Crackhead Behavior

“Good job, now it’s time to mop,” I continue twenty minutes later when he finally finishes something that usually takes me two minutes. Lion throws his head back with a groan, “What? Does my life mean so little to you? Just a sweeping session?”

“No, I think you’re worth a mopping session too,” he murmurs as if being forced and rolls his eyes, “But I’ve never done it before. It looks complicated.”

I frown in confusion as I study him from head to toe, wondering what kind of person has never mopped anything in their life? I guess someone so rich they have a cleaning team at their disposal. But…

Lion doesn’t look like someone like that.

Other than the fact that he’s incredibly attractive in face and body… honestly, he looks like he stinks. His hair is long and stiff, his clothes are filthy, and his arms are full of cheap and ugly tattoos.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” He asks.

“I’m wondering how it’s possible you don’t know how to mop, are you stupid? Your mother never trusted you to clean the house? That’s the only answer I can find to this dilemma,” I murmur, making Lion almost choke with a full-body laugh. It’s an incredibly annoying laugh, to be honest. He sounds way too happy.

“I think that’s exactly the reason, but whatever it is, I’ve never done it,” he says once he manages to stop laughing and looks at me with a big smile and bright eyes with tears I caused by being so impressively funny, “Teach me. You look like someone who mops a lot.”

“Don’t be a bitch, Lion,” I spit out at him, “You look poorer than me.”

“Hey, hey… I am,” he says, raising his hands in surrender, “I don’t have a dollar to my name right now, that’s why I’m doing this, remember? And I didn’t mean you look poor, just that you look like someone who knows how to clean. And do a lot of things.”

“Hm, well, I am,” I admit, shrugging, realizing he’s not really insulting me, “Here’s what’s going to happen: I’ll mop this time, and you’ll watch me carefully and attentively. And you’ll come back next week to do it yourself. And we’ll talk about what else you can do to pay me back... And then maybe I can feed you a cookie from time to time if I feel bad enough.”

Lion looks at me with a smile for almost a full minute without saying anything. Why are his fucking are still sparkling like that? It’s making me want to punch him.

“Alright, boss,” he says, giving me a stupid bow, “Go ahead, show me how a mopping master does it.”

“I will, but,” I step closer to him and point at his stupid forehead, “I don’t like how you look at me as if you’re laughing at me in the privacy of your thoughts.”

“I’m not,” he says, still smiling at me, “Come on, do it quickly. Before a customer arrives.”

“Ha, it’s cute that you think I have customers,” I mutter, walking towards the mop and bucket, “Watch and learn, idiot.”

“I’m watching and learning, Sergeant,” he says, stupidly putting a hand on his forehead. I hold back a laugh and seriously give this vermin a lesson on how to mop so he can do it next time. It takes me fifteen minutes, but Lion literally pays attention to every word that comes out of my mouth, “And that’s how you do it.”

“You made mopping look wonderful. You have a true talent,” he says in a tone that makes me look at him again. Why does he sound like he’s reciting poetry? Not only with his words, but with his accent. It sounds nothing like mine.

“Where are you from, Vermin?” I ask, suddenly curious.

“From here and there, from everywhere. I don’t belong to a terrenal realm, I belong to the clouds in the sky,” he replies, raising his long arms to move them like ocean waves, “I’m free like the wind. I have no roots, I glide…”

“You’re homeless, aren’t you?” I cut him off, because the last time I talked to someone like him, he was a crackhead, “How much of a drug addict are you?”

“On a scale of one to ten, maybe I’m a three. I smoke weed regularly, it helps me relax,” he admits, and I don’t freak out because that is not as bad as smoking crack. I’ve never met an aggressive weed smoker… but I’ve had to run for my life from several crackheads. Some of them are my neighbors, “Do you want to smoke with me?”

“No, thanks. I have a strict rule about not spending too much time with homeless people,” I admit, “The last time I did, the guy didn’t want to leave my house. And when he finally did, he raided my damn fridge.”

Lion laughs at my tragic story. Of course, to him, it’s funny. Probably even aspirational.

“Anyway, you should leave,” I say, going back to my stool behind the counter, “Come back next Friday at this time.”

“I’ll put it in my calendar,” he says, as if he has many interesting things to do, “Goodbye, Jolene Duvarak. I will see you again.”

Lion starts walking out, but backwards, his sparkling eyes never leaving me.

“What the hell are you doing?” I ask, puzzled, “Just leave before I get scared and call the police.”

“Alright, alright,” he finally leaves my coffee shop, but he keeps looking at me through the window. What the hell is wrong with him?

Before leaving completely, he waves goodbye to me one last time. Then he blows a kiss.

Okay, that was weird. Crackhead behavior.

I really need to stop befriending homeless people.