Today, my roommate has taken the form of a cuckoo clock. Dark-stained and ornate, bare branches ringed by ivy frame the pale window that has become Lucas’ face. Every hour on the hour, a miniature wooden barred owl peeks from the tiny window on his forehead and gives weight to the time at hand.

Last week, Lucas had been a Persian rug. Delicate floral details swirled from his center, his edges clawed by curved boteh motifs. It had been especially hard to spare him from guests then. As a clock, he has mounted himself well out of the way of foot traffic. A rug, though…I’d done my best to save him from the inevitable trampling, but apparently, the sensation of being rolled up and leaned against a wall feels like suffocation to a rug. Pretty sure he still hasn’t forgiven me for that one.

When I look at Lucas in the present, the crystal window protecting his delicate metal hands has already begun collecting dust. My dust cloth remedies that, but despite acting gently, his holly pendulum twitches in annoyance.

Sorry, I tell him. There was no helping it. He was looking scruffy. I almost hear him scoff at that.

When Lucas becomes like this, our apartment, likewise, becomes strained. He hates it if someone unfamiliar touches him, so unless he becomes something small enough for me to move solo, I’m stuck with his positioning until he regains himself. Entertaining guests whilst he stared me down as a giant wardrobe-bookcase duo in the center of the common area was lovely. I’m a strong guy, but I’m not moving solid mahogany on my own. To make things worse, sometimes, the change comes when I’m out of the apartment. Bringing dates home when I have no idea of what might await us is awkward.

This time around, Lucas has left the milk out. A bowl of soggy cereal teases him from the end table below where he had mounted himself. He hadn’t the time to even finish breakfast.

Click.

I glance back in time to see that tiny owl emerge from his doors. Its tiny amber eyes gleam while he gives the calls: Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all?

I count the tolls. Four o’clock. Where has the time gone? With a hearty thank-you to Lucas for the reminder, my cleaning supplies are tidied away. Off come my sweatpants and stained T-shirt, on go clean jeans and a button-down. The kitchen is my arena, my apron my shield. A pot of water is on the burner, onions and peppers beneath my knife, pasta from a box – saute, boil, simmer. Our apartment comes alive with the aroma of cooking. When I finish, Lucas ticks with jealousy.

The knock at the door comes just as the turn of five is announced. Behave yourself, I urge Lucas. A flick of his pendulum; he’s rolling his eyes at me.

For once, the guy I’ve invited over is closer to our age. I sense Lucas relax at the realization. I know he has grown tired of me bringing home men ten, twenty years our senior.

My date wastes no time once he’s made it past the threshold. Against the refrigerator I’m pinned, hands sampling my body while he tastes my lips. He teases the delicate skin behind my ear and holds me tight. I allow him this, a starter to wet his appetite before peeling myself from his grasp. Lucas ticks away over our heavy breaths.

Food first.

Faintly, I wonder if cuckoo clocks can feel hunger. If so, I feel bad for taunting Lucas. His overlook is not even ten feet from the dining table. I really should have moved him to his bedroom when I’d found him, but it was too late for that. I would have to prepare an apology plate or two.

At least he makes a cute clock. That’s what my date says when I explain the situation. He finds it charming, asks if I’m aware that Lucas’ rustic appearance clashes horribly with our “discount college fuck-boy” decor. I feel like an ass for laughing, but honestly, he’s right. The shitty furniture is all we can afford. Lucas’ owl is celebrating the sixth hour of the evening. If I look closely at that tiny wooden figure, would I see any laughter on its sharp face?

Well, is he gonna Netflix n’ chill with us, too, or should we take this to your room? My date asks this while tracing a hand down my chest. Again, I laugh. Lucas doesn’t seem the type to spring for that. Even if having a three-way with a clock (something I don’t want to entertain the logistics of) were possible , sex with long-term roommates often does not end well. I try hard not to look at the wall when I explain this.

My bedroom door closes snugly. Even so, I hear Lucas’ ticking well into the night. Over the chatter of the ridiculous B-movie we choose, between our whispers and gasps and the squeaking of springs…through it all, he ticks away.

By the time my date has fallen into sleep’s cradle, I’ve lost track of how many times that owl has called the hour. All I can do is relax in the glow of the television and the songs of my company.

Are you still there? asks the TV. The remote is beneath my date. I haven’t the heart to disturb him. His skin is cool, heartbeat strong through the hollow of his chest. Still, Lucas ticks above all.

I wonder…when the sun rises, what form will he take? A stubbornly firm pillow? A cracked armoire? Might he be capable of sharing breakfast with us? Or, perhaps, Lucas will tick on, announcing the passage of time well into daybreak, his feelings set aside.

Only time will tell.

N.V. Morris (he/they) is a queer writer working towards a career in wildlife conservation. Their work has appeared in Unfortunately Literary Magazine and the Las Positas College Journal of Art and Literature, Havik. They currently share their room with far too many creepy-crawly friends for their loved ones’ comfort.