Parataxis

My housemate’s girlfriend has a kid who stays with us half the week. He is reckless and unkempt. He swerves and lunges. He flops on the couch and wiggles and pitches fits until the throw pillows are on the floor and he is upside down. He wants me to be a ninja with him but I am already a ninja and I am doing it fine by myself. I skim the wall with my good hand to steady myself when I walk down the hallway. I walk through the living room with a blanket over my head to stay invisible while he is watching cartoons. He eats sugared cereal and cheese sandwiches, like the rest of us, but he has to use plastic cups and plates because he is clumsier than I am. It doesn’t matter. When the dishes are safe the toy rocketships break apart. There is no winning. Little pieces fall into the garbage disposal and it hurts my heart when I turn it on without digging out the pieces first. He is, I insist, not my problem, but we share a wall so it’s difficult to remain uncontaminated. It would be nice to have two kitchens and two front doors so I could enjoy the story of him without the performance. Strong kicks smash tomatoes with kicking. He is trying to teach me how to make pasta sauce but I am not having it because today I am a cowboy. Kid, I have a horse for that. He stops side kicking imaginary tomatoes with his strong kicks and looks at me. Is he mean? Can we have a meatball party? Where are your boots? And I think to myself: yes, no, and outside. Kid, where’s your mom? He is still looking at me. She’s in the living room. I get a box of penne out of the cabinet he cannot reach. That’s not spaghetti. You’re doing it wrong. I take two pieces and put them in my mouth, like fangs. Listen, you have to stick to the program. You don’t want to be a villain, do you?