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Yet another night of hunting for roadkill and decaying vermin had dipped into the early hours of the morning, a dense fog rolling in at dawn over the quaint suburbs. On your way out of the various alleys and dead ends, you had pocketed a few buttons, junk mail, and trinkets others had left behind for you to discover over the course of your ventures under the night's unrelenting mantle. This cycle has been your life on repeat for months — search, find, and crawl into your latest hideaway, complete with the smelly allure of other homeless people and animals.
You felt rather guilty rifling through opened cat food containers and piles of treats clearly left for your feline friends, but you would have perished slowly and painfully if it weren’t for canned kitty dinner and the murky puddles that coat the corners of every alley you manage to enter. Even if they led to traps and confused cat-nappers, you were assured your time spent was of value.
Aside from the theft, you were particularly guilty about your biggest offense: opening the letters stolen from mailboxes addressed to pretty, picturesque people with perfect picket fences. You had made it a habit to read the return addresses or the names of individuals with more importance than the likes of you to track their houses down. One day, you were sure you would get a good night’s sleep on a comfortable couch on top of cushy, clean carpet…
In fact, you were sure that day had come. One of the treasures you previously uncovered was a letter adorned with professional lettering on the outside. It was unbelievably neat and legible. You were under the impression you had violated the poor letter’s crisp, ornate presence by tearing into it with your canines, leaving behind staggered tears and frayed edges. When opened, a ribbon was left inside; the soft velvet that complimented the sleek button in the center of the prize was enough of a reason to seek refuge in the owner of this beauty. Just holding the present was enough to shoot sparks of pride through you, even if vicarious in nature.
As you admire your new prized possession, a boisterous, metallic clang emits from the impact your forehead creates against a pipe you weren’t careful enough to notice, walking head first into it. You shout in surprise, holding onto the rusted rims of the canal to maintain your shaky balance. Perhaps the offending obstacle would’ve been kinder to you if you had paid more attention; although, your attention is now diverted to a different instance of undiscovered information.
You notice the kitschy trailer in your peripheral view, pink lawn flamingos and decorative bows framing its metal exterior. It has a cute, glitzy flair to it that wholly distracts from the industrialized infrastructure underneath. Bolts accompany the plates attached to the bottom in a sturdy single file. Fences cradle the outside’s shrubbery and flowery landscaping, as well as… Wait a moment.
You had stolen mail from this mailbox hours before, the fruits of your labor still present in your unclean hands — the owner of your stunning medal lives at this address. No matter how amazing your newfound riches look, your conscience drums against your brain and sends panic down your spine. On second glance, you can’t steal from this nice house, not unless you can’t live without your embezzled goods. Guilt began to feed off of your hastily executed misdeeds.
“Hey, who’s out there banging on my pipe!?”
The door to the trailer swings open with an abrasive sound, and a well-kept man in a sleep mask emerges from inside, his voice irritated with exhaustion and a disgruntled tone. His tidily trimmed mustache follows his frown downwards as he stomps towards you in a rosy, frilled set of matching pajamas, embossed with a tiny crown on the right breast pocket. The trailer creaks and its underbelly rises with every bounding step.
Your heart had leaped all the way down into your stomach and dissolved within an instant. There was no coming back from this, the prized award still in your hands. In a moment of sheer terror, you drop it to your feet, stuttering incoherently. The nerves settle in your throat, searching for opportunities to make you get sick, to make spiky seed pods erupt from lofty trees and fall onto your mind. Heat scattered and dispersed around your ears and face in embarrassment — you assumed you were being reprimanded and would have to find a different yard to lay in.
“Oh, whoops. I couldn’t tell you were the one delivering my award under all that dirt on you,” he corrected his previous reaction, his footsteps no longer heavy. He rushed over as gently as he could, swiftly plucking his well-earned prize out of the grass and shoveling it under his arm. He assessed your appearance for a few seconds more, his nose upturned and his face wrinkled with aversion to you.
He began offering solutions to your hygiene crisis, “Girl, come in. I’m sure my wife won’t mind, since I’m doing you such a big favor, duh.” Before you could oppose his idea, his free arm sweeps around your shoulders and puppeteers you inside his house, his trimmed nails and soft hands trying their best to avoid direct contact. He sets his returned property down on the end table adjacent to the door and gestures for you to wipe your grubby feet off on the welcome mat below you, embellished with pawprints and mawkish lettering.
Beyond a simple welcome mat, his trailer was decorated to the nines. Every wall had a placard, prize, or photo of a perfectly groomed kitten. Fluffy, pink furniture was a staple, as well as the smell of expensive, cloying perfume and Sambuca hanging in every corner and staining your nose with its scent of anise. You were astonished by all of the alluring sights and the unfamiliarity of pleasant scents, unable to keep your eyes focused in one place for long. This was unlike anything you were used to — truly, it frightened you, despite the improved quality of life; the greener pastures you’d stumbled upon were proving to be startling for someone like you. It was a challenge to be any more obvious in a tidy, pink living room when you’re covered in mud and stench from head to toe.
The prissy stranger continued to prompt you to move in accordance with his hesitant hands, his slippers grazing the edges of your heels when he’s pressing you to hurry your appraising looks over his living quarters. He seemed just as alarmed at your state of being as you were at his. It made your heart grow forlorn to find a friendly stranger who was much too uptight to even lay a finger on you, but you couldn’t complain when you were receiving free care, so you perish the thought and let your shoulders be guided into his clean, tiled bathroom.
He instructs you to wait for him and pulls his salmon colored shower curtain open, leaving room for you to find your way in. He assumes a position on his knees that’s more comfortable for bathing you as he turns the knobs near the tub’s shiny faucet. The water begins to pool into the basin and caresses the sides of the porcelain over steel. You wait patiently beside him, and he digs into some cordial pleasantries as he waits.
“So, what’s your name? I’m Tink, sure you’ve heard of me,” he brags shamelessly. Despite his insistence in his belief that you would know him, you haven’t heard of him before. At least he was nice enough to ask for your name, which you mumble out over the running water. It was nigh impossible for Tink to make your words out, yet he nods as if he heard and swirls his fingertips through the lukewarm water.
You watch Tink reach over for a bottle containing sheen liquid. He flips the cap open with his thumb using his immaculately maintained nails as leverage, pouring it into the bath for you. Bubbles and glassy film begin to form over the warmth within, his nails fingers tapping on the bathtub’s borders in boredom, loitering around the sides before he pipes up again.
“I’m gonna go grab you a towel and stuff. You stay here and change out of those nasty clothes, then get in the tub, all right?”
Tink flees promptly enough that he doesn’t see you nod your head in response. You assume he’s leaving to search through his closets for the perfect fabric he’s willing to part with due to your filth. In the meantime, you follow his instructions by shedding your clothing and lowering yourself into the tub. The water splashes quietly under you, your body submerged in comforting heat, as opposed to the usual sweltering you’d experience on particularly hot days. It was odd seeing your reflection in the sudsy mass, as well as the army of expensive bottles on the shower’s shelves.
Tink returns bearing tacky hand-me-downs and a white, downy towel tucked under the folded clothing. He sets the towel aside in the corners of the bath’s grout, the old clothing joining its side on the cold tile. Once he had arranged everything correctly, his focus was on getting you clean. He stretches an arm out to turn the valves clockwise, shutting them off now that he was satisfied with the amount of water within the tub’s basin. The next thing he grabbed was a plastic cup abutting the ledges of the tub. He fills it up with water and pours it over your head, your locks draping over your forehead when wet. You felt as if all the evil in your being had been wrung out at once.
He also obtains a canister of body wash that he uncapped, squeezing the sides and leaving a generous amount on a nearby sponge. He begins to apply it on your warm skin, scrubbing away as much dirt as possible. His expression curdles into utter disgust as crusted soil is lifted from your back and sides, yet he continues to wipe you off. Despite his distaste, he wanted to rehabilitate you.
He continues to clean you up, lathering a heap of shampoo into his palms. His fingertips prickle at your scalp as he threads them through your hair, mussing it up with his thorough cleaning. You sigh in relief — it felt nice to be bathed. You don’t remember the last time you had an experience like this with anyone, let alone a stranger.
You figured Tink would’ve been more talkative, but his weariness and attention towards the current task at hand made his voice lie dormant, the sounds of the tub sloshing and the foam in your scalp creating the most volume within the still bathroom. Intermittently, Tink would draw your hair back to your forehead with a waterfall from the cup to his side, going back in with conditioner to your scalp, eliciting content exhales from you.
The bath water developed a dirtier, murky shade and a matching temperature decrease when he was done fixing you up. You overall felt much better, ready to repay Tink with whatever he’d like at this point. He undid the drain cover with a wretch, and you watched the leaden liquid swirl away. Tink’s gaze was averted as he reached for the towel, hastily covering your body in a matter of modesty. You wrap the towel around your body as you step down onto the fuzzy bathmat below, absorbing the last of the water on the undersides of your feet.
“I’ll plug in the hair dryer,” he notes, smiling with an air of pride in his idea. “You just get the clothes on, and I’ll come back once you’re done.” He tacks that statement on as he rises up to stand, shutting the bathroom door behind him with a thud. His cutesy, bow-embellished bathrobe sways on the door’s hook as he exits.
You step into Tink’s unwanted pajama pants, fiddling with the drawstrings in order to fit the pants to your body properly. Pink and white striped patterns litter the entire fabric. Next was the shirt, complete with a tacky cat pun embroidered on the front. You slide into the shirt, and it’s much too big for your figure, the hems hanging over your hips shallowly. You suppose beggars can’t be choosers… Plus, it felt nice to be wearing such beautiful clothes. They even smelled like Tink.
Speaking of Tink, you shout through the thin, echoey walls that you’re done dressing, and he opens the door once more, glittery hair dryer in hand. He plugs it into the wall and flicks it to the medium setting, gesturing for you to come closer.
You do as he implies, drawing near as the gust of hot wind hits your head. He switches the angle of the hair dryer often to reach every patch of wet hair, your mop of tangled, damp locks becoming lush and dry in a matter of minutes. The hair dryer’s loud, electric sounds fade away with a dull tick from the device’s switches. He places it back down on his smooth, granite countertop to be used at a later date.
Tink runs his hands through your hair one last time, feeling up your newly slackened hair before rummaging through his cabinets for something to brush your hair out with. He eventually settles on an untouched brush waiting unattended in the back of the sink’s cabinets, running it through your tousled hair gently, trying to remove the knots with minimal strain on your head. He did an excellent job of that — you barely felt any pain as he removed the last bits of flyaways, clicking his tongue in satisfaction with a job well done.
You have no idea what came over you, but in an impulsive attempt to thank Tink, you press your lips to his doughy, reddened cheeks, leaving a kiss behind. Tink gasps, the tips of his ears completely scalding from what you had done. You reacted quite similarly, unsure why you let your heart take control of your body completely. Adrenaline coursed through your body and made you jitter with nerves.
“Shoo, shoo! My wife is going to kill me if she finds out what you just did, idiot!” Tink complains in an agitated manner, his anxiety spiking and translating into annoyance as he ushers your back out of his trailer, still in his sleek pajamas. He practically shoves you on the way out.
…You think that was completely worth it, even though you’re guilty about your decision, as per usual.