any. I hadn’t had bacon in half a year, and I wasn’t going to risk my health for one strip of bacon from who-knows-where. It was better to be safe than sorry.

I initially had the fan on, but as the bacon browned I decided to turn it off and let the smell pervade the apartment.

The bacon was done. The vegetables were done. Mark didn’t wake up.

I decided to make my own omelet and made it with cheese because it was the Kraft kind—which is to say, the fake cheese that didn’t give my body problems. I ate my meal, cleaned the dishes, and set the crispy (perfect) bacon on the counter.

Then I sat at the table and continued typing, silently giving him another half hour before I abandoned the apartment. Mark stumbled out of his bedroom fifteen minutes later, as if he sensed my mood.

“What is that smell?” he asked, groggily. Mark was shirtless, but wore those long, plaid pajamas that I had seen last night.

“Bacon.”

“I thought you didn’t eat bacon.”

“I don’t.”

“Fuck, I need coffee.” He ran his fingers through his hair to get rid of the bedhead. Mark rarely woke up with crazy hair, which I found so hard to believe that when we first got together, I regularly accused him of sleepwalking to the bathroom and fixing his hair before we got up (which honestly wouldn’t have surprised me). The bedhead was my area of specialty. If I didn’t keep my hair short, I would wake up with some of the wildest kinks and waves in my hair, like what I had going on that morning.

Mark walked over to me and patted my hair. His hands hovered about three inches over my skull. “I’m loving the new look, dude.”

I pressed my hands over my hair and made a sour face. “You’re one to talk!” I stomped my way to the bathroom and tried to wet down my hair. Mark followed me in and used the toilet, very nonchalantly. “What! Privacy, Mark! Privacy!”

“I don’t mind,” he said, his voice still thick with sleep. He rolled the shoulder that wasn’t attached to the hand holding his penis.

I stormed out of the bathroom with my shoulders tight and my mind made up; it was time to get out of there. I changed into my clean running clothes and folded the borrowed shirt and shorts, then I gathered my books and headed for the door.

Mark stumbled into the kitchen. “Sup,” he said as I left. He poured himself a coffee, which he must’ve started while I was in the bathroom. I said a quick goodbye and didn’t wait for an answer. I accidentally shut the apartment door louder than I intended.

With a pounding heart, I pressed the down button for his elevator and waited. And waited. Mark waltzed out of his apartment, still without a shirt on. He had two cups of coffee. “Want some?” he asked when he reached me.

I shook my head. I didn’t drink coffee then, and I still don’t. Coffee smells great, and I love dark chocolate, but I never liked drinking coffee. I don’t need it to get me up in the morning like some people I know. (Hint, hint. I’m complaining about you, Mark.)

The elevator door opened. He still hadn’t said anything other than to offer me a cup of unwanted coffee. I entered the elevator. “You coming back?” he asked, still not quite awake.

I wanted to shout, ‘No!’ I wanted to call him a freak for just waltzing into the bathroom and whipping out his cock. I mean, who does that? Then I remembered he was a jock. At ease with his body. I’m sure he was used to people clamoring to see his naked body. That’s the impression I got of him at the gym—preening and strutting.

Not me.

“Yes,” I said, against my better judgment. “I’m dropping off my books in my car.”

The door shut and I wanted to slap my forehead. I had yet to learn how much Mark could make me want to hit myself for bending over backwards for him. My arms were full of books, so the best I could do was lean my head back and bump it against the elevator wall, which kind of hurt, actually. That headbutt was not a good decision on my part.

I got to my car and debated whether or not to leave without returning. Then my phone dinged.

~come bak up~

So I went back to the elevator and grumbled about my weak personality. I was always like this—doing whatever anyone else wanted, even if I didn’t like it. I was too courteous. There was a difference between being nice and being too giving. I gave everything I had and rarely saved any compassion for myself—I was very hard on myself, but always generous to others.

That’s the way I’ve always been. Mark was a nice guy, and I would give all of myself until he pressed the brakes. I could only hope he didn't take advantage of me.

I opened his apartment door and the room still smelled like bacon. Mark sat on the kitchen counter next to the bacon. He had put on a shirt.

“Thanks for the bacon.”

“No problem.” I walked to the stove and started working on his omelet. “Do you want an omelet?”

“Sure.” Mark was a little more lively and watched me as I worked. “Did you wash the dishes, too?”

“Yeah.”

“No, like… you actually washed them. With your hands.”

Oh, he meant that I didn’t use the dishwasher. “I’m still not used to using a dishwasher. I’ve always done them by hand. I guess that’s why it was so hard to find your dish soap. It was buried in the back behind your potatoes.”

He chuckled. “You’re too much, dude. I feel like I should be making breakfast for you, not the other way around.”

“You can barely even think right now.”

“I am not a morning person. I haven’t been up this early since… I’m going to go with Christmas. I still get up early for Christmas.”

I finished cooking his breakfast. “This is the latest I’ve gotten up since… I can’t remember when. Probably Christmas as well. I’ve taken to sleeping in on Christmas. That’s my one true vacation day. But I still write, just a little later than normal.”

“You freak.” He drank the second cup of coffee. “I feel a little better now.” He dug into the omelet. I moved the remaining dirty dishes to the sink. “Leave the dishes. Fuck the dishes.” He finished chewing. “Er, sorry dude. I meant ‘eff the dishes’.”

I smiled. It was kind of cute that he was trying to censor himself, and failing miserably.

“Thanks for helping me yesterday,” he said between mouthfuls.

“No problem.”

“I really owe you one. Do you think you could help me on the next paper, too?”

“No. I’m not doing that again.”

“No, no, no. I’ll get an earlier start, I swear!”

I laid down the law. He was going to do a little bit of reading and research every day and write up summary sentences in his own voice. The sentences would have citations, though the citations didn’t need to be perfectly styled, just accurate. He would send me the daily summaries so I could congratulate him with positive reinforcement. Then, for the second week he would put together a strong argument and really focus on the remaining research.

“Fuck! That’s a lot of work.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, whatever. I need the kick in the ass. I’ve always been shit at papers. I need to get through this class if I want to have a flexible path to graduation.”

“What do you mean?”

“This was the most difficult writing course, but it's usable in just about any of the business specialties. I still don’t really know what I want to graduate with, so I want to keep my options open.”

That flexibility sounded like a good idea. But if it meant taking a harder class… with a lot more writing than he was prepared for… and he didn’t even know what he wanted afterwards…. No, don’t say anything.

“So, can I hire you?”

“What?”

“What are your rates? You said you have students that you tutor. What should I pay you?”

I could have told him any number. This guy had money to spare. He wore expensive clothes, drove an expensive car, lived in a lavish apartment with a second bedroom (which I was beginning to suspect he used for the additional closet space). He could afford me.

“Nothing,” I said. “I’m focused on my writing. I only tutor basic science and mathematics now. All my writing energy goes into my own projects.”

He looked incredibly sad, almost stricken. Maybe it was too early in the morning for bad news. “What do you mean? What do you want? Dude, I need your fucking help… you read my paper! I suck!”

Oh no, here he goes again, attacking my weakness. I was a sucker for people in distress. I couldn’t say 'no'. How could I turn him away? Now that I had worked with him, I knew he would fail that course. Or he would turn to the underground world of pre-written or pay-for-paper authors. They were a dime a dozen and if you, Dear Honorable Reader, ever think about using one to get you through your paper-writing course… don't! It is a bad idea and your professor will know the difference between you and your hired essayist. Trust me, Mark learned that the hard way. It is especially noticeable if you’re as poor of a writer as Mark was (and trust me, you are not that bad). Also, here is a special love note for Mark when he gets upset about reading how often I make fun of his poor writing throughout this story. Message from future me: YOU KNOW I LOVE YOU! YOU KNOW YOU SUCKED AT WRITING! SUCK MY COCK! ;)

“I’ll help you in return! Come on. Anything! I’ll take you to the gym. I’ll show you how to work out. Don’t you want to get your upper body in balance with your lower? Your legs are great, but what about your arms?” He flexed. “Get ‘em nice and big. I’ll show you how. Come on?” He stopped flexing. “Flex for me.”

He had been trying to get me to flex since yesterday at the gym. I wasn’t having any of it.

“No to the flexing. Okay to the gym as payment. Okay to the helping with your paper. But you are going to do all of the work.” As if that requirement will last more than a couple days.

“You betcha! And I’ll be your personal trainer.”

“Okay…”

“And since you gave me a schedule, I’m going to give you mine. Two days a week to start. Mondays we’ll be running in the morning—”

“I help you with that, by the way.”

“Yes you do. You’re good motivation.” He grinned. That coffee really did its job. “Then on Wednesday you’ll meet me in the gym, and how about Friday? I work out around five on Wednesday and Friday… can you make it?”

I pretended like I was consulting a calendar in my head, then said ‘yes’. We agreed that I would park in his extra slot on Wednesday and walk to the gym.

I had a very flexible schedule that I valued greatly. That flexibility was something that could work for or against you. In this case, I could say without blinking that I could be at the gym on those two days at five o’clock. Bam. Done.

But my grandparents thought my flexible schedule meant that I could do anything at any time. My family still to this day has that problem. I can drop everything and show up at the hospital at a moment’s notice. I can stay in that hospital for days (while also doing my writing on either a tablet, phone or laptop). Those are emergencies. Just because I can do something, does not mean that I don’t work. I basically work all day, everyday. To me, it isn’t even work. Writing and editing and publishing—telling stories—are something I was born to do and have made a moderately successful career doing it. I hardly do anything else, other than work on more stories. Just because you don’t see me work—and just because I don't get a paycheck every couple weeks—doesn’t mean it isn’t work or isn’t valuable.

I think this self-portrait might be the most valuable thing I have ever worked on, and not just because Mark and I are in it. Do you know how many asexual characters—forget main characters, but just regular old characters—I can relate to on TV shows? Monk, probably. That guy from The Big Bang Theory, probably. Basically, characters with so-called personality defects or maybe some form of autism. Or something else that’s supposed to make them super nerds or social rejects.

That’s not a realistic representation of asexuals. Some people aren’t motivated to have sex and are perfectly unremarkable. I feel like the normal one. I mean look at you fools! The only time I acted as foolish as you was when I met Mark and we were in the process of becoming a couple. I didn’t act like a lovestruck fool for anyone else. Only him. As I wrote in my journal after the first few months of knowing Mark: I don't like women, and I don't like men. But maybe Mark? Maybe only Mark…

Just keep that in mind as you read the rest of this: I’m the normal one. The rest of you are crazy.