Sock Sub Boy

I carried the groceries up and let myself in. I've had the code to this place since he moved in, and the key to the one before it. Sunday is when I come.

I put everything away where it belongs. Washed the fruit and veg, wiped down the counter, made a note of what was running low for next week.

He was still asleep.

We were roommates in college. He was on the rugby team. The room was always a mess and at some point it became mine to deal with. The dorm, the shared kitchen, the errands. Ten years ago.

I started on the cooking first as I had a full week worth of meals to prepare. I had the stove going before I touched anything else.

Started cleaning the living room while the first pot came to a boil. Surfaces, the shelf above the TV, the windows. Floor. Back to the kitchen, I checked the heat, stirred, started chopping the veggies. Seasoned, adjusted, set a timer.

He came out of the bedroom around ten. I heard his footsteps going to the bathroom.

He showered for around thirty minutes. When he came out he had a towel around his waist and didn't look at me. Opened the fridge, stood there for a moment, closed it. Pulled on a shirt in the doorway of his bedroom. He'd always been big. Chest, shoulders, arms. I kept my eyes on the counter.

He picked up his keys and left. The door closed and the flat went quiet.

I went to the bedroom. Stripped the bed, fresh sheets on, straightened, floor, surfaces. The bathroom after. Toilet bowl, the rim, the tank. Sink, taps, mirror. The tiles. His products wiped down and put back in order. His towels in the wash, fresh ones folded on the rail.

The laundry ran while I cooked. I went back and forth, checking temperatures, adjusting heat, portioning into containers, stacking them by the day. Hoovered the bedroom, the hallway, the living room again once it was fully dry. Mopped after. Went back to the kitchen to start the next batch.

He'd figured it out in college. Third or fourth month in. He came back from training, dropped on the couch, feet up on the table like he always did. I was folding the laundry while eyeing his feet. He clocked it. Things got different after.

It started with the dorm. The cleaning, the errands. After graduation we lived together for another year. Then he moved for work. Different city, different flat. I thought that would be it. He texted me two weeks later with his new address. Sundays became standard.

The food was done by early evening. Boxed by meal, stacked in the fridge, labeled by day. I scrubbed the hob, the oven, inside the microwave. Cleaned the sink, dried every surface. Dishes washed and put away. Bin out, new bag in. I went through the flat once more. Checked the bathroom, straightened the bedroom doorway.

I was wiping down the kitchen counter when I heard his key in the door.

He came in and dropped his jacket on the hook. Went to the fridge, opened it, looked at the containers stacked by day. Stood there for a moment. Closed it. He moved to the living room without saying anything.

I finished the counter. Rinsed the cloth, wrung it out, folded it over the tap. Took a breath.

Then I went to him.

He was in the armchair, arms crossed, one leg resting over the other. He didn't look up.

I lowered myself to my knees.

"Done, Master."

He didn't move for a moment.

Then he shifted his leg and extended his foot toward me. Sole forward. His feet were huge. Wide at the ball, dry at the heel, the arch deep. Long toes, the second stretching just past the first.

I put out my tongue.

Heel to toe. One slow lick. The skin was warm and dry. He didn't move, didn't make a sound. His leg stayed exactly where it was.

Then he pulled back.

He reached for his phone. I stayed on my knees for a moment, then stood. Picked up my bag from the hallway. Let myself out.