Page 25 of The Delivery

When I wake up in the morning, Mozey is not in my bed, but it’s still warm where his body lay, and I bury my face into the sheets to retrieve every molecule of him. I run my hands over the warmth he’s left and imagine what it would be like to wake up next to him every single morning.

I let myself indulge in the fantasy of being in his arms for a full five minutes. Then I drag my body out of bed and force my feet to meet the cold floor. Today is going to be hell. Today is D-Day. They day we’ve been dreading and waiting for.

Alexei takes my parents over to my uncle’s early. My mom got up when it was still dark to prepare a poppy seed cake for them because no way in hell she’s going over there empty handed. Lex told me she wept the whole time she baked the last morning in her own kitchen. She’ll bring them a sad poppy seed cake baked full of tears, only to have them toss it when she’s not looking because they eat toaster waffles, not cakes from the old world. They’ll reluctantly invite her into her new home which, undoubtedly to her, will smell like a home that doesn’t want any visitors.

That leaves Mozey and I alone in the house together. My plan is to pretend nothing happened last night. There is nothing illegal about sharing a bed for warmth. I’m on edge, I’m emotional, and I don’t want his stupid help. He’s already moving everything with a red piece of tape on it outside to the dumpster we rented. A red tag means garbage, and blue means to keep. My dad red taped so many things last night while my mom followed behind him trying to replace every single one with blue.

After five or six trips, Mozey comes in and leans over, hands on his knees, his breathing is accelerated, and I watch him cautiously.

“Are you okay? Is it your asthma? There is a lot of dust.”

He nods and stands up straight, his hands moving to his hips. He goes to his backpack, which is sitting on the couch we’re about to throw out, and he unzips it and removes an inhaler, breathing in a deep pump.

I’ve spent the last ten minutes in front of our non-working fire place drawing squiggles in the dust on the mantel full of rectangle ghosts left behind from now packed up, framed family photos.

“Are you still mad at me?” he asks, wheezing, and I feel suddenly concerned for him.

“Are you okay? Sit down! Can I do anything?”

“For one, you could stop ignoring me. Sit with me,” he says, patting the couch next to him.

“Is it the dust or the exertion?” I ask.

“Both,” he answers, and I realize that now he always directly answers my questions. “I have an idea to make you feel better. You said they’re just going to demolish the house, right? As soon as it’s reclaimed by the bank?”

“Yes. But I don’t like your ideas.”

“I haven’t even told you what it is,” he says as he takes another puff and holds it in his lungs with his broad chest inflated.

He rummages in his backpack and pulls out a can of spray paint. He shakes it vigorously, pops the cap off and then hands it to me.

“What’s this for?” I ask, my heart picking up a gentle thrumming, a light skipping beat. Mozey is always full of surprises, and it thrills me like a kid.

“Tell them how you feel. Get it out. Because I can tell that you’re hurting.”

I look at him, and my heart soars. I like him so much I want to kiss him. And I’m so turned on by the way he’s looking at my mouth I really want to kiss—kiss him. I stand and walk awkwardly to the wall. I shake the can again and write a giant “FUCK YOU!” right above the mantelpiece where a mirror used to hang.

Mozey nods his head at me and takes off his shirt. He’s still smiling and giving me a thumbs up as he wads up the shirt and wipes the sweat and dirt off of his muscular body.

I’m dumbstruck, staring at his chest. He’s ripped. He’s perfect. No, he’s better than perfect. He’s exactly what a man should be. I want to lick every single little square inch of him. I want the rest of his clothes off. I want to roll around with him naked. In the dust, in the dirt, stick a red tag on us: I don’t care. I’ll roll with him anywhere.

“What else?” he asks, and I rip my eyes away from the breathtaking body in front of me. I turn to the adjacent wall.

I’m turned on. I’m hot. I’m furiously angry and sexually frustrated. There is something I want to write, but it makes me feel selfish and stupid. But I still want to write it, and this is my chance as far as last chances go.

“I support my parents, and I’m only twenty-five!” I write the numbers huge. I feel an enormous emotional release. I’ve actually never said that out loud, but it’s what I think and feel all the time. I never say it because I don’t want to shame them.

“Here. Can I show you something?” Mozey asks and approaches me from behind. He puts one hand on my shoulder and lines himself up behind me, wrapping his large hand around my small one. He presses down on top of my finger and a stream of black paint rushes at the wall. He moves us forward toward the wall taking gentle steps behind me.

“Are you part of that portrait project? The one against the narcotraficantes?”

His body tenses slightly. He releases the nozzle. Now it’s his turn to ignore me.

He begins again moving us closer to the wall. The stream of paint gets more opaque and wetter and the line goes from blurred to making a perfect circle as he guides me. Then he pulls our arms back and moves the can fast, zigzagging back and fourth. The paint becomes faint spatters making a color graduation as he passes back to the original lines. It almost looks like a gray sunset. It’s striking but so simple.

“So there is a technique to it I guess, huh?”

I’m talking, but it doesn’t matter what I’m saying. Because everything at this point is feeling. Only feeling. We’re touching. Mozey and I are so close and everything is touching.

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