Kitchen, parlor, bed | Sreedhari Desai

kitchen, parlor, bed

we’re on the fourth floor
of a roman palazzo that smells
like espresso, damp stone,
and somebody’s frying garlic
at an ungodly hour.

when he says it like it’s scripture,
like the saints themselves leaned in
and whispered it between sips of bad wine.

“cuoca in cucina,” he grins,
“signora in salotto
e puttana a letto.”

a cook in the kitchen,
a lady in the parlor,
and a whore in bed.
as if i’m a three-course meal
meant to be served with lace
and a receipt.

i watch him talk…
the little movie he’s screening
behind his eyes…
where the saucepan simmers,
the curtains breathe,
and my body arrives on cue
like a tiramisu after a hard day.

i tell him, sure.
i’ve got my
british prayers too.

i want a stud in the bedroom,
clean in the bathroom,
and a dab hand
at taking out the rubbish.

i want a man who can sweat like a sinner
and scrub like a saint
and carry a bag of garbage
like it’s not a personal insult
from god.

he laughs.
thinks i’m teasing.
rome teaches men that way…
they mistake everything
for flirtation.

then we try it.

in the kitchen
he calls himself “chef”
and burns water.
the smoke alarm starts singing
like it wants alimony.
he stands there with a wooden spoon
stirring nothing
with the confidence of an emperor
and the skill of a hangover.

in the parlor
he turns into a gentleman…
the kind who quotes something he never read
and sits like he’s posing
for a portrait nobody ordered.
he asks for an aperitif
with a half-bow
so theatrical
it deserves its own slow clap.

in the bedroom
he tries to be poetry
and ends up as punctuation…
too many exclamation points,
not enough sense.
the bed squeaks
like it’s filing a complaint.
he whispers dirty things
that sound like instructions
from an appliance manual.

and the bathroom…

ah, the bathroom.

the bathroom is where romance goes
to slip on a wet tile
and meet its maker.

he finishes his performance
and heads in there
like a victorious general
and leaves behind
a battlefield.

the mirror is fogged with pride,
the sink is full of a beard
he didn’t know he owned,
and the toilet…
the toilet looks like it’s seen war
and is considering therapy.

so i remind him, gently,
my sweet trilogy:

stud in the bedroom,
clean in the bathroom,
dab hand with the rubbish.

he nods, solemn.
takes it seriously.
gets down to work.
he grabs the bleach
like it’s holy water
and baptizes the entire room…
including his toes.

he scrubs the tub so hard
he erases the tub.
the shower curtain dies
an honorable death
and sticks to his wet skin
like a clingy lover.

he coughs.
he gags.
he has a moment
where he stares at the mop
and i can see him calculating
how much he loves me
versus how much
he loves oxygen.

then…
because he wants to be a hero…
he decides to take out the rubbish.

at midnight.

in his underwear…
designer tight,
tricolor grin at the waist.

he drags the garbage bag
down the stairwell
past the echo of scooters
and somebody upstairs
arguing with the television.

halfway down,
the bag splits
like a cheap promise.

coffee grounds, old onions,
a condom wrapper
like a tiny white flag,
and the cat litter…
the cat litter goes everywhere,
a gritty snowfall
on the polished floor
of our dignity.

the neighbors open their doors
one by one
like it’s a parade.

someone’s dog starts barking
at his bare legs,
and he stands there,
the would-be king
of kitchen-parlor-bed,
covered in garbage confetti,

saying, very softly,
“i thought…
you meant…
metaphor.”

i spin my keys on a finger
like i’m deciding
whether to leave or laugh
just something to do
with my hands
besides applauding.

“no,” i tell him,
“i meant the rubbish.”

and in that moment
we are both exactly
what we wanted:

he is a stud…
stubborn, sweating,
trying again,

i am a lady…
composed, amused,
and as for the rest…

well.

the night porter comes out
holding a broom
like a priest with a staff,
looks at the scene,
looks at him,
looks at me,

and says,
“cuoca, signora, puttana…”

then points the broom at my lover
and adds,
“and you, my friend…
you’re the trash.”