Then Andrew’s on the move again.
Cleaning.
Wiping down counters.
Dishes.
Picking up trash.
They’ve been throwing shit at him all day?—
teasing, jabbing, poking.
He takes it, laughs, fires back,
but exhaustion cracks underneath it all.
No one’s offered to help.
Not a‘need a hand?’or even a fake attempt.
It’s as if some unspoken rule:
Andrew does the work.
Andrew plays host, chef, cleaner, savior.
Andrew will take care of everything.
Andrew will take care ofthem.
And maybe he always has.
When he passes by again, I catch his hand,
pulling him toward me as I hop off the stool.
“You’re gonna sit. Five minutes.
“All I’m giving you.”
I guide him down onto the seat.
“I’ll finish the dishes.”
“Allison—” He tries to rise.
I press him right back down.
“You gonna shut up and listen,
“or do I gotta make you?”
His brows go up.
Then his grin lifts—filthy and full of trouble.
“Keep talkin’ like that. I’ll behave.”
