After two attempts, one culminating in mutual cum, Arschstrong invites PopPop to stay, he’d never done that before; theirs has always been strict congress, sweet, quick, though not as hurriedly harried and awkward as the inevitable exit to follow. To get older is to get none the safer in your own skin…PopPop’s flattered, a gratitude perplex; if an apology, he’s uncertain whether it’s been offered to him or by him, for such premature arousal of every suspicion, that scare with the socks, the underwear, the powder. In a corner, a plastic plant ornamentally webbed with teabags patient for repeat steeps. To warm them, Arschstrong heats a pot, weak mint they sip in an ocean of lull, lazing about the sofa’s plastic slipcovered lump, surrounded by the floats of garmentbags, toiletrycases, scissors, tape and twine. With a pillowcase spared to shammy and what’s left in the kettle, Arschstrong removes PopPop’s sandals, washes his feet, individually the toes then, dispensing with the other foot’s plug, puts a shoulder into it deep into the hiccoughing flesh, rimming the void, pale and wrinkled, lies on a knee his other hand, its wristwatch just ringing midnight, an alarm preset, a shriek of the veins that strap down the arm, binding his grip to the battery of the heart. As if to insinuate that PopPop should leave, please and thank you, Arschstrong giving justification to this madness, abrupt, by saying time for pills his and yours, his toilet, beautybed, a call to his daughter out on the other coast of estrangement — and this with the pillow’s shammy still dripping onto the floor from which the rug’s been removed, rolled and hogtied. PopPop steps into his clothes, takes up his saggy bag and in that lean kisses at his lover still sitting, out the door then up the stairs one dainty step after another through the door to his, which he unpents quietly, not just tiptoed but discreetly up on his pedicure, so as not to rouse Benjamin, who’d stayed up midnight late though locked in, forced to keep company and amuse with whatever belongings of MomMom’s PopPop couldn’t sell, didn’t, no one’d yet offered the right price, no one would: hummel figurines forever unparented, earth thrown into a kiln then fired to kitsch, pastel samplers and quilts, unfinished knit caps and booties, which bled yarns for the grandkinder of friends, not her own; then, on a highest glassed shelf, a furbish of spoons silver but tarnished, souvenirs brought back from the vacations of others, always, to remember to her where she’d never been, never would be, which was most everywhere outside Florida and northeastern environs. To try the knob, to make sure of its lock by bolt, and, satisfied, quietly, to his room, to become naked again but alone, hanging each piece of his suit up on its designated hanger, PopPop falls onto the bed and asleep over the covers, to turn from one side to the other along with the year, the millennium, all.
