When I wake up, all of the clothes that had been strewn around the room the night before have been picked up. I can hear the washing machine churning a fresh load of laundry. The worst of it is that I can smell freshly brewed coffee mixed in with the delectable notes of pancakes. I know the pancakes will be heart-shaped and will contain rainbow sprinkles.

Oh no.

Why am I upset that my roommate has cleaned our apartment and is cooking me (a guaranteed to be delicious and adorable) breakfast (at 1 PM) even though he hates cleaning and cooking?

Because Ro-Ro only does shit like this (without being forced to) when he has a nightmare. He thinks he can chase away bad dreams by being productive. It’s almost like he gets scared that I’ll think he’s useless or something and kick him out.

He never tells me what he dreams about. (Even if I ask.) But I think they must be lonely dreams.

Ro-Ro never cries about the real stuff. But I’ve caught him silently crying in his sleep before. And I get the feeling that it might be about something real.

I walk into the kitchen where I find Ro-Ro standing with his back to me at the stove, holding a frying pan and a spatula, wearing nothing but blue boxers, a teal apron pattered with cupcakes topped with colorful frosting, and a single black calf-length sock, pulled up all the way.

I reach up to pet Ro-Ro’s soft springy curls, but I accidentally startle him. He whips around, bumping into me. I catch us both before we can fall off balance onto the hot stove.

“Still jumpy from a nightmare?” I raise an eyebrow at him, taking in the dark circles around his eyes, which are impossibly green today.

He lets out a breath, “I’m fine, Em!” he grins at me. Like I’m some sort of idiot.

I glance at the plate positioned next to the stove. Yup. Heart-shaped pancakes. With sprinkles. Fuck.

I scowl at him to let him know I’m not fooled, but I don’t push it. Getting Ro-Ro to open up about himself is about as easy as trying to get a fucking alligator to unclamp its jaw from your leg. I mean, I can guess that he has issues with his family, considering that I know he stole his step-mom’s car to run away from home, but I don’t know all the details.

Instead, I grab a clean fork out of the dishwasher (he apparently ran that too) and stab one of those cute little delicious pancakes. I take a big fat bite and experience what it must feel like for an angel to have an orgasm. It really sucks that Ro-Ro hates cooking because he’s fucking good at it.

“Fucking good,” I say, and he beams, smiling for real this time. Sometimes all it takes for Ro-Ro to feel better is a little appreciation. Every now and then, I get the feeling that he feels somewhat worthless, no matter how many criminals we put behind bars. I think that’s what’s causing his “fucking problem.”

I grab our mugs from the cabinet. Mine is purple with the silver word “grumpy” scrawled across it in fancy, girly cursive. When you pour a hot beverage into it, the word “bitch” with a little heart dotting the “i” appears under “grumpy.” Ro-Ro’s mug is full-on hot pink with the word “daddy” scrawled on it. When you pour a hot beverage into that one, the message turns into “daddy’s bitch.” (Also with a little heart dotting the “i.”) We have a white one that says “basic” on it with a similar hot beverage effect, which is reserved for guests, but to be honest, we rarely have any. Shame. Waste of a good insult.

There’s still no milk when I open the fridge, but there is a beautiful can of whipped cream. I squirt the cups half full of whipped cream and then pour hot coffee over it, letting the fluffy stuff dissolve. I add more whipped cream to the top and grab the rainbow sprinkles from the counter next to a turquoise mixing bowl.

I hand “daddy’s bitch” his mug, and we head over to the couch (evicting FuckFace) to eat, setting the plate of pancakes on a little coffee table and taking turns stabbing them with a fork to eat them around the tines. Ro-Ro takes off his apron and hangs it up on the back of a chair. I flip on the TV. We’re lucky. Sunday afternoon doesn’t always have cartoons, but I guess that angel orgasming in heaven from vicariously eating Ro-Ro’s pancakes is doing us a solid.

The cartoons play on. The pancakes become crumbs. Ro-Ro flops over to put his head on my shoulder. I wrap my arm around him and squeeze. We don’t say anything.

FuckFace leaps up onto the couch, determined to kill the mood for revenge. He climbs up on Ro-Ro’s bare legs and places his front paws on Ro-Ro’s chest to — I shit you not — lick Ro-Ro’s nipple.

We bust out laughing, Ro-Ro swatting the cat away. Fucking pervert cat.

Ro-Ro stands up, “It’s date day, remember?” he says, “We’d better put on some fucking real clothes.”

He’s right. I glance down at my oversized gray t-shirt and bare legs. Yup.

I tug on some fishnets and a black skater skirt. I add a purple tank-top and a black studded leather jacket. I brush out my long hair and put it in long pig-tails. I feel like Avril Lavigne and Harley Quinn’s love child. And I love it.

Ro-Ro opts for an oversized pink hoodie and another pair of booty shorts. The hood has long pink bunny ears which of course Ro-Ro pulls up over his bouncy curls.

Together, we brush our teeth in the bathroom mirror. I have this habit of remembering things when I’m brushing my teeth and talking to Ro-Ro through a mouth full of toothpaste.

“Don’t let me forget our meeting at The Club tomorrow,” I say. Toothpaste drips down the corner of my mouth and plops into the sink.

“Mmhmm.”

“If we forget to go, we don’t get paid.”

Ro-Ro spits into the sink, “Mmhmm!”

We’re ready. Just in time.

There’s a knock at the door. It’s really rare for someone to knock. Mostly, we get gangsters or Ro-Ro’s ex-sex buddies breaking down the door enraged. But, we do get a knock on the second Sunday of every month.

I run to the door and throw it open.

“David!” I give him a big hug. David is my boyfriend. He’s in college and lives in a dorm about three hours away, so we only get to see each other in person once a month: for date day. We’ve been dating for two years and four months now. We met the four months before I discovered my magic and met Ro-Ro, David’s senior year of high school. David is normal, and he doesn’t know about my magic. Which isn’t the only thing that David doesn’t know about…

“Daviekins!” Ro-Ro’s voice is unnaturally high-pitched as he pirouettes across the room, playing up the gay stereotype as hard as he can. We both know that if David knew that Ro-Ro is actually bi, not gay, that he would definitely not be comfortable with the two of us living together. (And he would definitely not be uncomfortable with the two of us living together practically naked.)

“Hey, Mer,” David hugs me back, “What’s up, Ro-Ro?” David tries to play it cool, but Ro-Ro taking his act over the top by trying to flirt with him definitely makes him uncomfortable.

“This little bunny is feeling lonely,” Ro-Ro mock-pouts, “you sure you don’t want to take me out instead?”

Poor David.

“He’s joking,” I say, tugging on David’s sleeve, “Come on. Let’s get the fuck out of here before I decide to cook rabbit stew.”

I turn back to Ro-Ro (who has switched his expression from mock-pout to mock-horror) and fix him with a stern look.

“Do not do anything stupid while I’m gone. And feed the cat.”

He knows what I mean. Don’t go out and find a random sex-partner, you damn addict. That’s what I mean.

The pout is back.

“Can I at least order pizza?”

“I don’t give a fuck.”

David is fucking beautiful. He’s short for a guy, but he doesn’t have a complex about it and totally ignores anyone who tries to give him shit for it. Which is super hot. He’s mixed, half-Jewish, half-Korean, which makes him even hotter. He’s also super buff, super smart and extremely sweet. And yeah, he drives three hours to come and see me on the second Sunday of every month. And we go on a date.