Page 6 of The Naked Cleaner

“I have work to do.”

I don’t know where that comes from. Like I am having a conversation with this guy.

“You don’t have to do anything. Not until we have you up and running, and back to full health again.”

“Haven’t you got anywhere to be? Like a date or some shit?

I am a child. Because I stuff a mouthful of pasta in my mouth and chew, sauce dripping down my chin, and I am embarrassed to accept the napkin Louis offers me across the table. He would probably wipe my chin if I let him. Sitting there all bright eyed with an amused smile on his face, his hair all perfectly swept back and his perfect nose and plush lips, and the annoying little giggle he does… again.

“Good, eh?” He says and shoves a mouthful in his own mouth. Chews. Swallows.

I would swallow for him. Anytime.

“Nah, and anyway, look.” Louis continues, in between shoving mouthfuls of pasta in his mouth like he’s never seen food before. “We have dinner. Company. Everything you could want for a Valentine’s date. Well, apart from the snogging and sexual favours. Those are not included or negotiable.”

He giggles like he thinks he’s funny. He’s not. Yeah, my mind is back in the gutter. I need to get laid. I need to stop. I need to get back to work, and clear some of the backlog so I can get some of this stress off my shoulders.

And anyway, he’s right. The pasta is wonderful, just the right amount of chilli and spices and a little bit of saltiness tingling on my tongue. And there are green bits in it, that I am guessing is spinach, which I grimace at and try to push to the side of my plate.

“Eat the goddamn spinach, Pontus.”

God, he rubs me up the wrong way. One minute ago, I wanted to blow him, and now I honestly want to punch him in the face.

“You are not my dad.”

“I could be your Daddy if you want me to?” He laughs and winks.

I just roll my eyes.

“So, let’s just get to know each other. I mean, come on. I have to hang with you for a bit, and I know you haven’t got the best impression of me. So, let’s start again. Hi. I’m Louis.”

He reaches his hand across the table to me. I stupidly grip it. Shake his hand like an uptight loser, mumbling, “Pontus.”

“Good. Great start. So, I’m Louis Ramsdahl-Soto, twenty-eight, single, born here in Copenhagen. My grandparents are from Chile, which explains my lovely all-year-round tan and exotic name, then I moved to Aarhus in my twenties, following a girlfriend who, well, it didn’t work out. Degree in nursing from Uni there, and I moved back here to hang with my parents a few months back. Run my own cleaning business and the rest of the time I chill. I’m really into books and films, and cooking, and I do a lot of yoga. I’m a naturist, and so are my parents, which is not weird. We just spend most of our time without the restrictions of textiles, and when we venture outside in public, we wear the appropriate clothing. It’s got nothing to do with sex. Nothing. So that’s me. Tell me about yourself.”

He looks expectantly at me, like I am supposed to talk.

“Girlfriend?“ My mouth spurts out. “Jonas says you’re gay.”

“Jonas needs to get his facts straight. I identify as pansexual. I tend to fall in love with people without the prejudice of gender.” He replies, looking very twatty. Like he is proud of himself.

“You’re a twat.” I say. Because I am rude as fuck and need to get a gag. Where the hell did that come from?

“Your blood sugar is low, and you are being unnecessarily defensive, and a little bit aggressive, Pontus. Please eat, and your moods will stabilise, and not only that, but you will feel better. You are still very pale.”

“Will you stop psychoanalysing me? You are not my doctor, and I look this pale, all the time. I feel like shit, all the time. It’s just who I am. I have a headache and you can take your fucking pasta and shove it.”

Nice, Pontus. Mature.

And yes, that is me stomping down the hallway and throwing myself face down on the bed. Breathing like I am running a marathon as my chest feels like it’s planning some kind of life-reducing heart attack. That was stupid. That was rude. But then, this guy is basically squatting in my home against my will, and fuck Jonas and his stupid health advice and pretend doctor crap. He’s a paramedic. Basically, a glorified nurse.

Not that I should say shit like that, because Jonas is a goddamn hero. He and Clara save hundreds of lives every week, working in crazy conditions and dealing with the scum of humanity. They also deliver babies in stairwells, and rescue kittens, and drink tea with lunatics who ring 112 for company. And to be honest, they also stop by and see me, almost every shift. They bring me coffee, and rhubarb muffins from Lagkagehuset’s bakery. I kind of like it. Despite it being bloody annoying every time the doorbell goes.

And I kind of wanted to finish that pasta. Instead, I am throwing a tantrum in my bed feeling sorry for myself.

At least I am alone. At least if I breathe slowly, the headache calms a little.

“I brought your pasta.” His voice sends shivers up my spine... of annoyance, naturally.

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