“You have time?”
I give them one of my wryest looks. “It’s not like I’m going to go back to the conference centre and join the BDSM Ball or hmmm, what was the alternative, oh yes, the Leather Love-in.”
Loncey’s smile is lopsided and fuck them, all kinds of cute. “Shame, you would look phenomenal in leather,” they say with a wink before they turn and gesture for me to follow.
I’m only a little taken aback at that blatant flirting but, more than that, I’m pleased. Pleased that they’re not pussy footing around me. I’m also a little bit pleased that they’re flirting with me, even if what they’re saying has little merit or meaning. Imean, I’m certainly no expert, but isn’t that what most flirting is anyway?
Either way, I’m pleased they have their back to me as they lead me through the house so they can’t see my small smile. We leave the house through the back door in the kitchen and a security light comes on as Loncey takes their first step onto a square patio area lined with seemingly countless terracotta pots boasting succulents and cacti I can’t possibly name but I pause to admire them in the dim light. I can’t help but think how different they are from the plants that fill my parents’ garden or the parks in Dublin. I’m no gardener by any stretch of the imagination but I think momentarily, and possibly very stupidly, that I could get used to living in a climate where cacti grow tall and plants stay lush and green all year long.
“You coming?” Loncey turns to ask me when he’s reached the door to his cabin.
And that’s exactly what it is. With wood cladding walls, one door and one window, and an off-centre slanting grey shingle roof, it’s bigger than a shed, but not by a lot. It should look out of place in the back garden of a suburban home, but it doesn’t. It looks like it was always here, and when I step inside, I feel it too.
It’s small – there’s barely space for Loncey’s double bed, a small couch under the window and a small kitchenette along the wall opposite the bed – but it’s cosy. The ceiling is covered in those canvases they showed me on the phone and I resist the urge to dive onto the bed and stare up at them for hours. Loncey jokes about giving me a tour once I close the door behind me, but even so, I’m surprised when Loncey points to the door at the back of the room, showing me where there’s a bathroom.
“So you really live here?” I say, and I sound very disbelieving.
“Well, yeah.”
“Since when?”
Loncey looks at the floor which is covered in a worn but striking rug that has lots of reds, oranges and yellows in its abstract design. “About four years ago. I had to move home after… after a break-up and I didn’t want to impose on my mom and Jessica too much. I also…” They trail off. “I also kind of needed a project to keep my mind busy.”
“So you built it yourself?”
“Yeah,” they offer a shy smile, “it’s one of the things that made me Internet famous, I guess you could say. I shared the whole process on YouTube. Weekly updates and DIY videos and sharing the highs and lows.”
“All shirtless, I assume?”
Loncey huffs out a quick laugh. “Well, you gotta get people to subscribe somehow.”
I give them a firm side-eye before finally allowing myself to sink down onto the bed. After only a brief moment of feeling self-conscious, I lie back and rest my hands on my stomach.
“There it is.”
“My silly little hobby?” Loncey lies next to me, not close enough to be touching me, but still I feel their body heat.
“No, your art. Your beautiful art,” I say in little more than a whisper.
“These are all old now. That one,” they point to the left, “that’s one of the first ones I did. I can do better now.”
“But that’s not what your silly little hobby is for, right?” I mimic their tone. “Like you said to me, it’s not about excelling at something, more it’s about doing something that helps you relax, feel good.”
“God, it’s annoying when someone does that.” They chuckle to themself, and the bed moves slightly with it.
“What?”
“Uses my words against me.”
I roll over onto my side and prop my head up on my hand so I’m looking down at them. “I lied to you last night.”
“You did? About what?”
“About ballet. I said I’d looked up lessons. I didn’t tell you that I actually already took a lesson. Last week.”
They exhale loudly enough for me to hear it. “Oh. I don’t think that’s lying. That’s just withholding information.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t want to admit that I found it so hard.”
