Dinner is served.

The rice cooker is doing its thing when I hear the rattle of the shower door opening.

“Nancy, come here.”

She appears, stepping onto the futon, then off of it, to join me in the narrow kitchen space.

I admire her figure in lingerie again, but resist the urge to start touching her parts willy-nilly.

“Don’t shower yet. We are about to eat.”

She looks frustrated with me. “Can I at least wash my face?” Smeared cum is hardening from nose to ear with more in her hair making tangled clumps.

“Leave it.”

“Fuck, come on, Kyle...” She looks angry but isn’t doing anything about it.

“Let’s make it special and pretend its a dinner date. Go pick out something nice to wear—but without bra or panties. I want to see your pokies.”

She bulges her eyes and waves a hand at her clothing pile. “So I should get dressed up, but I can’t wash my face?”

“The cum stays for now.” I turn and check on the rice. “From now on, don’t wipe my cum off of you until I tell you to shower.”

“What? That’s SO GROSS! THIS WHOLE APARTMENT IS GROSS!”

“You will be cleaning it all soon enough.”

“The fuck I am!” She protests fiercely, but it sounds hollow to me.

“Of course you will, my pretty thing. And you are going to love it, because if you don’t...” I lean close to her cum-clogged ear and whisper, “...that would make you a useless... piece of shit.” I step back and measure her reaction. The last few words were unnecessary, but I delight in how being cruel to her isn’t causing me any discomfort. “And useless things get thrown away.”

Her breathing breaks into irregular heaves and she makes an exaggerated frown like a toddler. Some instinctive, immature part of herself is rioting at the mere suggestion of becoming a useless thing. If she were capable of true feelings, I’d say they were hurt.

“That’s a horrible thing to say.”

“Then don’t make me say it. Pick out your clothes, then we’ll set the table.”

Nancy looks confused, probably because there is no table, but she goes to the laundry piles and digs through them. When she finds something that meets the criteria, she takes it into the bathroom to change.

“You could at least put a curtain up in here if you can’t afford a door.”

“That’s a good idea, Nancy.” Having billowing, floor length curtain would make her fashion reveals much more dramatic. Maybe I should think about dramatic lighting, too.

“Okay, how is this?” She steps out, striking a lackluster pose, arms out, a spin, arms flop to her sides. She is wearing a black, thigh-length skirt and a sparkling, silver, satin top. The top is backless as the braided straps only connect in the front, wrapping around the back of her neck. The flowing material shimmers in the light, making swooping patterns between her pleasant, natural breasts. The protrusion of her nipples shimmer brilliantly, drawing attention to every minute shift of her weight.

“We need to work on your showmanship, but I approve of the outfit. Now convert the futon.”

She hisses under her breath at constantly being put upon, but she tries to figure the futon out. I watch her kick clothes out of her way, crouching down around its edges, looking for any handle or latch or spring.

“There is no trick to it, just lift one side and stick the wood pegs in the holes.”

She struggles to lift a side, the wooden frame is heavier than she expected. With effort she raises it enough to see where two holes align. “Where are the pegs?”

“Dunno. Under the bed probably.”

She swears at me quietly and drops the frame to the floor. Again she crawls around the bed, this time looking for the pegs. She is **** to lay on her belly and stretch her arm under, fanning away the clutter of cobwebs, random fallen objects, dried bits of food and used tissues. She finds one, but the other eludes her. Eventually she lifts the frame and secures it with one peg so that she can search behind the futon more easily.

“The futon is converted,” she eventually says with a shiver. She tries to brush the dust, garbage, and webs from her clothes.

“Good. The food is almost ready.” I pull out two bowls from a cabinet. “That TV stand is the table. Clear it off and put it in front of the futon for us.”

More disgruntled swears float past me as she identifies the object in the corner, buried under a pile of things that should go in a closet, if I only had one. Jackets, hats, shoes, and miscellaneous off-season clothing are precariously balanced three feet high.

I put the finishing touches on the dishes and, when she gets it cleared and in position, I set them on the tired, oak TV stand, which has barely has enough area to accommodate our bowls. Then I scoop up Nancy’s clothes from the futon and toss them into the newly expanded kitchen space.

“Not on the floor! It’s filthy! I should know.” She brushes at a dust smudge in her skirt, cringing as she plucks away an old toenail clipping that was stuck to her arm.

“No worries, darling. Here is you seat.”

Nancy sits next to me, turns to pound a lump out of the mattress, suppresses a cough from the dander cloud, then looks at the bowls. She is not impressed by my culinary skills. Steamed rice and peas. “That’s it?”

“We have enough rice and frozen peas to last a month, at least. We don’t need to leave quarantine for anything, except to help your mother out.”

“Ugh! I hate peas.”

“Vegetables are important for your health.”

“So is variety! And protein...” She notices two meatballs in my bowl. She picks up her bowl and spoons through it. “Where are my meatballs?”

“You don’t get any. I only have one bag of them, so you know...”

“So I don’t get any.”

“So you will get protein the other way.”

“The other...” Her face goes red. “Oh my god...”

“Is your phone handy? Put some music on.”

She lets out a long, ragged breath, then gets up. She gets her phone and starts thumbing through it. “Fuck!” I give her an inquisitive eyebrow. This should be an easy task. “Mom cancelled my phone service!”

“Don’t let it ruin our date.” She starts a music mix with trembling hands. Her jaw is clenched and nostrils are flaring. It’s kinda cute. I chew on a meatball. “Eat up,” I slur from the corner of my mouth. Nancy takes her bowl, scoots away from me a few inches, and slowly eats, shaking with rage.