A Whole Melancholy of Lovers

clean

Never in my life have I had to clean up after a lover; I let them make a mess and then I let them clean it up.
Not this time. He came over and threw up everywhere. He puked on the floor, the bathroom door, and our carpet. And I saw him standing there with sad eyes and a few drops of vomit on his shirt. His hands were shaking and all he did was proclaim he was sorry; he wouldn't stop saying how much he was sorry.
And I got on my knees and I began to clean up his mess. He washed his hands, swished some mouthwash, and helped me clean the floor.
And yet he couldn't stop saying those two words: I'm sorry.
After I cleaned a pile of his puke from the carpet, I wiped down the door. I washed the floor tiles. It was so foreign to me, I've never had to clean up after someone since I'm a clean, organized person.
He sat on the foot of my bed and I took his sweater off, and I hugged him. And I asked a million times if he was okay. He removed his vomit-covered socks and put a pair of mine on, and then my sweater. And suddenly he was him again.
He praised me a hundred times for cleaning up after him. He thanked me for cuddling him in bed after, he praised me for holding him so close and tight in my arms.
And in that moment, laying in bed with a sick boy in my arms, I realized I didn't mind if he made a mess; I'd be happy to clean it.