Yung Li

Every night he comes with his blue sleeping bag and bright orange tight curly locks. And every morning I come with my broom in hand and makeup on. I come into the living room and begin to unscrew the wooden stick from the sweeper. I turn the stick and it squeaks, metal upon metal, and the young man’s feet twitch suddenly. I put the sweeper against the wall and look at him. I just look at him. His body is curled up on the hard carpet floor, and his back facing me about three feet away. I turn around and pull on the blinds to let some light into the dark room. The man’s orange hair is illuminated by the sun. His hair looks like gold, the gold specks my grandfather once brought home to me and my sisters from the mines.

His feet twitch again and I remember what I came for. I raise my stick and yell “YI! YI! YI! You! get out of my house! You! Why you in my house? I don’t like you! You don’t make me happy! You! GET OUT!” My stick falls in continuous motion upon his back and buttocks. He squirms and pulls himself out of the sleeping bag.

“Sorry maam, sorry maam,” he whispers as he stands up and picks up his sleeping bag off of the floor. I hit him, I hit him again, I hit him one more time. He is at the door, opens it, steps out, leaves it a peak open, sticks his head in and whispers, “Sorry maam.” PANG! I hit right where his face should have been. He shuts the door. Sighing, I lock it. Resting my stick against the wall, I rush to the bathroom. Splashing my face with cold water I rub the makeup off with a rag. I never wear makeup.