The Boy shoves his hand into the chip bag. “You should write about this.”
Making uncomfortable and unwavering eye contact, he shoves a handful of chips into his mouth, along with about half of his hand. Then, he chomps down, scrunching his face from brow to chin in a bizarre show of manufactured aggression, each bite more awkward and stilted than the last, until finally, he cannot masticate anymore and ends his performance.
I’m relieved that the moment is over, and my fingers hover hesitantly over the keyboard. But, wait! The hand goes back in. This time, a new character. No longer the showy house cat, he becomes a bimbo model in a cheeseburger ad.
His eyes bore into me as he makes a flamboyant show of eating the chips languidly. His eyelids lower and his head tilts back. He sways his head back and forth, chewing slowly to savor each bite. He clutches his chest and makes small sounds of enjoyment as he chews. I begin to wonder if I should avert my eyes and let him have this intimate moment with his food alone. After what feels like an eternity, he looks away, all traces of the lascivious inner demon wiped away like one might clear a chalkboard.
He begins to speak nonsense. “The crunch crunch crunches the crunch crunches among the other crunches.” He turns away and I can’t help the grin that stretches across my face. But I hide it behind the metallic barrier of my laptop, still a bit hesitant. Uncertain.
The music gently surfs the air in the kitchen as he finishes his snack, filling the room with a calmness like a quiet beach. It’s a little past midnight and we’re the only people awake. We trade words back and forth easily, enjoying each other’s company.
I bandage the fresh cat scratches decorating my legs in blood. He asks for a carton of strawberry milk (as if I could look at his smiling face and possibly say no). We tiptoe around innuendoes, struggling to find safe footing, and then find a way to hold steady, reaching out to each other through the meaningless chit-chat.
Then, in one suspended moment, in just a heartbeat of silence, it washes over me. Undeniable comfort. Inescapable assurance. I look at him and the truth is staring right back at me, smiling uncertainly.
I’m home.
Suddenly, the quiet atmosphere is pierced by a harsh CLACK as he nearly drops the water pitcher. His eyes widen as they naturally dash over to me. He says, “imagine if I just died and my last words were ‘they milked the melon.’”
“Oh my god, please don’t die,” I say, a trace of unwarranted panic coloring my tone.
He makes a joke, trying to ease me. I give him an uncertain smile. But then his hands are full and the countertops are clean. I hold in a sigh as he says his parting words. But when I look into his eyes for the last time that night, I start to think maybe we’re going to be okay.