I woke up this morning to strangers having sex on my couch.
I just wanted pancakes for breakfast.
The man's naked white ass looked deflated. I only caught a glimpse. I walked back into my bedroom as soon as I saw it. I didn't decide to turn around. I just reacted. It was the same as pulling my hand away after touching a hot stove coil. His ass cheeks looked like pancakes that needed to be flipped.
The best time to flip is when the wet bubbles of batter pop and harden into pores. I thought I would give them a few minutes longer before checking again.
Were they my roomate's friends? Maybe they got drunk the night before and couldn't drive back. Maybe they were done by now and had quietly dressed and walked out the door.
White ass cheeks were still shuffling back and forth on my couch in the living room. When they firm up, you have to shake the pan so they don't stick to the bottom. Slide them around quickly, let them gain momentum while you mentally prepare yourself to make the spectacular mid-air flip.
I didn't say, "What the fuck are you doing on my couch?" as I walked past them into the kitchen. They were fucking on my couch. Starting low, rising up, making a forward scooping motion as you lift the pan into the air with both hands on the handle: that's how you make the world stand still while the pancake makes its slow, protracted half-rotation—going weightless at the absolute height of its arc and shuddering there for a timeless moment. Then, ounce by ounce, the earth regains its influence and the room pitches downward and the sinking pancake collapses back onto the heat of the greasy griddle.
The man had stepped into his jeans and was still dressing as he walked past me and out of my apartment. The girl was looking for her purse. Did she have a way to get home? She did and she just needed some help looking for her keys. We found them under a blanket. Did she want some coffee or anything to eat? No, she wasn't hungry. And neither was I.