Pierrot the Clown

Blue eyes flicker to the ceiling, oblivious to the man dressing in haste. Busted lips smile, wincing at the split in the middle.

"Same time tomorrow?" a croaky voice asked.

The man turns around to face the broken and bruised body in the bed, searching for answers.

"I'm getting married tomorrow."

"Oh," the body slowly gets up from the bed, wincing at the pain. The man greets the bruises, scars, wounds, and teeth marks inflicted on him in silence.

"Congratulations."

Bob knew better than to entertain this any longer. He wanted to get his rocks off and leave quickly, not engage in conversation with his…what is this man that sat before him? His lover? His mistress? His…toy? All were titles too personal to give.

"I told you not to talk afterwards," Bob barked, harsher than what he intended. His…toy seemed to have gotten the message. That fiery red buzz cut casts downward in shame.

The door clicks silently as Buddy holds his head in his hands.

He cries.