The scratchy, course sponge rubbed and scrubbed over the tile floor. The soapy substance sloshed and bubbled when pushed against the pasta stains from the previous evening. Carmen ran a tattooed hand through his hair before he continued cleaning the floor. His head snapped up as he heard the back, alley way, door open with a creak and a jingle of keys.

Your figure revealed itself soon after, holding a paper bag that smelled of greasy fats. “Told y’not to bring that shit here—m’not gonna eat it.” He sat back on his knees as you took a seat at the table in front of him. Your eyes wandered to the clock hung on the concrete wall. 12:28 a.m. You had more than an inkling that Carmen hadn’t eaten since the morning. At least, that he hadn’t tasted anything other than samples to test if he was cooking right in the last 10 hours.

Yes, you’d much rather wait at home in bed. Slurping up one of Carmen’s meals as you both watched a trashy reality Tv show. But life wasn’t that easy. It never was. Especially with Carmen. You had to finish your university night-classes and drive across town to “The Bear” after picking up McDonalds to make sure your boyfriend ate at all. Yet, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I already ate, peach.” The lie slipped out easier than some truths. He moved to continue scrubbing at the stained floor. “M’not hungry.”

It only took a half a minute for his crystal colored eyes glanced up at you and your silent beckoning. With a sigh he moved to sit next to you, grabbing the greasy, paper wrapped cheeseburger from the bag and started to delve into the less than culinary acceptable food.