I crouched down beside him and put my hand on his shoulder.
“You’re going to be okay,” I told him. “It’s going to be okay, Poe.”
“Dorian.” He sniffed. “Please, don’t…use Poe. Just Dorian.”
I hesitated. “Alex. Alex Casper.”
He chuckled on a weary laugh, wiping his hand over his face. “Casper. That’s so…goddamn cute.” He sat up, grabbed his beer, and we clinked our bottles together.
It wasn’t going be okay. Not for Poe, anyway.
Not for me, either.
Poe passed out on my couch, clutching a bottle of beer like it was the Holy Grail. I gently pried it from his hands and set up an array of recovery tools on the table instead: a full glass of water, a bottle of Advil, and an apple.
(I’d run out of clementines).
Then I put a blanket over him, sat in the armchair, and closed my eyes.
I never texted Ophelia back, and she never followed up. This was a usually long stalemates for us. I should’ve let it go, but…I couldn’t.
I didn’t have a social media presence myself, but Ophelia did. And she posted frequently. Pictures of her dog and her coffeeorder and selfies of her sticking up the peace sign with a halo of light behind her making her look like a goddamn angel and…
Sure enough, there was a post. Two minutes ago. Location tagged:the Metropolitan Museum of Art.Song:Knife in my Eyes by the Subway Ratz.
In the picture, Kira was crossing her eyes for the camera. Squeaky was hiding behind a stuffed sea lion. Ophelia was wearing a gorgeous smile and?—
Who was that? A man with them. Square face, smooth complexion, mid-thirties. Around Ophelia’s age. He was adjusting a hat on Ophelia’s head, which she was playfully pointing to. The hat read in jagged white lettering:Subway Ratz.
The caption:Ratz in the museum!
He was tagged. Brody Hansen. Lead singer of theSubway Ratz.
I recoiled. Out loud, I heard myself balk, “Who the fuck is Brody Hansen?”
25
Phantom.Then.
Brody Hansen was the bane of my existence.
Ophelia told me about him immediately. Why wouldn’t she? She had nothing to hide. The story was, they knew each other in middle school and ran into each other at the MET. He was the lead singer ofSubway Ratz,a punk-rock band of small, local fame. They performed shows in bars and posted clips of their music, which I found disjointed and lacking rhythm, but what did I know? Ophelia was the expert, and she loved them.
So she talked, and talked, and I sat there and listened. It was nice to see her face light up, at first. I liked seeing her happy. But things between us started to change. They had to. Now that she was dating someoneon the outside, we renegotiated. Brody knew about me—Ophelia told him about the club. He didn’t want anything to do with it himself, but he didn’t mind Ophelia coming here once a week. He didn’t even mind us playing together. Hedidwant monogamy, though. So Ophelia and I adjusted to non-sexual play. Which was fine. I was fine. Sure,now that I’d been told Ican’t, all I could think about was pulling aside her panties and filling her?—
The point is, I learned something about myself in those early days.
I didn’t have a problem sharing Ophelia. I didn’t have a problem with her playing with people we trusted and knew at the club. Ienjoyedsharing her, even.
But—fuck. I couldn’t lose her. And for the first time, that felt possible.
I got off work, but I was wound too tightly to go home. I took the train to Brooklyn instead. The sky was an angry red behind the city backdrop, dawn smashing through. By time I got to Ophelia’s neighborhood, the café across the street from her apartment had just opened their doors. I purchased a bear claw and took a seat by the window, where I picked at bits of flaky bread with sugar crystals on top.
I monitored the building across the way. First, Dove, Ophelia’s roommate, left the building, heading to work. Then, around eight, Ophelia came out. I could see her across the street, walking Spud. Just the sight of her was like a balm on the raw edges of my soul. Despite having just rolled out of bed, she looked put together, and she greeted everyone she ran into—the guy putting out trash, the pizza store owner, the man sitting on the sidewalk. New York was a city that would either embrace you or chew you up and spit you out. This citylovedOphelia.
She vanished around one corner, reappeared around the next, and then took Spud back inside. Not long after, she left again, heading to the Chrystie Theater.
That was my cue. I finished my pastry, tossed my jump bag over my shoulder, and headed to Ophelia’s building. I knew my way around, and I walked the narrow alley between the buildings to get to her fire escape. The ladder only required alittle convincing and I yanked it down to climb up. I climbed until I got to Ophelia’s window, which she always left unlocked.
