Chapter 2: Late for Work

In the darkness, there were only shadows. His shadow moved to the beat of an invisible song that sent shivers down my spine. I was sitting, immovable, as his shadow came across my shadow. And I was happy, oh, so happy. There were no words, his shadow remained silent, even though I called out for him. I think he smiled. Or I smiled. Then I exploded into oblivion.

++++++

Rolling over in bed, I reached up to hit the snooze button on my phone, now becoming aware for the first time of noise against my window.

God, why did it have to rain today. On a Monday, of all things.

Turning over in bed, I could feel some of the warmth from the sheets escaping. Looking out my window, a dull iron-grey sky sneered back, the constant tattoo of rain against my window made me wish it was still Sunday.

Dream, come back to me.

As if for emphasis, a flash of lightning and a crack of thunder was the beacon for me to get moving. It’s so hard to get going when all you want to do is pull the spare pillow over your head and snuggle back into your bed. That warm nest with the smells that are familiar and that little divot in the middle of the bed that you have made over the years that is yours, and yours alone.

‘Beep, beep, beep…beep, beep, beep.’ This time, not an alarm.

I reached for my phone, thumbing the screen and took the call. “Uh, good morning Danielle.”

“Theo? Sorry to call so early, but can you be a few minutes early? I’ve been up most of the night baking the cake and some dessert sides for Earl’s retirement and, well, there’s a lot to handle. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, sure Danielle. No problem, how much extra time did you need?”

“Well, 10-15 should do it.”

Damn. “Okay, I’ll be there.”

Hanging up, I cursed myself. Why do I always do that? Give in and say, ‘yes’ to everything?

Danielle, who is my boss and a recent divorcee despite being in her 40’s, also lives in the same apartment building (we found this out 5 months into me working at the company when we bumped into each other in the parking lot on a weekend) and is also my commuting buddy.

I have a habit of saying ‘yes’ too much, and this morning was clearly no exception. My therapist says it’s from ‘deficient parenting’, where my parents always said yes to their parents, and now the cycle repeats itself. I dunno if she’s onto something, but I always feel better after our weekly sessions.

Getting out of bed, I stretch, and I can feel the medium t-shirt riding up my torso. The soft belly that greets me has grown out of lack a of fitness stemming from the steady byproduct of an old ACL surgery on my knee from my years on the college lacrosse team during my senior year when it blew out, that was poorly operated on (thanks, Dr. Sykes) and a physical therapist, who was more into building her Instagram and TikTok following than actually helping me (thanks, Stephanie). I do suppose I could put in more effort by actually showing up to the gym, but I’m just so tired these days after work.

With the tell-tale limp that lasts until I get down the hall, I begin peeling off my shirt and boxers, noting that they, too are a shade smaller.

“What do you think, Oliver?” I say looking down, as I feel the brush of fur against my ankles, the brown-black streak that somehow never manages to trip me up, even though I feel like he could if ever he wanted to.

Upon hearing his voice, he looks up at me, taking in my nakedness as we both pace (and limp) towards the bathroom down the hall.

If he could talk, he might say, ‘Cheer up, old boy. A sturdy lad’s a healthy lad.’ In my head, Oliver’s British. I don’t know why, but he’s got that stoic face and properness of disposition that, in a previous life, he might have been a butler in an old estate house or a senior banker in a large firm.

He purrs, closing his eyes as he makes one final swipe between my ankles before darting off into the kitchen.

“Meow!”

“Yeah, why not.” I’ve consented to Danielle, so you are next little man.

Detouring from the shower, still in my nakedness, I steer my padded feet into the kitchen and feel the tiled floor cool beneath them. I reach and open up a cabinet door, making to grab Oliver’s dry cat food (organic) when I feel my belly press into the cheap countertop.

My pooch smushes into the flat surface creating a fleshy depression that deepens as I reach over for his small bowl to deposit his breakfast into. I know, having your cat’s food and water dish on the same countertop as your cooking surface is definitely not hygienic, but I have been known to be lazy and I do enjoy watching Oliver pounce up from the floor like a superhero.

“Breakfast, Sir Oliver.” I say aloud. Quick as lightning, he’s at my side and arching his back, making that adorable question mark with his tail that I’ve come to enjoy. I take two fingers and slide them from base to tip, like holding a wiggly hairy cigar as he walks to and fro before making for his food dish.

Replacing his food and closing the cabinet door, I glance at the clock on the stove. I’ve lost even more time. No morning masturbating in the shower, then.

Thanks Danielle. Thanks Oliver.

Upon entering the bathroom and turning on the water for the shower, I spy the scale in the corner of the room. An invitation or a warning to stay away this morning? I consider as I look down at my softer body. Running a hand along my side, I can feel the plush that has come with a hard winter and a demotivating back and forth of going to the gym—or not. But hey, $10 a month is a bargain, right? Too cheap to cancel, but not quite motivating enough to put in more effort. Though I should.

I decide to forgo the scale today.

Cupping my side and giving it a little pat sends a gentle ripple across my torso. What would mom say? Or dad, if they could see me this big?

Leaning forward, I run my fingers under the water, it’s still too cold to hop inside. More waiting. Less time. Waiting gives me more time to ponder my parental response though.

“Theo, have you been keeping up with your physical therapy exercises? You’re limping again, dear”. I hear my mother say.

“We’ve got the big boy genes, Son. Just go easy on the holiday snacks.” My dad would say, followed by an unwelcomed pat on my stomach. His signature move.

The holidays were hard for me this year. I recently got out of a relationship my parents would not approve of. With no grandkids on the horizon (I’ve left that to my older brother, Dillon, thanks), my dating preferences don’t come with uteruses. They don’t’ suspect or know, and that’s just fine with me. My therapist insists on bringing this to light which would help me both emotionally as well as physically (my hand touches my belly once more), but I’m just not ready to take that leap.

Steam begins to fill the tiny bathroom and I can barely see my hand now. The water is ready at last. Stepping in, I feel the weekend washing away. Reaching for my shampoo, I squirt the vanilla-white solution into my hand and tend to my face and beard. Noting only a mild scratchiness, I make out that I can make it until Wednesday before I need to edge my beard.

Next up, the bodywash and loofah. I scrub every inch I can reach allowing the water to enter and cascade down every surface and crevasse. Scrubbing around my softer neck My hands caress my chest and torso, the soapy bubbles yielding to gravity as I stand under the water.

Around my middle, I spend some extra time, feeling my softer sides and pooch with its deepened navel. I’m not really fat. More athletically husky, I tell myself, as I aim downward through the forest of manicured hair and down between my legs.

The urge is there, but the time is not.

Despite a rising stiffness, I instead focus on thighs, calves, feet and toes. Then, back up to my rear, which feels soft as I pass the loofah up, around and between the folds of my backside.

Not now, there’s not time.

Cursing myself, half mast becomes full mast.

Dang it.

My mind flashes instantly and, despite the rush of water falling down my body, I am now bathed in shadow.

My dream.

Don’t force it, let it come to you.

You don’t have time for this, let the dream go.

Shadows, more shadows. Less shadows. Two shadows.

There is faint music, music that you could move your hips to, if you wanted to. But I can’t. Something has me immovable, stuck to…a surface, maybe a chair?

Movement happens through the shadows and the edges separate. There are arms, legs, a head, a torso. The shadow moves towards me with purpose, to harm or to heal?

The shadow moves across my shadow and there is a voice, my voice. The shadow reaches out to touch me. I feel heat, warmth, the electricity of a thousand suns. I’m smiling. Then there is happiness.

I groan, drowning in water and cough, spitting the water out of my mouth and shoot my eyes open. I look around, I’m in my shower, my hand wrapped around my penis. Looking down I can feel the tingle from my release. When the hell had it happened?

I see my essence on the tiled floor between my feet, swirling, mixing with the falling water and snaking its way with the other liquids down the holes of the drain and into the abyss. My contribution to the plumbing.

Now, I’m late. Satisfied, but late.

++++++