Habits

Charlie’s bedroom was stereotypically male, from the dirty laundry on the floor to the dust on the top of the nightstand, not a single bit of filth broke the gender mold. The top of the dresser was littered with various cut up straws and pen casings, and the grime that covered it was the furthest thing from dust. The pill residue that coated that once beautiful piece of oak furniture was Charlie’s secret shame, and though it hadn’t been touched in months, he’d made no effort to hide his tools. His walls were blue, a pastel color left over from his infancy, but he had long since covered them with Johnny Cash and various military posters. The entire room smelled of late-night cigarettes and cologne, the only proof that someone actually inhabited such a pig-sty.

He offered me a seat on his unmade bed, and I gladly took it, smoothing down the red, flannel comforter as I waited for him to join me,but he never did. Instead he perched himself atop the dresser and stared down at me, creating an awkward and uncomfortable tension between us. More than anything, I just wanted him to stop looking at me.

“What is it you really want?” Charlie said, forcing my attention to him as his cold, vitriolic tone broke through the silence. I picked at my fingers, slowly ripping up my cuticles, searching for the right answer. “And don’t say you want me to be better,” he said, nervously licking at his lips, “that’s what you always say, but you never know what you want me to be better at.” I sighed, thinking back on all of the times I had told Charlie to be better, shaking my head at his obvious anger.

When I said I wanted him to be better, I had thought that it was quite obvious, but somewhere along the lines Charlie had failed to grasp the concept. Better was a term that was used to describe the most tragic things in my life. Be it failed tests, illnesses, or even the idiotic relationship games Charlie and I played - they could always be better, but never any worse.

“You’re making me feel very awkward right now, Charlie,” I finally said, intently focused on pulling a string off of my shirt.

“Your expectations of me make me feel awkward.” Charlie retorted, still playing the bully. A few minutes passed in deafening quiet, turning seconds into eternities as I stared at my hands and Charlie stared at me. Thoughts paced through my mind, clouding my head with all of the things I wanted to, but wouldn’t dare to say. “What are you thinking about?” Charlie spoke calmly, finally ending our wordless war and dropping his sudden temper.

“I don’t know,” I half whispered, unwilling to sort through the jumbled mess inside my mind. He stood fully and slowly made his was towards me, taking his seat beside me on the squeaky, metal-spring mattress.

“That’s not true,” he said slowly, resting his hand on my thigh, forcing my skin to burn under his warm touch. “You always know, every time I ask you something - about anything: math, Egyptian religion, candy, shoes, the fucking History channel - you know exactly the right answer.” I looked over at him, a look of desperation and uncertainty flooding his eyes and allowing a feeling of pity to wash over me.

“I guess that, when it comes to you, I’m just not so sure.” He sighed and wrapped his arm around my midsection, pulling me close and allowing my head to rest on his shoulder.

“That’s okay,” he whispered, kissing me gently on the crown of my head, “you don’t have to know everything.”