Page 14 of The Naked Cleaner

“Ha!” he shouts, and leans over the side, giving me a triumphant glare. Like he’s proud.

“How old are we, Pontus?” I snarl out. “Three? That fucking hurt. Thank god for a bit of textile padding. If I have bruises tomorrow, then I am suing you for damages.” I’m not, but he doesn’t know that. Wanker.

“Three? You are the one being totally inappropriate, violating my personal space, and messing up my bed… Did you wash my sheets?”

His face kind of faceplants in the pillow as he breathes unnaturally loud into the fabric. Like he is sniffing them. Over-sniffing them. Like. Whatever.

“Of course, I washed them, all part of the service. If I had left them in your laundry basket they would still have been there, and I couldn’t see another set in your wardrobe. There was like one spare pillowcase. So, yeah, they are bloody clean. You can thank me later. I’ll take your other load home and wash those too. I don’t do ironing, that’s extra.”

It’s a blooming narrow little space I have managed to wedge my body into, and trying to sit up and he stares at me suspiciously, is near enough impossible.

“Washing someone’s sheets is kind of… a bit much. Too personal. It’s weird, Louis. I didn’t ask for that.”

“Changing your sheets weekly, is kind of basic hygiene,Pontus.”

“They were fucking clean,Louis.”

“I would suggest if you are going to wank into your sheets, then wipe it on a tissue.Mate.”

It’s below the belt, I know. And it’s bloody rude and over personal and I am crossing so many boundaries that I am kind of blushing at the cheek of myself. Because, honestly, the little bit of sympathy and like that I had for him is fading fast here, as he pushes himself off the bed and holds his bedroom door open, staring at me with that look that is very hard not to interpret correctly.

“Get out.” He shouts, as I try to get my legs out from behind his bed.

“I will, but not until…”

He interrupts me with one of his death stares. The ones I am kind of learning not to mess with. He’s fuming now, and I don’t blame him. Then he leaves me in my tangled mess as I push the bed away from the wall, then manage to turn around so I can stand up, right in time for him to reappear with a tall glass of water, and he stares at me, pins his eyes right at me, as he downs the water in one, getting a little bit glassy eyed and flushed in the process.

“Now get the hell out of here.” He hisses.

“Pontus.” I say, because I should apologise.

“Just go. “

“Okay.”

I push past him, giving him a little shove with my shoulder. He doesn’t even flinch, which somehow makes me irrationally angry. I don’t know what gets into me, but I turn around and walk back up the hallway and get right in his face, totally violating his personal space again.

I’m so stupid.

I’m so fucking stupid.

“I like you Pontus. You are a nice guy underneath all that bullshit, and for some reason, I am being nice to you. I am trying to be your friend, as well as helping you out, and you are helping me back, and I appreciate it, but this? All this bullshit anger? I don’t buy it. And I don’t like it. Just be nice to me and I can be nice to you back, and we can help each other back, and it would be... it would be really fucking nice to have a friend. Because I don’t have many, and according to Jonas, you could do with one. And I know that is a shit thing to say, but please know that I don’t mean that in a rude way, and I am sorry about the wanking comment. It was uncalled for, and I apologise. Okay?”

He says nothing back.NOTHING. Which is weirder than weird, but at least I’ve said my bit, and I grab my kit and pretty much throw it out his front door, before slamming it shut—probably harder than I should.

It’s a shit end to what had been a really good day. I actually paid my bills with the cash Mrs Amundsen gave me, and I picked up a new client, and made Pontus happy with my food. That should have made my day, but nope, I had to go and be all stupid and childish again. Instead of behaving like an adult and being professional with one of my clients, I have once again fucked up by being. Yeah. Weird and over-personal and letting my mouth blurt out bloody stupid shit. Weird shit. Yeah, because that is one label that I apparently can’t get rid of. I’m weird. And boy, don’t I know it. Feel it. I even feel weird when I step over the threshold to my own house where my dad is on the sofa reading something on his tablet, and Mum is on the running machine. Something smells delicious coming from the oven and I drop my clothes in a pile on the floor with a sigh of relief.

I love being home. Which is kind of weird too, as I am far too old to still be living here, but hey, Mum and Dad love the company, and we get on far too well for me to be desperate for my own place. I’m not. I’m fine right here.

Which is a little bit of a lie, because I am, after all, an adult. And I have spent the last five years living on my own, or with other adults, and being back in my childhood room with my mother fussing over me and my father monitoring my comings and goings, it’s just a little bit stifling and sometimes I feel like I am suffocating, and sometimes it’s weirdly comforting. Today, it’s weird. I don’t want to talk about it, and I don’t want a cup of tea and I don’t want to do yoga with Mum after dinner. I just want to lie naked on my bed with the window open and let the cold air prickle my skin.

I pick up a book. Put it down again. Pick up my phone and try to scroll through social media. I stalk Pontus’ website and screenshot his profile picture. I don’t know why, because it’s an old one of a younger, more serious looking Pontus with shorter hair and less anger.

He’s so fucking angry at everything and it pisses me off almost as much as I am pissed off at myself. Why couldn’t I just have been nice and normal today and said thank you and goodbye like a normal person after doing my cleaning and sorting out his food. I should have just thanked him and left with a cheerysee you next week?Instead I have messed everything up and been childish and foolish and behaved like a weirdo.

I try to ring Jonas, but he doesn’t reply, which means he’s no doubt on shift, whizzing around with Clara in their ambulance-of-the-day, saving people’s bacon left, right and centre.

I miss nursing. I miss Aarhus and it’s small town feel. I miss being me. I don’t even know who this idiot is, the one I seem to have become.

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