The morning sunlight is far too truthful for my liking. It cuts right through the lofty deceits of a tequila soaked evening.
It illuminates the form of the accountant curled up in the fetal position beside me in bed, snoring comfortably in the spot that is usually reserved for my Jack Russell terrier. Rufus stares at me from atop his new perch in the laundry basket, judging.
I look back to the accountant sleeping in my bed, seeing him for the first time in the morning light. I do this even though past experience urges otherwise.
I see a bony spine protruding from the sheets. Last night, as he regaled me with boisterous accounts of his adventures in accounting, I remember thinking his back looked broad and strong. I had imagined him hauling me off my feet and throwing me into the bed with the least bit of effort. But, instead I now see that his back looks like a malnourished question mark, all curve and oddly transformed into a herring bone shape by slightly protruding ribs.
His skin is paler than I recall. Though that might seem obvious now that I can clearly see the coarse layer of thick black shag covering every inch of it. Had I not seen the spinal cord, I would likely have confused his furry back for a typical man’s chest. I discover to my own dawning horror that I have apparently slept with an anorexic gorilla.
I slowly pull back the sheets, trying to escape this nauseating scene without waking him. But the movement causes him to stir for a moment, and he rolls over in his sleep to face me. I gasp quietly as his breath hits me like a flaming garbage truck. It brings to mind the smell of…well, a flaming garbage truck, lit with whiskey soaked fumes. Gone is the scent of expensive cologne and spearmint chewing gum, mown down beneath the raging wheels of the runaway garbage truck.
“Hey there, sexy thang.”
He’s just spoken, and it’s like nails on a chalkboard—both his voice and the expression, of which he’s taken great care to accent the word ‘thaaang’ with high-pitched enthusiasm. I’m reminded of the heavy twang of an electric guitar, as heard in a particularly sappy country song. I can’t stand country music.
“You like to get up early, huh? Me too. What’s for eats, babe? Or maybe you want some seconds of this, heh heh heh?”
Another rapid-fire burst of terrible expressions, served up with that nasally voice and a side of machine-gun laughter. I don’t recall him sounding like this. Last night I had swooned over his golden voice, hung on his every word. Apparently I went to bed with Vin Diesel and woke up next to Adam Sandler.
Rufus hops down from the laundry basket and leaves in exasperation. Unfortunately, my unwanted guest doesn’t follow suit.
Instead, he kicks out his feet like they’re going to land on some imaginary ottoman, pulling the sheets off of both of us, and he rests his hands behind his head like he’s king of the castle. He’s still awaiting my response, and he seems optimistic. It’s as if the stoic, unamused expression on my face doesn’t even exist.
But then he rolls down his whitey-tighties—oh god, those are whitey-tighties he’s wearing, I’ve just noticed—and I see his leg fall out. Only… it’s not his leg.
And so I give him my answer, by flashing him a quick smile and putting a hand on one of his many legs. Because as I see it, what’s just one more go before I have to kick him out?