"How about this one?" I turn around, holding one of my tee shirts.
Joshua wrinkles his nose. "Don't you have anything with long sleeves?"
"Sure, but isn't it a bit warm for that?"
He gives a one shoulder shrug. "I like long sleeves."
"Okay." I return the tee shirt to the wardrobe and reach for the shelf with winter clothing. "Is that why you used to wear that long coat in any weather?"
He doesn't answer, but when I turn around again, he's regarding me suspiciously.
"I see you've noticed me long before I've noticed you," he says.
I shrug. "You're pretty... noticeable."
He hums thoughtfully. "That I am."
He takes the dark grey Henley shirt from me and puts it against his chest. On him, it looks like a tunic.
"Will do for now," he says. "Turn away."
It takes me a moment to realize what he wants. Working with guys who have no problem changing in front of each other, I've forgotten that some people can be uncomfortable with that. If anything, I didn't expect that of him.
"Sure." I turn back to the wardrobe and start looking through my pants. "Didn't think you have problems with being looked at. You perform onstage, after all."
"I do that when fully dressed, in case you haven't noticed," he says behind my back. "Anyway, I'll go shopping for clothes tomorrow."
"You do have money, right? Savings and such?"
"Yeah, a couple of thousand in my bank account."
"That's all?" Surprised, I turn around and find him naked above the waist, preparing to put my shirt on. My eyes register his pale slim torso and his startled eyes before I realize my mistake and look away again. "Sorry."
"No big deal," he says coolly, and I hear the soft sounds of fabric sliding against skin.
I look at the mess of crumpled clothes in the wardrobe. I really should bring myself to fold them some day. It's impossible to find anything.
"How do you have so little savings? You had a job."
"Singing two evenings a week isn't much of a job. Also, I kept most of my cash hidden in my room, so it all went up in flames last night."
That makes me look at him again, and he meets my eyes calmly, already dressed.
"Why didn't you keep all your money in a bank?"
He frowns. "Are you criticizing my choices again?"
"Well, you can't argue that that one wasn't very smart."
"Even so, I still didn't ask for your opinion." He looks around. "Do you have a mirror?"
"In the bathroom."
"Yeah, a small one—but don't you have one you can actually see yourself in?" He raises an eyebrow as I shake my head. "How can you live without one? I was the first thing I bought when I moved into that basement room. You gotta know how you look."
"I know how I look."
"Gosh, such confidence." He rolls his eyes before turning around and heading for the kitchen. He actually looks pretty funny in my baggy Henley short. Being not only shorter than me but also narrower in the shoulders, he looks like a kid wearing his big brother's outfit.
I push the piles of clothes deeper into the shelves to allow closing the wardrobe door, and then follow him. By the time I step into the kitchen he's already going through drawers and cabinets.
"Looking for something?"
"Yeah, food." He opens the fridge door and stares into it thoughtfully. Even without looking I know there's not much to be found.
"I intended to go grocery shopping today," I say.
"I figure you don't cook much." He glances at me over the open fridge door. "Nor eat. All those muscles on you must be made of pure righteousness and good intentions."
"I can make us pasta," I say defensively.
"With what?"
"With pasta and water."
He stares at me, then shakes his head. "For someone lecturing me on having a good life, you don't seem to have a particularly good one yourself."
"My life is fine."
"Your empty apartment tells a different story."
"It's furnished the way I like it."
"And your cupboards are empty the way you like them? Never mind. I'll just go out and get something from the gas station."
He brushes past me and leaves the kitchen. I turn and look in disbelief as he begins to put his shoes on.
"You shouldn't go out yet. You should be resting."
Ignoring me, he finishes tying his shoelaces and straightens up. Then he suddenly sways a little before leaning on the wall. I take a step forward, but before I can do anything, he slides down and sits on the floor.
"My head," he says, squeezing his eyes shut. "I just... My head spins."
"Of course, it does." I come closer and examine his face. "You're all pale. Come on, I'll help you to the couch. Does your chest hurt?"
"No." He pauses. "I'm a bit out of breath, though."
He accepts my hand and I help him to his feet. He sways a little and I put my hand around his shoulders to steady him. That's a bit more contact than I'm comfortable with, but I keep my mind on the task. Together we walk slowly towards the sofa, and I help him sit down.
"Just rest." I tell him. "I'll make pasta."
In the kitchen, I fill the cooking pot with water and put it on the stove, then open the cupboard. Its nearly complete emptiness suddenly looks very striking, although it never bothered me before.
So what? The cupboards of my childhood home were always stuffed, but that house was full of inhabitants. I live alone now. I don't need much.
As little bubbles begin to appear at the bottom of the pot, I watch them, thinking. I shouldn't take Joshua's criticism to heart. He's still not quite all right after what he experienced the night before—in fact, his sudden flurry of activity indicates just that. After a close brush with death, people sometimes plunge into hysterical bouts of doing things, as if suddenly realizing how limited their time is.
The water begins to boil. I add the pasta and poke at it with a wooden spoon to force it under water. We've slept throughout the day, but I don't feel rested, and I'm sure that neither does he. He should just go back to bed. A good twenty-four hours sleep could be just what we both need to recover. Perhaps after we eat...
I put the spoon on the counter and head back to the room.
Joshua is still lying on his side on the couch like I left him, a pillow under his head. His eyes are closed and his face is turned away from the window where the neon sign is blinking rapidly in the growing dark. I'm used to its light but now it strikes me as annoying. I come over and stare outside, then look around until my eyes stop on the wardrobe.
I retrieve one of the thin blankets folded on the top shelf, white with yellow and green turtles. I got it at Quannell's on that day when he was suddenly selling bedclothes for throwaway prices. I drape the blanket over the curtain rod and spread it to cover the window like a curtain. Some of the light is still getting through, but it's softer now.
I turn to look at Joshua again. His face looks more relaxed now that the aggressive neon glow is gone. I watch him, the earlier weird sensation from having him in my apartment replaced by a more pleasant feeling of not being alone. He was an intruder when awake and talking, but he's a welcome presence when asleep.
He's just asleep, isn't he?
Struck by a sudden suspicion, I walk over and place two fingers on his throat. His pulse beats reassuringly against my fingertips. I linger, mesmerized by the sensation of someone's life beating so fiercely when it could have been extinguished last night if not for my intervention. I wonder what Uncle would have said about this. Perhaps this would have convinced him that my leaving was justified.
Or maybe he would have said that I should have left Joshua to burn.
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