Page 77 of The Triangle

For that, and for so many other things too innumerable to mention, I have loved him.

And somewhere along the way, that love became desire. Yes, of course, it’s sexual. Danny’s just fokken sexy. There would be something wrong with me if I didn’t feel that way about him. But it is more than that.

It is that by joining with Danny, fully, entirely, perhaps I can become part of him and he can become part of me. And we will become greater than the sum of those parts.

I already feel stronger, more resilient, since Christine and I have formed our union. I want so much for Danny to be a part of it with us. I want him to know the euphoric serenity that comes of feeling absolute. Of feeling whole.

And tonight is the night that happens.

“Jesus, man,” Danny mutters. “That’s a hell of a piece for your first one.”

“Well,” I say, “as you always tell me, ‘Go big or go fok yourself.’”

Danny and Christine laugh.

What I don’t tell him is that I wanted him to be impressed. I wanted him to have this reaction. Every piece of ink on his body reflects something he’s experienced. Something he’s endured and survived. Something that has meaning for him.

Nothing has more meaning for me than him and Christine. Nothing ever has. Nothing ever will. And if I’m only going to do this once, I wanted to make it count.

I turn to face them, and their hands stay on my torso as I pivot around. They are both touching my chest. This is the moment I’ve been holding onto in my imagination. I smile at Christine. She smiles back. She leans in to kiss me. Our lips touch. And having Danny’s hand on my chest at the same time feels like… Nomathemba.

“Hope.”

But then, tragically, the hope fades away. Along with Danny’s hand. I grab for his wrist and pull him back into us. Christine turns her kiss from me and places it on Danny’s mouth instead.

He resists, but I hold them together. Then he pushes me away, pushes her away, and steps back, saying, “No. No. No,” over and over again. To himself as much as to the two of us.

“What?” Christine asks. “Danny, come on…” She moves toward him, and he retreats further.

“Fuck off,” he says, pointing a warning finger. “I mean it.”

“Come on, bru,” I tell him, moving in his direction. He has his fists up now. “Danny. Don’t, man. It’s all right,” I implore a bit, advancing further, my hands up in a gesture that’s intended to look non-threatening.

But all it really does is expose my midsection to the shot that hits my stomach.

“Fok, bru!”

“Jesus! Danny, stop!” Christine shouts as she runs over to tend to me.

“God damn it!” Danny shouts, punching at the sides of his head like he’s trying to jostle his brains into a new space.

“Danny, Danny, stop. Come on. What is it?” Christine asks, moving to him now. Trying to calm him somehow.

“We can’t!” he shouts.

“Can’t what?” she asks. “Can’t what? We can, Danny. We can do anything. We can have anything. We can. It’s OK.”

He shakes his head. “We can’t!” he shouts again. “It isn’t fucking real, goddamn it!”

“What isn’t?” She’s pleading with him now. Just moments ago, everything was perfection. Which is all I want. And now everything is shit. Cocked up and dangling by threads of almost-was.

Part of me wants to hit him back. Part of me wants to just pound some goddamn sense into him. Or pound some goddamn resistance out of him. Either way.

But I know that the second I lay a fist on Danny in anger… we will be done.

So instead, I just slump to the floor and sit there as Danny pulls away from Christine and retreats into another part of the suite. She chases after him. Leaving me there alone. The lights of Sydney twinkling in the distance.

Fok, man.