Not Really Normal

Saturday morning began with an egg. Not a good egg. Not a particularly exciting egg. Just an egg.

Craig stood in the kitchen wearing red patent heels, a sheer red nightie, and a matching thong, staring into a frying pan as though the sizzling breakfast might somehow explain his life.

It didn't. The egg continued being an egg.

The rest of the apartment wasn't helping. Pink curtains now framed the kitchen window. Pink flowers now sat in a vase in the middle of the table. Even his coffee mug had somehow developed a floral pattern overnight. Every plate in the cupboard matched. Every bowl matched. Every cup matched. A coordinated collection of flowers and pastel colours had invaded his apartment while he slept.

Craig deliberately looked anywhere else.

The egg.

The stove.

The coffee maker.

The wall.

Anything except the flowers.

Unfortunately, ignoring things didn't make them disappear. Neither did pretending he wasn't wearing a red nightie. The silky material felt comfortable against his skin. The heels felt even better. His calves were relaxed. His posture felt natural. Every step felt easy.

That bothered him.

A lot.

Because comfort implied acceptance. Acceptance implied surrender. And surrender implied Eros winning.

The egg hissed. Craig casually flipped it. It landed perfectly. Of course it did. Everything he touched lately seemed to turn out perfectly. That wasn't what bothered him most that morning, though.

The real problem was sitting on top of his dresser.

Waiting.

Calling to him.

His nails.

When he'd woken up, the polish had vanished again. Just gone. Normally Craig would've celebrated. Instead he'd stared at his bare fingertips with a growing sense of unease.

Something felt wrong.

Incomplete.

His gaze had drifted immediately toward the collection of nail polish bottles arranged on top of the dresser. Reds. Pinks. Blues. Purples. Metallics. Glitter finishes. A rainbow of temptation. The urge had hit him hard.

Pick one.

Just one.

It'll look nice.

Craig had practically fled the bedroom. Unfortunately, distance hadn't solved anything. The craving followed him into the hallway. Into the bathroom. Into the kitchen. Lipstick called to him too. Perfume. Eyeliner. Mascara. An entire arsenal of products he'd never wanted before and now somehow understood intimately. One glance at a tube of lipstick and information appeared in his head.

Undertones. Application techniques. Occasions. Matching colours. He hated it. Absolutely hated it. And yet part of him wanted to use it. That contradiction had followed him all morning.

The same thing had happened in the hallway. Halfway between the bedroom and bathroom, Craig had stopped dead. Not because he needed the washroom. Because of the other door. Frank's old room. The room with the pole. The camera. The streaming setup. The room seemed to pull at him. A quiet tug somewhere behind his ribs.

Come inside.

Just for a minute.

See what's there.

Craig had stood staring at the door for far longer than he cared to admit. Eventually he'd **** himself away. The washroom won. Barely.

Even now, standing over breakfast, the memory made him uncomfortable. Especially after what Frank had said the night before.

"I can't wait to watch your stream tomorrow. Any hints about what you're going to do?"

Craig frowned at the frying pan. The conversation still made no sense.

"What stream?" he'd asked.

Frank had only smiled.

"Fine. Keep your secrets."

Then he'd changed the subject. At the time Craig had assumed Frank was joking. Now? Now he wasn't so sure. Because every time Eros rewrote reality, everyone else seemed to know about it before Craig did.

The streaming equipment hadn't appeared by accident. The pole hadn't appeared by accident. If he walked into that room and followed whatever instinct was pulling him toward it, Craig suspected he'd discover exactly what Frank meant.

Just like the shaving.

Just like the perfume.

Just like the cooking.

Just like everything else.

Accidentally.

The memory of the previous evening drifted through his mind. Pizza. Movie. Frank. A perfectly normal Friday night. Or at least it should've been.

Predator had been Frank's choice. Classic action movie. Explosions. Gunfire. Aliens. Everything Craig usually loved. Except somehow none of it had held his attention. Not really.

Instead he'd found himself wondering about the characters. Who were they when they weren't fighting aliens? Did they have families? People waiting for them? Someone checking the mailbox every day hoping for a letter?

The questions had multiplied as the movie continued. By the halfway mark, Craig had practically invented an entirely different film in his head. One where the soldiers came home. One where relationships mattered. One where people reunited after years apart. One where somebody waited faithfully for a loved one to return. Maybe there'd be a wedding.

Probably a wedding.

Definitely a wedding.

The realization had horrified him. That wasn't Predator. That was exactly the kind of movie Frank had jokingly accused him of liking. A romance. A chick flick.

And the worst part?

Craig wasn't entirely convinced he wouldn't enjoy it.

Maybe this weekend Craig could test the theory. Pick a movie and watch it. Just one. Maybe two. For research purposes. To prove Frank was wrong. That seemed reasonable. Probably.

The egg was finished. He slid it onto a plate. The floral plate. Another memory surfaced.

The hug.

That had been strange too. Neither of them were huggers. Never had been. Yet when Frank left, they'd embraced naturally. Not awkwardly. Not reluctantly. Just...

Normally.

Like it was something they'd always done. Craig still wasn't sure what to make of that.

Coffee in hand, he wandered toward the table. His phone sat where he'd left it the night before. That had been another weird experience. The algorithm had completely betrayed him. Fashion videos. Makeup tutorials. Cooking tips. Home decorating. Relationship advice. Television clips full of dramatic declarations of love.

Every swipe brought another recommendation. Every recommendation seemed tailored to a version of Craig that didn't exist. Or maybe was starting to. The thought made him uncomfortable.

Fortunately, one thing from the previous evening still made him smile. Frank's text.

Finally, something normal. Something he could get behind. Basketball. Guys hanging out. Competition. Something familiar. Something solid. Sure, he'd somehow played the previous week while wearing a skirt and wedge heels. That part was less normal.

Still...

It was basketball. A sport. An activity. Something masculine. Something he could understand.

Craig took a sip of coffee and smiled despite himself. The afternoon suddenly seemed a lot more promising. Maybe he'd even dominate again. Maybe he'd be the star player. Everybody liked being the star.

Even if the star happened to be wearing a pleated skirt.