The Boy [mxb]

8

Getting out of the car, I make my way around to the passenger side to open the boy's door for him, and he blushes almost as hard as when I opened it for him to get in. I turned the heat on to full blast as soon as I pulled out of the station car park. He stuck his cold fingers by the heater but then the whole car warmed up and he visibly relaxed, soaking languorously in a warmth he surely considers luxury.

He trails his fingers over the hood of my car as he walks around to the door with me. I can tell he's in love with the sleek, red, stop-traffic gorgeous ItalDesign Giugiaro Parcour Lamborghini. Every time I revved the engine or shifted gears or did pretty much anything, a little bit of drool came out of his mouth and he gripped the leather upholstery a little tighter. It's such a beautiful car I couldn't even bring myself to slap a USA bumper sticker on it.

"Are you okay," I ask, one hand hovering around his bony back. "Comfortable?"

He nods. "Warm?" Nods again. Heated seats, the boy seems to loves them.

The boy surveys my house appraisingly, and I beam with pride. I keep my house clean and well-maintained. The lawn is always meticulously manicured, the backyard neat and proper, hedges clipped, paint crisp, wood polished, glass sparkling, leaves raked, snow shovelled, not a morsel of trash anywhere. Type A things.

The boy seems dazed when I walk him across the threshold and drop my keys in the ornate key holder with a clatter. He looks around himself, barely remembering to take his shoes off. He stands there like he's afraid to move for fear of sullying his opulent surroundings. I don't care about that, though. Surprisingly.

"First things first," I say with unconcealed excitement. Finally I have the opportunity to really help this boy, to bring him under my roof and care for him. "Let's get something in your tummy."

I feel like I'm taking in a weak, stray street kitten I found shivering in the cold. I'm overwhelmed with the urge to wrap him in blankets with hot water bottles, feed him and pet him and bathe him and dry him in a fluffy towel.

On our way to the kitchen, Nougat comes up and startles the boy with loud yipping.

"Puppy," the boy gasps. I steer Nougat away for now. They can be acquainted later; right now the boy needs to eat.

"Stay," I command, my tone brooking no argument.

Nougat is exceptionally well-trained if I do say so myself, so we never have a problem.

I would cook the boy a full-course meal, but that takes hours and I'm too anxious to feed the boy right now, so I quickly heat up some leftover caponata pasta from yesterday. Plus, his stomach capacity needs to be gradually increased. I have to pack as many calories and nutrients as I can into one small meal. We'll take it slow, with small snacks. My protein bars are high in calories but small-sized.

The boy eats with such ferocity it breaks my heart. The way he pounces on his food reinforces the starving rescue kitten image in my mind.