"Sausage or bacon?"
"Bacon. Sausage is for communists."
"I thought you liked ze sausage, Comrade."
I punch him in the shoulder. "Bacon is the superior breakfast meat. Everyone knows that."
Paul shrugs off the punch and slaps a cold strip of bacon onto the pan, making it sizzle loudly.
"Well, yeah," he agrees. "But sausage is also good. As long as you don't get that gross maple-flavored stuff. Get regular and dip it in syrup."
"You had me up until the syrup part. Gross."
"Don't knock it 'til you try it, old man," he says. I hear him add another slice of bacon to the pan.
"Pfft. I'm only six months older than you." I point at him.
"Still older. I get to make fun of you."
I turn and go into the back hallway, pushing open the door to the patio and stepping out into the backyard.
It's been three days since Arthur left. Paul comes and stays when he can, but it isn't the same as having a roommate. After the first day, he doesn't stay overnight. He says it's because he's got kids, but I think Arthur did something to that room. Paul won't tell me what, and, going in, I can't figure it out.
Arthur's friendship felt different, too. Having Paul here has helped me realize that.
What me and Paul have is entirely platonic. He comes over, one of us cooks -- usually me --, we hang out, he goes home. It never feels like what Arthur and I had. It's hard to explain. I guess, if I were in a better place, I would've kissed Arthur when he told me he loved me. Instead he left. If Paul told me he loved me, I'd tell his wife and cancel my appointments with him.
I want to call him but I don't want to rock his life up again. Presumably, he's homeless or he moved back in with his parents. Which means he might lose his job. Whereas he could be here, safe, with me, but I freaked out.
I shouldn't have freaked out.
I should call him.
I probably won't.