Lemon-Scented Ballsocks


Footsteps in the hall.

A door opens.


Another door opens, closes.

Theo’s bedroom door swings open, and in walks a low-quality JPEG version of the little dude’s bodybuilder friend. Ernie’s draped over his shoulder, has a pair of socks balled up in his mouth, and generally looks like the victim of some bad Del Taco.

I wave. “Hey.”

Jan waves back (he’s got pants in his hand). “Hey.”

I’m not quite sure what the protocol is for inviting someone into someone else’s room, so we just sort of stare at each other until the door opens again, and Theo—wet, lemon-scented, half-dressed, hair all mussed—steps in. Closes and locks the door behind him. Stands beside Jan as if presenting to a panel of judges.

I wait for something to be said, for some small bit of context to be offered.

But sometimes you don’t need context.

Sometimes things are just as fucked up as they look.


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Book designer and formatter based in southern California. Supreme overlord of the SuperMegaNet pseudoverse.