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t. I hope that will be okay. It’s comfortable.”
“This is great,” he said. “Is this your wife?”
Although Paul had moved to escape Sara’s ghost, he had decorated his new place almost entirely with framed photos of his wife—their wedding, their honeymoon travels, early dates they went on together.
“Sara,” he said.
“She’s pretty.”
“Thanks,” Paul said. It seemed like the appropriate answer, although it was odd to thank someone for a compliment about someone else—as though Sara’s looks were his achievement.
“So you’re not together now?”
Paul hated those kinds of questions. He hated to have to give the answer, to make the other person uncomfortable. He hated that moment after they said, “I’m sorry,” when they would both stand for a moment in quiet reverence. He never felt like his response was quite right.
“Cancer,” he said.
“That sucks,” Ian said.
The unexpected blunt answer made Paul smile. “You’re right. It does.”
As Paul unfolded the futon, Ian kicked off his shoes and pulled off his socks. Next he reached over his head and pulled off his T-shirt. Paul willed himself not watch. He busied himself with the sheets. Tucking them in, straightening them. Straightening them some more. He heard the metal clank of Ian unbuckling his belt. Paul arranged the pillows.
“You don’t have to do that,” Ian said. Shirt off. Belt unbuckled. Jeans slightly unzipped. “I can make the bed.”
Paul straightened the sheets some more. Hospital corners, maybe he should try to do hospital corners. What are hospital corners, anyway? “Do you think you’ll have enough blankets?”
“Oh yeah. Definitely. You really don’t need to make a fuss.” He slid his jeans down over his narrow hips and stepped out of them. He was now wearing nothing but a pair of blue briefs, and there was a new discovery. He had a tattoo. It seemed to be some kind of leaf or a vertical Celtic knot. Just the top of the design was peeking out from the briefs on Ian’s right hip bone. It drew Paul’s eye downward. Gave him permission to stare at….
In an instant, a whole scene played out in his mind. He would ask about the tattoo, come in close, and inch the briefs down, slowly, to see the rest of the image. And what would happen next? Paul knew that tattoo and its placement were going to invade his thoughts day and night. He could not help it. It was completely inevitable. And he hated it. He knew that this was exactly what it had been designed to do. How many men had seen the full design? How many had acted out the very scene Paul had just scripted in his mind?
“Well, I hope you have a good sleep. You have a big day tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Ian said a bit nervously as he climbed under the covers. “Goodnight, Paul. Thanks for rescuing me.”
The next morning, Paul got up early. He sat at the computer researching alcoholism treatment centers and making phone calls trying to find one that could take Ian right away. From his study, he could see the futon and watch Ian sleep. As soon as he seemed to stir, Paul got up, went to the kitchen, and came back with a glass of water. He sat down at the foot of the futon.
Ian sat up, squinted, and looked around to get his bearings. When he saw Paul, he smiled with recognition. His hair was tangled, and there were slight dark circles under his eyes.
“I figured you’d be thirsty,” Paul said, handing him the glass of water.
“Thanks,” Ian said. He took the glass, gulped down the water, and handed it, empty, back to Paul.
“Do you need more? I have aspirin too if you need any.”
“No, I’m okay,” he said as he tried to undo a knot in his hair with his fingers. “You seem like you’ve done this before.”
“What, brought a man home from jail?”
“No,” Ian said, blushing slightly. “I mean, maybe you know something about… drunks.”
“I’m playing this by ear,” he said. “You remember what we talked about last night?”
“Yeah, this time I remember.”
“You still want to do this?”
“Yeah.” He sounded nervous but committed.
