Page 22 of Electric Boy

But thinking back, how often had she dismissed his flirtations with male bartenders as performative for the benefit of any ladies present? Or chalked up the way he’d eye up a lad walking past as his appreciating their fashion sense? Or excused the fact that the porn tape collection in the back of his wardrobe all starred the same male actor because he was a fan of his work? Honestly, the signs were all there. She’d only been too blinded by love, of all bloody things, to see it. Julian fancied men. He must do women as well, because no one could fake the sort of genuine pleasure Julian took in a pair of tits. But, to be quite frank, it would’ve been easier had he actually been gay. To know that he still fancied women -- could still fancy her -- and yet had chosen to be with a man instead was a little gutting. Her pride was soothed only by the fact that the man in question had Australian-model good looks. But only barely. Because the man was a first- rate cunt.

Swallowing the sudden urge to spit in his face, she ground out, “I hope you two are very happy together.” Then, decorum be damned, she turned and ran.

Chapter Fourteen: Say Hello, Wave Goodbye

The record shop was a dingy affair located on the corner of Murray Grove and Cropley St. It had the brown-brick facade and arching lines of an original Edwardian spared the Blitz, but what would have been charming, great big shop windows were almost entirely obscured by layer upon layer of peeling band posters. The faded white lettering on the authentic wood marquee half-heartedly proclaimed the shop to be Collier Vinyl.

The bell jangled cheerfully overhead when Michael swung the thick wooden door open. The interior was muted and sepia toned from the light filtering through the poster-obscured windows. Smoke gathered in banks towards the beamed ceiling even though no one in sight was currently smoking. Short rows of record racks faced the glass counter at the back of the shop like soldiers queued up in front of their sergeant. Behind the glass counter, which was itself caked in layers of scratched stickers and yellowing flyers, sat the two oblivious shopkeepers.

One leaned far back with his battered Converse trainers propped up on the countertop, his aquiline nose buried in a heavily dog-eared volume of Nabokov. The one beside him was bent over a music magazine, unnaturally dark hair obscuring his face from view and nearly touching the glossy pages. Neither one of them stirred at the shop bell’s toll. Nor did they stir as Michael strode up rows of records, the heels of his oxfords clicking smartly against the chequered tiles. It was only after he came to a stop right in front of them and loudly cleared his throat that either of them deigned to lift their gazes.

And Julian’s face immediately erupted into a riotous grin.

“Michael! What’re you doing here? You never came all the way down here to see me.”

“Of course I did,” Michael replied, unable to keep a grin from his own face. He wasn’t often prone to open displays of emotion, but Julian’s smiles were infectious. “I remembered you telling me the other night that your shop wasn’t far from the Wenlock Mason. I was in the neighbourhood and thought I might take you out to lunch.”

“Lunch!” Julian exclaimed as if it were a clever, novel idea of Michael’s own invention. “That’s genius, that is. I’d love a lunch break.”

“But you only just got in an hour ago,” came the acerbic voice from Julian’s side.

Rahul looked less than impressed by Michael’s sudden appearance. In fact, since he’d become aware of Michael’s presence, his narrowed eyes hadn’t left Michael’s form for even a moment, as if he suspected Michael might nick something when he wasn’t looking. Hostility radiated off him in waves so hot Michael feared he’d be sunburned before long.

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t time for lunch,” Julian retorted, unmoved by Rahul’s cynicism as he was already rounding the counter.

“And I’m meant to mind the shop all on my own then,” Rahul whinged.

“But you’re so good at it.” Julian’s brightness shone on Rahul like the beam of a spotlight and even he had to sigh in defeat. There was no staying mad at Julian when he aimed the full wattage at you. Besides, he was already walking out with Michael, so there was really no stopping him even if Rahul had wanted to.

* * *

The curry place was packed with lunch-goers and the savoury scents of spices and freshly cooked chicken. Michael and Julian had to squeeze themselves into a booth by the draughty door. It wasn’t the sort of establishment Michael would have normally chosen for himself. But none of these impositions fazed him as much as they might have otherwise thanks to the way Julian’s leg pressed up against his own under the cramped table, warm and firm and deliciously real. Or the way his elbows kept knocking into Michael’s as he plunged eagerly into his curry, eating as he always did, as if he might never have the chance to eat again. There was a spot of sauce in the corner of his mouth that Michael’s gaze kept landing on, waiting for a flash of pink tongue to dart out and lap it up.

Instead, a continuous stream of nonsensical words escaped him between heaping mouthfuls -- “and really, the only way I’d ever go back is if they made it into a kind of bouncy castle. You know the type. Red and yellow and blue and stuff. Why are all bouncy castles in primary colours? Is it ‘cause they’re for kids? And kids are in primary school? Ohhh, I reckon that’s it. But what if grown-ups want to use them? Do they have them in grown-up colours? What would grown-up colours even be? Mauve? And… beige? Ochre. I reckon ochre’s a grown-up colour. Fancy a little boy saying ‘ochre.’ ‘Please, sir, can I have the ochre-coloured teddy bear?’ They’d throw him out of the shop! ‘You’re a full-grown man on his knees pretending to be a little boy,’ the shopkeeper’d say --”

“I don’t think Rahul likes me very much,” Michael interrupted, still haunted by the memory of Rahul’s dark glare.

“No way,” Julian dismissed, positivity radiating off him in pleasant, cooling waves. “You’re brilliant. Everybody loves you.”

“Really?” Michael asked, amused. “Who’s ‘everybody’?”

“You know, everybody. The curry man.”

“The one who just sold us the curry.”

“Right. He thought you were tops. I could tell.”

“Anyone else?”

“My sister. Mel. She only talked to you five minutes and even she could tell you were something special.”

“She told you that, did she?”

“I mean, not in as many words. But I could --”

“Tell. Right. Of course you could. Rahul doesn’t like me, does he?”

“No,” Julian admitted, deflating slightly. “Not really. But!” He perked up again, a Labrador retriever after a ball. “I bet he’d love you as much as I do if he got to know you. You know, one on one. You’re best one on one.”