Prince

Prince sits at the table.

I’m running on virtually no sleep because he’s kept me up with his incessant keyboarding and screeching. He sits complacently, as though nothing is wrong. He is eating a piece of toast. Small flakes of it are caught in his mustache and, as usual, scattered all over the table in front of him.

Prince has been living in my apartment for the past three months and I’ve gotten tired of him. He never picks up after himself. He doesn’t help with the rent. I’ve tripped over his high-heeled boots countless times. He throws parties every time I’m away, people of questionable genital health undoubtedly having sex on my bed.

“You gonna be out tonight?” he asks in a rich baritone, taking a bite of his toast and chewing it slowly.

“Look, we need to talk,” I say.

He stops chewing his toast. A look of hurt glazes his eyes.

“What’s the problem?” he asks.

“I think you know what the problem is.”

He flings the uneaten toast onto the plate but it shoots off into the middle of the table where it will remain untouched unless I decide to clean it up.

He is near tears. He stands up, his buttocks making a kind of squeaking sound as they separate from the seat. I’ve already went through two bottles of disinfectant since he and his buttless pants showed up, turning every chair in the apartment into a toilet seat.

“If you didn’t want me living here, you could have said something a long time ago.”

He runs into his room, buttocks jiggling, and flings himself onto his bed, burying his face in the pillow. I didn’t realize he would become so maudlin. I can’t stand to see him like this. I follow him into the room and sit down on the edge of the bed.

“I’m sorry, man,” I say. “You stay here until you get back on your feet.”

He grabs my arm. “It won’t be much longer. I know you got a lot on your mind. Just please … don’t take it out on me.”

I realize I have been ruthlessly manipulated again. Regretful, I go back into the kitchen and begin cleaning.