The Boyfriend stuffs his dark jeans and button downs deep into white plastic garbage bags. Whenever I spot that red cord of a handle tightening over the bundle I have to stop myself from salivating.
“Don’t be embarrassed, honey,” I reassure him. “Part of city living. We all get unlucky sometimes.”
This Boyfriend is like All Boyfriends: They rip drawers out of dressers to inspect the crevices, while I pledge my undwindling moral support. I don’t get my hands dirty—too many gold bangles that would rattle or catch. (Always gifts but never silver. What am I, your second place lover?)
Boyfriends never expect me to assist. This is their problem and it is just so humiliating. Poor thing, I think, watching their t-shirts ride up along some bit-up slab of back. They sweat and pack. I lick my lips.
##
This Boyfriend moves through the stages of me with grace.
Stage One: Get me in bed. It only happens once, I am sure I’ll be invited to sleep over.
Stage Two: They notice a red bump or two on a toned calf or a long-fingered hand. Wonder if the laundry detergent is giving them a rash.
Stage Three: The tiny red marks don’t let up. They must confess to me they suspect an infestation, for which they always apologize. Boyfriends feel a violation of trust when something nips them in the night, when they realize they somehow invited a parasite into the boudoir. The Boyfriends would never do that!
##
“I haven’t seen a single bug!” he insists. Sweet human shame, he can’t say the “bed” part first. Makes him feel filthy, immoral, poor. I get more gold and glittery gifts because I am such a trooper, such a good sport through all this.
The inspector points a blue-gloved finger to rusty stains on the bed board.
“And that’s how we know,” our apple-cheeked inspector says. “These guys get so greedy, they bite you, run back under the mattress, and spit up what they can’t handle—sorry to be so graphic, miss.” I blush and titter behind my fingers.
Can you blame me after a late-night binge?
##
Stage Four: Darling indolent days. Those dumb bugs hate the heat, so we crank the thermostat and nap while the sun is out. Plastic cloaks all surfaces. The Boyfriends lounge in only boxers, leaving me so very much exposed skin.
Stage Five: Unless I’m having an unusually good time, I Iet the treatments “work.” Gradually I get to drink less so my mood sours. Most times this brings me more gifts—but what do I want with living flowers or treacly treats? I’m never pleasant when I’m hungry.
Stage Six: I split. I’m sorry, you just seem like you have a lot going on right now. Let me know when you’re ready to commit.
It’s because of bad timing, The Boyfriends always think. Why did I have to saunter through their front doors during such a rough couple of months?
None of them ever realize I am the bloodletter they beckoned in.
©
Laura Eppinger is a Pushcart-nominated writer of fiction, poetry and essay. Her work has appeared at the Rumpus, the Toast, and elsewhere. She’s the managing editor at Newfound Journal. She tweets at @lola_epp. Visit her here: https://lauraeppinger.blog/workspub/
