Page 11 of Milo
To warm up, I take a hot shower. Not that it’s unbearably cold in my apartment, I just like being warm, and so does Little Milo. I rinse out the tub, then grab my bottle of bubbles. Bubblesalways make things better. While the tub fills, I gather my bath toys and toss them in with a few capfuls of bubble liquid. Waiting is the worst.
Finally, I can slide into the blissful warmth of the bath. Bubbles foam around me as I splash. There’s nothing like a bath to soothe all my cares. My windup bath fishes swim while I chase them. I squeal and flap my hands when I pour water into the waterwheel on the wall. My light up floating dinosaursrwarrrrr.
I play and play and play until the water turns cold and all my bubbles are nothing but a film. My fingers are all pruney and I giggle. “Prunes yucky.” I make a face and shake my head. “I drink yummy juice!”
I’m careful climbing from the tub, grateful I didn’t make a giant mess with my splashing. I rinse the toys as the water drains, then leave them to dry out. My towels are huge and fluffy. If I had a towel warmer, that would be the bestest thing ever! I tiptoe run back to my room and rummage through my closet for a pair of my footie pajamas. They make me the happiest. I find the pair with dinosaurs and pull it on, making sure the zipper stays put.
“What to do, Draky?” I ask my stuffed dragon as I pull him from the bed and squeeze him tight. I drop to my knees to drag my box of Little supplies from under the bed.
The box is full now that I’ve added to it from the shopping trip with Rory. We’d gone to a local toy shop, then Target to buy even more stuff. “Color?” I lift the unicorn coloring book I just bought. “Yes. Color.” I rummage for the big crayons from the bottom of the box. They’re my favorite ever! Then head to the living room to spread out.
You’d think since I’m an artist I wouldn’t enjoy coloring on my downtime, but it’s a different kind of art. I can get lost in coloring. I don’t have to be perfect, and I can scribble and bechaotic. When it comes tomyart, I have to be precise. Even more so when I’m working on a tattoo. No one wants janky lines and shitty shading on their body.
I drop my coloring book to the floor and plop to my tummy. My tongue pokes out as I take my time to select my page. I haveall dayif I want. I chose a page in the middle of the book that’s a big happy cartoon unicorn with lots of swirls and flowers. “Okays, Draky. We has to find good colors.” I prop the crayon box against him and start to pull my favorites. Purple, pink, orange, blue, green. “Perfect.”
It’s so quiet in my apartment and it threatens to shake me out of my happy Little space. I rush to turn on the TV, stopping at a silly Christmas movie. “Santa!” I yell, just like the elf on the TV. I bounce around, letting the vibes take me back to Little Milo.
I have no idea how long I stay Little, coloring and playing with blocks and stuffies, until there’s a knock at the door that startles me out of my headspace. Blinking at the offending door, I have to push away a sniffle. I hate being ripped from Little space like that.
The knock comes again. My bottom lip quivers.
“Maintenance.” The slide of the key in the lock has me frozen in my spot.
“One sec please!” I rush to the door and relock it before racing to my bedroom to throw on a t-shirt and sweatpants over my footie pajamas. “Sorry, ‘bout that,” I say when I open to the gruff maintenance man behind the door. He’s holding up an air filter and his eyes go to my feet, then to the spread of toys on my living room floor. I want to crawl into a ball and cry.
Little Milo is private, except for the club. But the club is totally different. Everyoneknowswhat’s going on. Sure, I want a Daddy all my own in theory, but I also feel weird about this part of me. I know it’s not wrong, that some people—like me—need to just be Little for a bit and the world rights itself. But the thoughtof others outside of my circle knowing makes me want to stop sometimes.
The maintenance guy switches out my air filter and leaves without another word, but playtime’s over. My shoulders drop and my stomach grumbles. I always forget to eat before I play. My toys all go back to their spots. Draky goes back to my bed after one last squeeze. Then it’s lunchtime and I make myself a sad excuse for a peanut butter and honey sandwich.
I wish I could calm down from the interruption, but the longer I think about it, the more anxious I get. I doubt the maintenance guy will even remember me by tomorrow, but I still hate that I can’t stop thinking about it.
Milo: I need cuddles :(
Rory will let me come over, even if he’s still working. The little dots wiggle as he types a response, and that’s when I realize I texted the wrong person.
Dead.
I’m gonna die.
I throw my phone across the room to the couch and slide down the wall, staring at the evil piece of tech.
My phone vibrates, and I shake as I rock on the floor.
Why?Why did I have to text Clay?
But… he’s attracted to me. We’re going on a date. Maybe his text won’t be scary. Tentatively, I push to my feet and tiptoe to the couch. I tap the screen of my phone and peek with one squinted eye.
Clay: I’ll come over tonight. You can tell me all about it. I love cuddles.
I blink and reread the text over and over. Oh, no. No. He’s going to think I’m ridiculously needy.
Milo: Would you believe me if I told you I meant to text that to Rory?
Clay: I would, but the offer still stands.
I swallow.
Milo: My brain is just being dramatic. It’s nothing.
