Page 22 of Strelitzias in Spring

“You’re letting me do more than put hydrogen peroxide on those lacerations. But fine, you want to wash my sweatshirt so fucking badly, here.” Gripping the bottom of my gray sweatshirt, I drag it over my head until I’m left in a T-shirt with my sleeves on full display. I watch her face as I hand her the article of clothing and take notice of the attention she’s paying to my forearms. It’s early February, the weather is cold, and most people would leave the house in a winter jacket, but I can’t have my mobility restricted while riding my bike. Had I known how the night would end, I would have brought my truck to the event tonight.

Diverting her eyes, Serena unzips my leather jacket and shrugs it off before heading into her small kitchen.

“I won’t get too much water on the leather, but I want to wipe off the lining and the stains on your jacket. Your sweatshirt doesn’t seem too bad, and I don’t think the stains set yet, so it shouldn’t take long to get it out.” I expect her to walk to her sink, but instead, she walks to a small closet and carefully opens the louver door. On one side of the closet is the most disorganized pantry I have ever seen, with cans, bottles, and bags shoved in with no regard to functionality or order. On the other side is a stacked washer and dryer and ironing board that looks like it’s about to fall and hit her in the face.

I must be a fucking psychic because as soon as thoughts about the ironing board leave my head, I see the dilapidated piece of shit start to come down.

“For fuck’s sake, Serena,” I huff out, lifting my arm to catch the board before it hits her on the forehead.

“Thanks, that board won’t stay put.”

“It’s shoved in there, maybe have some organization. Christ, this closet looks like a tornado blew through it.” She spins away from me, but not before I see the twist of her lips and the redness bloom on her cheeks.

“‘Organized chaos,’ my mom calls it. To anyone else, they would see this closet and think that I have no semblance of organization, but I know where everything is. It may look messy, but for me, it’s functional. I have the cans of tomatoes next to the rice and canned vegetables and the cereals next to my protein bars. My snacks are thrown in by sweet and savory categories, and the containers of broth are just shoved in wherever they fit because I didn’t have much room remaining.”

“And the ironing board?”

She huffs, and I watch her shoulders drop. “No one likes a smart ass.”

I can’t help but laugh as I watch her get to work on cleaning my clothing. Pulling out a spray bottle and a bar that looks like soap and smells like lemons, she sprays the stains and begins scrubbing the fabric with an aggression that concerns me.

“Please, go take care of yourself. This will be done in a minute, and I promise, I feel okay,” she tosses over her shoulder, not breaking her cleaning frenzy. “The bathroom is the first door on the right. Towels and washcloths are in the closet inside the bathroom, and there’s soap in the shower and another one under the sink in the vanity. If you decide to shower, the water takes a few to heat up, so don’t be alarmed that it stays cold for roughly six minutes and thirty-four seconds.”

I raise my eyebrow. “Have you timed it?”

She pauses in her ministrations. “Uh, no?”

“I’m not taking a shower. Don’t worry if the stains don’t come out; I have six sweatshirts that look the same, and I can give two shits if I have to throw this one away.” I leave her in the kitchen/laundry room and make my way to the bathroom. Unlike her bizarre directions to her apartment building, these instructions are easy enough to follow, and I find myself locked behind a surprisingly dark bathroom. While the rest of her apartment is a study in bright, light colors mixed with neutrals, the bathroom boasts dark gray walls, a heavy mahogany vanity, and chipped black tiles inside the slim shower stall.

I scowl at the construction, knowing damn well that a man of my size could barely fit one leg and his dick inside that shower without feeling claustrophobic. As it is, bending down in this miniature bathroom makes me feel like a bull in an antique shop, and I have to contort my body not to hit my head or knock anything over on the shelves next to the vanity mirror.

Opening the vanity, I push aside feminine hygiene products, hair shit, and spare rolls of toilet paper. Just like in her pantry, the interior of this cabinet looks like a bomb exploded, and I try not to reorganize the mess that she claims is a form of organization.

But I can’t help it; there’s no rationale behind the placement of the contents, and my organized brain can’t handle the disorder. Within five minutes, I have neat little rows lined up like soldiers beneath the sink and a bullshit first aid kit placed on the Formica countertop. She must have just two band-aids and expired hydrogen peroxide in the way of medical supplies. Shaking my head, I pull out my phone to place an online order for the local pharmacy, stocking up on shit she should have in her home kit: bacitracin, ibuprofen, hydrogen peroxide, gauze, alcohol swabs, and other basic necessities that seem to be unimportant to Serena. I pay extra for expedited delivery and stuff my phone back into my pocket before glancing up at the mirror. I take in my appearance and can’t help the scowl that comes to my face.

What the fuck am I doing here, playing doctor with Serena while she plays house with my clothes? I need to get my shit, get the fuck out of here, and forget about the pretty girl with the sad eyes and chaotic categorization. And I still have chocolate syrup on my goddamn face.

“Fucking college,” I grunt before turning the faucet on. If my cousin were here, she’d probably tell me I’m acting like an old, grumpy man. But who hosts a party and thinks to themselves,Let me make every person in my vicinity as uncomfortable and disgusting as possible while wasting as many food products as I can?

Grabbing the hypoallergenic body wash from the cabinet, I squeeze a drop in my hand and massage until suds form. I use the unscented soap to scrub the stickiness from my skin and sigh in relief when no trace of chocolate remains.

“Wait for her to clean herself up, get the shit from the pharmacy, clean her wounds, and get the fuck home,” I mutter. “Get the fuck out of this apartment and stop organizing cabinets and obsessing over the smell of a woman we barely fucking know.” Nodding to myself, I grab the band-aids, pull open the bathroom door, and take long strides back to the kitchen. I’m not surprised that Serena is no longer bent over the washing machine, tending to my shirt. But I am surprised to find her clean and dressed in a black tank top and oversized sweatpants. There must be another bathroom in this small apartment, and I must have taken longer to right her cabinets than I thought. She’s facing away from me, reaching up to a mess of a cupboard to grab God knows what.

My gaze trails over her back until it gets to the top of the flimsiest fucking shirt I’ve ever seen. I’m praying that there’s some kind of built-in bra in the front because the material looks thin, and I don’t think my willpower is strong enough to resist glancing at her tits if her nipples are front and center. My gaze moves from her clothing to her skin, and a sliver of black teases me from the center of her back.

What the hell is that? Leaning closer, I see a small patch of inflamed skin and wonky linework, like an inexperienced apprentice stabbed her back with ink and continued the piece, even after her skin rejected the application. The ink and infection seem too fresh for it to have been an older piece, and I’d bet my ass she got a botched tattoo within the last few days.

“What the fuck is on your back?” I growl, my voice taking on an edge I usually reserve for the cage.

She stops reaching for whatever it is she is searching for and settles back on flat feet. Turning around slowly, I don’t miss the wince on her face—either from pain or discomfort at my question—but I’m too angry to care.

From where I’m standing, it looks like a tattoo artist ruined a canvas with no regard for the person—the young, beautiful person—who would have to carry it around like a fucking shackle for the rest of their life.

Serena clears her throat and folds her hands in front of her waist, like a child about to be scolded by the principal. “I got a tattoo.”

“No fucking shit, you got a tattoo. Where? When? I saw a piece of the infection and shitty application, so don’t even pretend that it’s a fucking masterpiece.”

“Royal Ink, on Lexington and Fisher Blvd.”

---