‘I don’t know, Christopher.Maybe because I’m a normal person who just wants to go somewhere and relax.’
‘Knowing what I’m doing and the rules of the placeisrelaxing.’
‘Maybe if you’re Type A.’
‘I am notType A.Not least because that’s some kind of stereotyping nonsense.’Christopher folds his arms.There’s nothing wrong with being organised.Yes, perhaps it would be good if he could be more of an impulsive person, but he used up all his impulsivity last year faking a relationship, quitting his career and buying a business on a whim.Excuse him if he’s a bit tetchy about sticking to the details.
With one glance at the floured kitchen, he remembers what he’s actually supposed to be annoyed about.‘Hang on, how did you spin this around to me?’
Nash laughs, his mouth a wolfish grin.‘It’s just too easy.’
With a furious huff, Christopher hands him the other, non-broken, broom, and says, ‘Clean it up.All of it has to go in the bin.’
‘Even the stuff still in the bag?’
‘Yes, Nash, even that.It’s all contaminated.I can’t sell it.’
‘Well, now I feel bad,’ mutters Nash as he starts to brush flour into small piles.
‘Good.’
Working together, it doesn’t take too long to get most of the floor-flour into a neat pile.The only problem is, it’s still everywhere else.They dust it off the shelves and work surfaces onto the floor as there’s no saving any of it.With a sigh, he realises he’s going to have to Ajax all the stainless steel later as it all looks dusty and ancient, rather than clean and well maintained like it had done yesterday.He hates doing that stuff.But a job in the bakery kitchen gets him out of the tiny flat, so you win some, you lose some.
Kneeling on the now slightly cleaner floor, he brushes the mound of floor-and-flour-stuff into the dustpan with the little brush.
‘Wait, let me do that,’ says Nash, squatting down and reaching over to grab the dustpan.
‘No, I can do it.’
‘Yeah, but I made the mess.Let me fix it.’
‘It’sfine.’
‘I think, when said with that tone, things are specifically not fine,’ Nash says, tugging at the dustpan insistently.
‘You’re making it worse,’ growls Christopher, pulling back.
‘No, I’m not!’
And that’s when, in this final struggle, the dustpan flies up into the air, covering them both with floor-flour.It’s such a shock that, for a long moment, Christopher says nothing.He sits still as a statue, eyes shut and lips sealed so the flour doesn’t get in.He then wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand, which he can only hope is slightly less disgusting thanthe flour rapidly turning to a sticky paste from the sweat on his face.
Eyes clear, he fixes Nash with a glare.
‘Oh crap,’ groans Nash, picking clumps of flour out of his once-blond now-grey hair.
‘If you brush it off you and down into the dustpan—’ Christopher says, just as Nash enthusiastically shakes himself like a wet dog.
The flour that they had brushed off the entire kitchen is now back everywhere, just in different places.
Nash surveys the damage.‘That didn’t work as well as I thought it would.’
‘This must be a nightmare,’ Christopher says, still carefully brushing the flour off himself.‘That’s the only explanation for this.I’m being tortured.My brain has concocted the worst scenario it could possibly think of and now it’s playing out.Thank you very much, sleep paralysis demon.’
‘Round two?’Nash says, and without another word, they clean up the kitchen.Again.This time, Nash doesn’t argue.They’re so caked in flour so there’s only so much cleaning they can do without shedding little squalls of white.
Once it’s as good as it’s going to get, Christopher decides it’s time to temporarily give up.‘I am going for a shower.Go upstairs and wait for your turn.When we’re clean, we’ll work out what we’re going to do with you.’
As they ascend the stairs, Nash murmurs, ‘At your command.You know, when you’re bossing me about, it almost sounds exciting.’
