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“Do you want children learning to flaunt local ordinances if they don’t feel like doing proper research?”
He guffaws, even though I’m completely serious. “I’ll leave the wine.”
“Please don’t.”
He does anyway. As we shake hands, I notice the traces of silver coming in at the edges of his hair, even though he’s just two years older than me. There’s a threshold from young adulthood to middle age and it’s time for us to cross it, but I’ve just realized I don’t have any of the things I’m supposed to bring with me. A family, a purpose, stability, wisdom. Anything but two suitcases and four boxes and the sense that I’ve missed something very important.
“Avery,” I call after him, just as the elevator doors open to let him in. “Thank you for the heavy lifting.”
He just flips me off.
When he’s gone, I search the cupboards full of generic dishes and utensils some realtor bought and stuffed there to justify charging more. I have to peel a price sticker off the bottom of a wine glass before opening Avery’s housewarming gift. The first taste has me grimacing, but I tip my head back and drain the whole glass in one go. Then I sit at the counter and rest my ear against the cool quartz and watch the sun go down.
I’m starving and itching to work, but my internet hasn’t even been connected and I don’t have the energy to consume anything but more chardonnay. The second glass goes down easier as I study my phone screen, empty of notifications. Victor’s the only person who cares if I arrived safely and, knowing him, he’ll show up at my old apartment in a few days with a bottle of vodka and some movie he wants to watch before he remembers I’ve left.
Empty glass in hand, I wander into the bedroom and stare at the dark gray sheets on the bed, made up so neatly, like a welcome from a ghost. Setting my jacket and trousers aside for dry cleaning, I unbutton my shirt and return to the living room in my boxers to lower the blinds before wasting ten minutes working out how to operate the electric fireplace.
I sit stiffly on the very end of the couch and stare into the flames.
I’ve made a mistake. Every part of this place, from the upscale furniture to the uneasy silence, reminds me of the only home I’ve ever shared with another man. Any moment now, I’ll hear his feet behind me as he pours himself some wine before curling up next to me, slinging his legs across my lap. He’ll talk and talk, ask me questions, and all my answers will displease him. Eventually, he’ll sigh and go to bed without me.
I must have dozed off, propped awkwardly against the cushions, because I jolt awake with a sore neck, thinkingI’m supposed to go in there now and fuck him, the one thing I can do right. Maybe I always had a choice, but it never felt like it.
By the time I remember I haven’t spoken to Colson in nine years, I’ve lost any interest in sleep. Nothing feels familiar as I stand up and stretch, not the texture of the floor against my feet or the sound of the refrigerator turning over ice. It’s very dark and smells like unknown things. I open the blinds and lean against the cool glass, studying the man-made universe of lights, so much less frightening than the real one.
Instead of going to bed, I fetch the wine bottle and the worn-out book I carry with me everywhere:Leaves of Grass, by Whitman. I don’t understand poetry, the language of emotion, but there’s something comforting in beating myself against it, over and over, until I know the words by heart. Taking long gulps straight from the bottle like some kind of degenerate, I hunt through the familiar lines for something solid to grasp.
I too am not a bit tamed. I too am untranslatable.
Bare feet pad across the floor, walking shyly on the outer edges. The boy from the plane tilts his head at me, then strips down without a word, his clothes a puddle on the floor, his muscled, compact body perfect in the moonlight. I sit up slowly, unable to take my eyes off him, and he kneels down with a bashful smile, naked between my knees.
I realize I’m also naked and hard as he studies my cock reverently.Wow, he breathes.Can I touch it? I promise I’m straight, but can you teach me how to suck it?
His gentle brown eyes latch onto mine as I slide three fingers between his lips, force them back along his tongue as he sucks and laps at them, swallowing obediently when they hit the back of his throat.Just like that, I whisper.
When he tries to take my cock, he starts coughing and has to pull off.It tastes so much bigger than it looks. How do girls do this?He rests his forehead against my thigh, trying to get his laughter under control.One sec. I’ll try again. This is great for you, right?His self-deprecating grin brings out both his dimples. This time he refuses to give up, his hand gripping my left knee and his stump resting on my right as he gags and shivers and moans on me.
I too am not a bit tamed.
When I wake up, breathing hard, I put my hand down my underwear and groan at the mess of hot cum smeared across my belly, the consequence of pushing my control further than it can take. Peeling off my boxers, I limp toward the shower.
He was never here, but I miss him.
Two suitcases and four boxes so nothing could follow me here, and already I’m carrying around two fucking ghosts. As I sit under the hot stream of water, trying to pretend lugging those boxes around this afternoon didn’t hurt my back, the words I was reading when I fell asleep come back to me.
I too am not a bit tamed. I too am untranslatable.
Missing me in one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
