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You wake up and reach over to the other side of the bed. It’s empty. The blanket lies twisted and unmade at the foot of the mattress, but Rocinante's body heat is still there in the sheets. You sleepily roll over onto his side of the bed and bury your face in the pillow. You take a deep breath. It smells like him and gives you a gentle tingling sensation in the pit of your stomach.
You've been together for a year now and the euphoric feeling of being in love is still there. Sometimes you wonder why he has chosen you of all people to be his girlfriend, but these thoughts never last. The stress of everyday life has not yet returned to your life, to your lives, which is indeed a small miracle.
A single woman in her late twenties, who also brings a six-year-old boy into the relationship, doesn't necessarily seem like the jackpot in the relationship lottery for many men of your age.
Nevertheless, you somehow got together and you’re happy.
Very, very happy – and Law seems to be too. Although he doesn't want to admit it.
You roll back onto your side of the bed and squint against the sun light, which finds its way in finger-thin rays through the folds of the curtains. The sun is shining. The sky is a brilliant blue and you can faintly make out the sound of traffic on the nearby road.
You stay in bed for a few more minutes, snuggling the warm sheets and burying your face in Rocinante's pillow.
“Watch out!”, Law's high-pitched boyish voice suddenly booms through the closed bedroom door. Something falls down onto the laminate floor. “You have to be quiet, Roci!”
Fabric rustles and then you can hear footfalls in the hallway. A door opens and closes and less than a minute later, the faucet in the bathroom starts to roar and Elton John sings the first notes of Can you feel the love tonight from The Lion King.
You look at your bedside table. The clock has given up the ghost again. Instead of the green digital numbers, four green bars and a colon are staring back at you. With a sigh, you grab your phone instead. It's already half past nine.
You allow yourself two more minutes before you peel yourself out of the cozy warmth of an unmade bed.
Knees cracking, you trot to the closet and pull out a fresh pair of undies, short yoga pants and one of Rocinante's old band shirts. Do Flamingos is written in large letters in pink and white leopard print on it. The idea to shorten the The in the band name to a Do came from Rocinante's brother Doffy. Together with three other friends from university, they formed the band at the beginning of their student days – and split up two years later, following a colossal dispute. Nevertheless, there are still a few cheaply produced band shirts from that time and lots and lots of photos from band rehearsals showing Rocinante with a burgundy red cap, red lips, a blue adhesive tattoo under his right eye and a black feather jacket.
Curious, you open the bedroom door and sneak out into the hallway. Elton John is still singing from the bathroom.
“Why does it look so different on you than it does on me?”, comes Law's muffled voice from behind the closed door.
“It comes with age. In a few years, it'll grow like crazy on you too, you'll see”, explains Rocinante. There is a hissing sound – like foam being sprayed out of a bottle. “Now, for heaven's sake, be careful with that!”
“I'll be careful!”
You frown and involuntarily you wonder what the two of them are up to in there. As you cross the hallway into the kitchen, you are surprised to see that the table is already set. Three plates, cereal bowls, knifes, spoons and orange juice for Law.
Rocinante's car keys lay on the kitchen counter next to a bag with the logo of a bakery on it. The rice cooker is humming next to it. You open both the bag and the cooker and take a look inside. There are grain rolls and pretzels in the bag. A bit of water is still simmering in the inner container of the stove, which the rice has not yet completely absorbed.
“Law! You don't need that much!” Rocinante's concerned voice rings out, which breaks into a throaty laugh.
“But you said that more foam is better than less!”, Law whines. Rocinante laughs and your curiosity finally gets the better of you.
You sneak to the bathroom and open the door. Both, your boyfriend and your son turn to look at you with raised eyebrows and you have to bite your lips to stop yourself from laughing out loud.
Rocinante is standing in front of the bathroom mirror, which is clearly not designed for people of his height. He has a habit of always shaving his face without a shirt on – a precautionary measure, he says. In his left hand, he is holding one of your Tupperware containers in which you usually store leftover food.
Now the small container is almost overflowing with creamy white shaving foam. Rocinantes left cheek and his chin have already partially disappeared behind a thick layer of foam.
Next to him, Law balances on tiptoes on his bathroom stool. He is also only wearing his short pyjama bottoms - yellow with black submarines on them - and he has also expertly draped a towel around the back of his neck. His chubby child's face has also disappeared behind a too thick layer of shaving foam. He holds Rocinante's good shaving brush tightly in his right fist; the brush head is almost invisible because of all the foam.
The way they stand together in front of the bathroom mirror and look into each other's soapy faces is both comical and heartwarming at the same time – you could almost get the idea that they are father and son. Almost.
“What are you doing?”, you ask with amusement.
“Mom, look!”, Law calls out excitedly. There's a sparkle in his eyes and this time you really have to stifle your laughter because not even Law's lips are visible through the white mess. Only a narrow dark hole opens and closes as he talks. “I get a beard!”
“Already? Where?”, you ask with irritated amusement, because Law is definitely too young to grow a proper beard. You approach him and gently stroke his bare back. You do it deliberately slowly and try not to pay too much attention to the white pigment spots on his skin, his shoulder blades and the backs of his knees.
“There it is,” Law explains excitedly and runs his right hand across his cheek up to his ear. White foam flakes fall into the sink as he tries to shake off the foam. With an serious expression, Law turns his foam-free cheek to the mirror. The three of you examine Law's reflection in silent anticipation. You try to recognize something that isn't white and soapy.
“It's back there, can you see it, Mom?”, Law says proudly, turning his head further to the side and pointing next to his ear.
You can actually see something, but it's not a beard per se.
A single, slightly too dark hair has bravely made its way and now peeks out from under his coal-black mop of hair as a puny little stubble perhaps a finger or two wide on his cheek.
Law gets sideburns...
Or at least he will have some later.
A wave of pride and love washes over you. You hug Law from behind, press him tightly against you and kiss him fleetingly on the top of his unkempt hair.
“Now I have to shave too. Like Roci. Because I'm a man now!”, Law says with awe in his voice and looks up at Rocinante, who is looking down to Law with all the
pride of a young step-father while holding the foam-filled Tupperware container. “There you go. Please be careful though, the blade is sharp.”
Your alarm bells immediately start to ring when you see Rocinante with a razor in his hand. But before you can intervene, your boyfriend gives you a quick glance and winks conspiratorially. You look at him questioningly and only now you realize that the razor has no blade in it.
Law picks up the blunt razor as if he has just been presented with a trophy. Rocinante himself grabs his own razor from the shelf under the bathroom mirror. As clumsy and awkward as he may be with his long legs, his hands are skillful.
The two of them now stand next to each other and ‘shave’. Law, with quiet and solemn seriousness, ‘shaves’ the creamy white foam from his face, while Rocinante scrapes the foam from his left cheek with a not yet fully awake but nevertheless concentrated expression. Law tries to do the same as he sweeps the white mess on the blade into the sink with a single sweeping motion. He waves the razor around rather clumsily, causing flakes of shaving foam to fly all around the bathroom.
“When you're done, come over to the kitchen. Breakfast is ready,” you say, wiping a big blob of shaving foam off the Do Flamingos. As you turn to Rocinante, he pauses in his movement and puts the razor down. You run your hand lovingly over his broad shoulders, flick away a flake of shaving foam that has splattered on his naked shoulder and give him a kiss on the foam-free, freshly shaved part of his cheek. He puts his free hand around your waist, looks at you and the band shirt, and pressed his soapy lips right onto your mouth. You laugh and want to pull away, but his next kiss hits you directly on the corner of your mouth and ensures, that now you have shaving foam on your nose, chin and also in your mouth.
Next to you, you hear a loud groan from Law. He's not comfortable when people show affection around him – especially not if Rocinante kisses you in front of him. You run your fingers through his hair again and leave the two of them alone.
You float out of the bathroom and into the kitchen like a schoolgirl in love. The coffee machine is gurgling. You switch it off and place the pot in the middle of the table. The rice is also ready. You divide everything between two bowls and scrape the bottom crispy layer of rice out of the stove for Law.
At the very beginning, Rocinante and Law didn't really like each other. Law had taken every opportunity to clearly express his displeasure with your new boyfriend, while Rocinante had behaved rather awkwardly in Law's presence. But over the last six months, the two of them have somehow managed to get along - and they're becoming more and more alike.
They even share an aversion to bread, which is why you bought a rice stove from a discount store a few weeks ago when it was on sale. You could also have rice for breakfast, but Rocinante still insists on going to the bakery on his days off and brings bread rolls for you. You sit down at the kitchen table and listen to their muffled voices in the bathroom, the rushing of the faucet and the muffled sounds of The circle of life. You look out of the window and try to think positively. You ignored it before, but under Rocinante's car keys are two more letters that must have arrived in the post today. Another hospital bill and a medical report that you still have to scan and email to the elementary school before Law starts school there in three weeks' time. The school management wants official assurances that Law is not contagious.
You stare angrily at the letter and again you have to think about all the white spots on his body. Law is not contagious. Law has a potentially fatal disease and you are his mother who, since his diagnosis three years ago, is still trying to come to terms with this verdict. You stare at the three plates, the cups, the knives, the spoons, the glasses full of orange juice and the two steaming bowls of rice. A watery pressure builds up behind your eyes. No, damn it, you scold yourself, I am not going to cry now!
You get up and without further ado you put the letters in your bedroom where you don't have to see them again for the time being.
The bathroom door opens. Accompanied by a steamy cloud, Law and Rocinante - both freshly “shaved” - step out. Rocinante has a small Bluetooth jukebox with him from which Simba is now singing I want to be king right now. The Lion King is Law's new favorite movie. You can already say some of the dialog by heart.
You meet in kitchen after you’re all dressed. It smells of fresh coffee, rice and, if your nose isn't fooling you, Law has also made his first acquaintance with Rocinante's perfume as a makeshift aftershave.
Law sits enthroned on his adjustable chair and radiates the inner satisfaction of a six-year-old who has just reached a supposed milestone in life. Unlike you, Law is very good at blocking out his own illness.
Meanwhile, the entire The Lion King playlist is playing on Spotify and while Timon and Pumba are singing Hakuna Matata, you lean back in your chair and try to do the same as the meerkat and the warthog – even if it's only for breakfast time. Hakuna Matata, you think to yourself as you watch Law muddling around in his rice. You wink conspiratorially at Rocinante, who then puts his big, warm hand on your leg under the table, grinning contentedly.
Almost silently, he whispers: “I love you.”