The doorbell rang. I was suddenly overtaken by an uncontrollable anger.

He handed me a particularly cheap brand of white wine I used for cooking, and stepped inside before I had freed the passage.

“Oh, you really shouldn’t have!”

“Huh?”

Had I not held out my hand, he would not have returned my key to me. I could tell he was too embarrassed to look at me.

“What is that smell on your neck?!”

“Old Spice,” he shrugged.

“Remove it!” I ordered, pointing to the bathroom.

He scrutinized me before giving in. When he returned, he smelt the same and I had not heard the water run.

“What’re all these darn feathers?” He kicked one weightless pile, then another.

“Angel down.”

His manners were drying my palate.

“You ask too many questions!” I had felt another was in the air.

“Then why don’t I just leave?” He looked me up and down.

“You must take off all your clothes! You must do as I say!”

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

He undid the buttons of his polyester shirt (whatever buttons weren’t already open) before their threads burst from his stomach’s pressure. Underneath, he was wearing the same tank top he had on at the corner store. He kicked off his cowboy boots next to my ballet slippers. They were crass next to the fragile pink. Their tips curled upwards and the sole detached to give them the subtle smile of a satyr. His socks didn’t match, but he kept them on. His white kangaroo underwear might have proved sufficient with a little imagination, but I wasn’t inspired.

“I have prepared this for you.” I folded a white bath towel diagonally, and set it on the floor.

“What the heck’s that for?”

“Sit on it and don’t ask questions. Take that off! Bare, I said!” I had to concentrate to keep my voice at the highest volume before a command becomes a yell.

He struggled out of my grip as soon as I tried to stick a safety pin in the towel. I did my best to hold him down, but his knee knocked me in the chin; he was as ticklish as he was clumsy.

“You are no fun!” I complained, crossing my arms over my upset stomach.

“I was expectin’ dinner,” he retorted sorely.

“You are going to have dinner. But my way.”

“I don’t like some spoiled brat treating me like no goddamn baby.”

I vindictively removed my hair dress to show him what he was missing.

“What the hell’d you wanna do with it anyway,” he muttered, toeing the towel.

“If you tried it, perhaps you would have liked it … ”

“I ain’t no faggot, go play dolly with someone else.” He lifted one foot up after the other, a brief march, and tore each sock off.

“I’ll prepare your supper,” I consented, more to escape his presence than to fulfil an appetite he had already spoiled.

When I returned, I was startled to see him pinned in the nappy, his legs in the air.