Thom was furiously refreshing a webpage. Mouse clicks could be heard to the other room where Jonny was practising on his guitar.
"Stop doing that, will you? It's getting on my nerves!" he shouted, furrowing his brow, when he couldn’t stand it anymore.
"I … can … must NOT let this happen." Thom mumbled. It was loud enough for Jonny to hear him.
"Thom, what's going on?" Jonny entered the room and saw him sitting in front of the computer, or rather jumping off his chair, trying desperately to hide the image showing on the screen. "Okay, what's that?"
"What? Ummm … er … nothing!" he chirped. He moved his hand behind his back in attempt to press the return key on the keyboard. Unfortunately, the screen went black.
"Look what you're doing!" Jonny yelled and walked over to panicking Thom.
That shouldn’t have happened. He mustn’t see what I’m doing.
Jonny successfully managed to push Thom away from the computer. He wanted to check what had caused the computer screen go black. Thom could be so clumsy at times. To his surprise, there was nothing wrong with the screen, it was merely turned off.
Please, Jonny, don’t do it.
Jonny turned the screen on and blinked at it. He saw a picture of Carl and numbers from 1 to 10 above it. He had actually wondered if Thom liked him and now he finally had a confirmation of his suspicion. He then glanced to the right side of the screen and there he saw his own photo under which it said “Your rating: 1”.
“Thom, I need an explanation! Why the hell are you voting on this website and why the hell have you rated me as the worst?” he clamoured.
Thom stood silent. Nothing happened for a minute.
Or two.
Or three.
“Thom!!”
“Well sorry, Mr. Sexiest Male, I might not find you just as sexy as all those fangirls do!” he shouted back. “Plus, it’s not fair. I should win this award. I am the sexiest Radiohead member and we all know how embarrassed you’re going to be if you win. You better leave the award to me.”
“You could’ve told me at the beginning you wanted me under you.”
“Follow me right away, I want to claim my rightful award.”
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Monday, December 15, 2008
Denial
Sunlight is different in each season. If summer would switch to winter on a bright sunny day, you’d notice the difference in colour. Even the beginning of summer is different than the end. In June the sunrays are greenish, fresh, jumpy and eager to warm things up. In September they’re reddish and mellow, casting a glow on everything they can reach. Even the shadows are softer. This is the end of summer and I swear I can see the red. Right over there, near the hedge, where light turns to shadow. I’d tell you but you’d smile and nod, although I know you wouldn’t see. We’re sitting in your backyard, on the old blanket with the hole in it where I let the cigarette drop. That was six years ago. I’m good with placing things in time; I can always guess what time it is, too. Don’t like that, though. I wish I could live without time.
That day when I let the cigarette drop, that was a special day. A day I wish I could forget, some days, when I’m down and lonely. A day I’ll keep remembering, because of those few seconds. The day you tentatively put your hand on my leg and leaned in. The Day Our Lips Touched.
“Do you see a difference in the sunlight of summer and winter?”
You’re walking towards me, carrying a beer crate with some bottles of white wine on top, plus a plastic bag with what seem to be candles. You look thoughtful for a moment.
“Um. Yeeah. It’s brighter in the summer. The shadows are sharper. Why?”
“Nothing. Just thinking.”
You sit down in front of me, smiling. We pull out our acoustics from the cases and as you put yours under your arm, you sigh.
“It’s been way too long,” you say melancholily.
“It has, hasn’t it,” I agree.
As I open a bottle of beer, you grab the cork screw and with a skilled movement uncork the first bottle.
“This is a stash for like, three days,” I chuckle.
“At your rate?” you reply without missing a beat.
“Hey! I can control myself when I want to,” I say, feeling silly for defending myself.
“No need for that right now.”
Gah, don’t say that. But you’re raising your arm quickly and we clink bottles.
“To Radiohead,” I boast.
“To music,” you add. “And to us,” quietly. We look each other in the eye, like a proper toast, and your glance is playful while mine is searching.
“So what have you got?”
You’re first. Damnit.
“Uh. Not much. I mean, a lot, but I can’t make anything out of it.”
I lean over to grab my bag and pull out the crumpled pages, folded two times. There’s five of 'em, all full of words and scribbles. There’s almost no white left. Horror vacui. Fear of empty space.
I study them for a while, slowly shaking my head.
“Can I see?” Your hand has snatched them away already. You’re almost as eager as me, it seems. I’m a little nervous, but giddy because we’re finally doing something again. Music-wise, of course. Why am I nervous? I ask myself. Before I can think of an answer, your voice fills the late summer air.
“D’you have a pen?”
Sure, I nod, rummage through my stuff for a bit and fish out an old pen. It has bitemarks at the tip from chewing. Another one of my bad habits.
I watch you read, a frown of concentration on your face. You start circling things and I get more nervous so I take my guitar in my lap and start plucking a melody I don’t know yet. As soon as I’ve found a rhythm your foot is moving along. Now I notice you’re barefoot. I like your feet. I usually don’t like feet, but yours are long and slender. They don’t have weird angles or gross calluses, they’re not hairy (like mine, a bit) and your toenails are a healthy pink. I want to take my shoes off as well, but I’m too jealous of your feet and too ashamed of mine. After a minute I decide I’m being ridiculous, this is you, and I take them off anyway.
“I can offer free nose clips,” I say, somewhat unsure.
You look up and snort. I take a gulp from my beer and you do the same. Your bottle is almost halfway already. You keep scribbling and I scratch my neck. I hate waiting.
After a few more minutes I’m at my third beer and start complaining.
“Come on, Jon. Let’s start already. We’ll do lyrics later.”
“I’m done, I’m done.” You lift your head, make the last penstroke and give them back.
“So I have this riff...” but I’m not listening, just reading. You didn’t mark much.
dead from the neck up
nothing with the same glow ever again
it’s what you feel now
offer unconditionally
I love you but enough is enough
fingers in the blackbird pie
tingling tingling tingling
I can’t read on. My mind is turning every sentence into something it’s not. Or is it? I look at you but you’re busy playing. I look back at the words and try reading them objectively. There’s not much going on, but still. It’s the blackbird pie that does it. We were discussing it six years ago, on this very piece of cloth. The grossness of it. If you turn the blanket around you’ll find a purple stain of the blackberries that triggered the conversation.
You remember, then.
I look up and focus on your playing. The most beautiful riff is hanging in the air, waiting for my ears to pick it up. When they do, I’m speechless. I don’t look at the guitar, don’t look at your fingers. I don’t look at anything but your face. Your eyes are closed, lips slightly pouted. I realise I really missed this. If I were really honest I could say I missed you, but I’m not ready for that yet.
When you’re finished, I awake from my reverie. I hadn’t even realised I was gone. Other noises are seeping in again. Laughter from behind the brick wall on the far left. Your wife and kids, over at the neighbours. An uneasy feeling enters my stomach. But the smell of outside, of backyard, of freshly cut grass and flowers and warm air soothes it again.
I realise you’re looking at me, expectant.
“It’s... eh... I love it. It’s brilliant. I really love it.”
You duck your head and smile, and I involuntarily do the same.
“It needs some fleshing out, and-“
“It needs nothing,” I interrupt. “It needs lyrics.”
I take a fresh bottle out of the crate and open it. If I keep up at this rate I’ll be drunk in no time. I take a swig and my head starts spinning from the fast movement. I don’t care, though. I’d rather be drunk than painfully sober. I look at your bottle and see that it’s almost empty. What reason would you have for drinking so fast?
Part 2
The air is turning purple and chilly, and my bones shiver under my skin. We’ve been working on this song for two hours now, and we’re absolutely positive that it’s going to be brilliant. Admittedly, everything’s brilliant when you’re lit. Our spot is surrounded by empty bottles, my half of the circle with beer bottles, yours with two wine bottles. Over the years your body has become quite adjusted to alcohol, I must say. White wine, at least. I remember the time when you would drink two glasses when Coz wasn’t watching, and start swaying immediately. And giggling. Oh, the giggling. Six years ago you were giggling as well. Hand hiding a beautiful mouth with imperfect teeth. I had hoped that the urge to cover those lips with mine, to run my tongue over every imperfection of those teeth, the urge to make you feel as beautiful as you are, would fade away over the years. Well, nights like these sure don’t help the cause.
I shiver again. You notice and offer to move us to the back of the garden, to the fireplace spot. I blink for a moment, then remember.
“Fab idea, Jonjon,” I slur, and try to keep my balance whilst getting up. The guitar proves more than helpful. Together we throw everything that’s still useful in the blanket and drag it along the lawn to the back. When we arrive at the dark spot in the grass, you disappear into the shed. In an instant I’m alone with my thoughts. The mill in my head I can’t shut off. And I realize that this second, this very second, I am happy. Just being near you gives me enough endorphin to stay on a high for a week. Creating music together is the absolute summum. It’s the reason I survive our year long breaks in between tours and new studio time.
It’s a bittersweet feeling, knowing that all I need is right here and yet it won’t ever be completely mine. Maybe I’m just too greedy. It must be that. I’ve had way too much luck in my life for one person, so I have to compensate by having what I want the most just out of reach. I’ll probably have to learn and live with that. Actually, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing for six years now. Longer. Nine, if I’m honest.
You come stumbling out of the shed, the door slamming against a flowerpot, and you cringe but your arms are full of firewood. You throw the pile onto the burnt spot and kneel down to set fire to the smallest branch. Meanwhile I just sit on our blanket, hugging my knees and drawing your silhouette with my eyes. My eyes, which only barely have adjusted to the darkness. Suddenly the silence between us is deafening. I start to think of something to say, but nothing comes up. This is ridiculous, I tell my brain, he’s my best friend, of course I can come up with something to say. But before I’ve found a subject, the fire breaks the silence with its crackling, growing both in size and loudness. You come and sit next to me on the blanket and throw the part we’re not sitting on over our shoulders. I’m painfully aware of the cotton being the only link between our bodies.
“Good job, boy scout,” I say, taking a swig from a fresh bottle of beer.
You rub at your nose as a form of a ‘meh, it’s not that hard, but thanks anyway’.
“I bet you could survive in a forest like it’s a four star hotel.”
“Five, if it has a lake,” you reply. “You can’t compare yourself to me, you don’t eat meat. You’d have to build a… soy plant or something.”
“You lost me at ‘build’. I’m too lazy to live in a forest.”
“What if you were forced to?”
This is an old game of ours. What if. We used to do this for hours. We used to go on and on, create an adventure where we’d be Roman galley slaves and overpower our captors by singing the Song That Never Ends in canon and driving them completely barmy. Or that one time when we created an entire parallel universe, where we were fleeing from alien invasions and you accidentally found out how to travel faster than light and we ended up in the Middle Ages.
“What if I were forced to… I’d make use of the universal rule of exile which allows me to take one object of choice with me.”
“And what object would that be? A fridge full of quorn burgers?”
“You, of course,” I say smugly, but as soon as they’re out of my mouth, the words gain weight I hadn’t meant to give them.
“Me?”
“Who else is going to make me a fire at night?”
Your laugh reverberates in the bottle at your lips. You take a swig.
“It’s easy, I can show you in a minute-“
“Once I’ve chosen you, you can’t go back. You have to come with me. And make me a fire every night.”
“Oh yeah? And what do I get in return?”
My belly tightens. At this moment the conversation can still go both ways- the light one, where we keep asking each other silly questions, or the other one, where we tease each other with double meanings and flirtatious remarks and end up basically stabbing each other in the heart. The heat of the fire burns in my face, but turning my head towards you would kill the casual mood of the conversation.
“I’ll play you a lullaby on the flute I made out of a branch.”
“Don’t bother, I have my own.”
Alright, you your way.
“I doubt the sounds it’d produce would be prettier than my piece of craftsmanship.”
“That would depend entirely on your own skills,” you reply without missing a beat.
I can’t help but snort.
“Payment in natura is so fifteenth century,” I say dismissively, waving my bottle, which starts foaming at the top. My reactions are so delayed that the bottle only reaches my mouth when the liquid has long started spilling on the grass. I see your head turning out of the corner of my eye, and an instant later your black, piercing gaze is burning a hole in my skin when I lap at the spilt beer.
“Since you spent your object wish on me and not money, trade in natura would be the only kind of trade,” you explain businesslike, but the timbre of your voice now different. “But I can’t imagine you objecting to that, now would you?” you add.
I close my eyes and make a decision that surprises even myself in this state.
“Jonny, stop.”
The request is simple, and you know what I mean by it. Your head turns to the fire again, but I don’t look to check the expression on your face. I know that by saying this I killed the mood, but I had to.
“I still think of you.”
Okay, that came out of nowhere. I open my mouth, then close it again. I have no idea what to say to this, except a repetition of my last answer.
“I still lie awake sometimes, thinking about what would’ve changed if I hadn’t been such a coward that day.”
“Jonny, please-“
“I need you to know this, Thom. If we’re going back to working together frequently, I need you to know that I haven’t changed a bit. I have to be honest with you about this, or I’ll go mad.”
“And you think by telling me this that everything’ll be better? That you can clear your conscience by confessing? Did you ever consider that maybe I didn’t want to hear that?” I turn my head towards you now, but you keep staring into the fire, your irises orange and flashing.
“Thom, it’s been over a year and a half since we’ve been alone together. It’s obvious that time didn’t help us the least bit. I can’t- I’m just so tired.”
You bury your head into your hands and rub at your face. I can’t stand seeing you like this.
“Jon-“
“No, Thom, listen,” you sit up and look at me, “it’s been six fucking years since – I just… I love you, Thom. This isn’t some hobby of mine, it’s not a phase or anything, it’s there and it’s real. It can’t be anything other than real, ‘cause it makes me physically ache. It’s come to the point where I feel like Sharona is the affair, you know. I feel like such a cheater all the time. And I’m not even doing anything. Is this how it’s going to be for the rest of my life? I’d like you to tell me now, then.”
You try to keep your voice stern, but your eyebrows are already furrowing and I have to look away or I’ll start bawling. I take a deep breath and place my chin on my knees.
“I don’t know, Jon. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I made one promise to myself in my life. I would never ever leave the kids. That’s one promise that’s both keeping my life together, giving it a purpose, and making it fall apart, and I don’t know what to do. I really don’t. I can’t leave ‘em, Jon, I’m sorry, I can’t-“
A sob from you makes me bite my lower lip. I won’t cry, I won’t.
You wipe at your eyes and take a shaky breath.
“I just want to hear you say it.”
“Say what?”
I look at you again. God, I can’t take this. Your cheeks are wet and your eyes swollen. You look me straight in the eye, with a certain determination.
“Say how you feel about me. Please. Say it out loud.”
I swallow. I don’t think I’ve done that since That Day. Saying it would be admitting. Carving it in a tree. Spray-painting it across the house where my children are growing up. Where my wife is waiting for me. It would be admitting that for about a decade, my life has been a lie, a complete joke. I let out a deep sigh, look away and rest my weight on my wrists behind me. You’re still watching me. I don’t know what to do; I feel trapped.
Suddenly I’m flat on my back in the grass, your weight pinning me down by the hips. Your face is inches away from mine, and from the distant flickering of the fire I detect a furious expression.
“Fucking SAY IT, you coward!” you spit.
I close my eyes, but you grab my jaw and shake them back open.
“Say it,” you hiss.
And I give in. I don’t say anything, but only because I’m kissing you. I’m kissing you as if my life depended on it. You whimper and I respond by kissing you harder, pulling your head down by the neck and scraping your lips with my teeth. Your knees give in; your weight covers the entire length of my body, and I whimper just as helplessly as you just did. I roll you over so I’m on top and completely devour your mouth with mine. I would’ve eaten you if I could. By the time I come up for oxygen I’m crying so badly I can’t keep my shoulders still. I don’t look at you but get up and walk to the shed, closing the door behind me. As soon as it’s closed I start crying out loud. I don’t hold back anymore and let out long wails, alternated by hiccups and shaky intakes of breath, folding almost double with my arms pressing into my stomach. I don’t know anything at this moment other than that it hurts. Everything hurts.
It feels like I’ve been crying for two hours when you come in and wrap your arms around me from behind. I’m still crying so loudly, my chest pushing at your grip and my own arms wrapping around yours. You lay your cheek against mine and I hear that you’re crying too, softly. I realize how wrong this situation is, how unfair everything is when two people are in so much pain. This can’t be how it’s supposed to be.
Later, when I’ve calmed down and my breathing has more or less returned to normal, we go back to sit by the fire. We’re both remarkably sober, and I have the feeling that it must be quite late.
"I do, by the way," I say lamely.
"What?"
I take a breath.
"I love you. I'm in love with you."
You wrap an arm around my waist under the blanket and press your body against mine, and I know that I didn't lie. For the first time in a long, long while I told the truth.
When you press a light kiss at my temple, I turn my head towards you and our lips find each other again, this time slowly and softly.
"What do we do, Jon?" I whisper, and tuck my head under your chin.
"I don't know," you murmur.
"I can't leave 'em, I can't just go," I say apologetically.
"I know," you murmur.
A long time passes in silence, before your voice reaches my ears again.
"We could... see each other. They wouldn't have to know. Not yet."
I duck my head and sigh. Not the most brilliant option, is it?
"It wouldn't have to be... maybe just from time to time. To keep us over. You know. Until we're both ready."
I don't say anything for a while, letting it sink in.
After some time, I slide my arm around your waist. You crawl even closer to me.
"Yeah. Maybe we could work something out."
THE END
That day when I let the cigarette drop, that was a special day. A day I wish I could forget, some days, when I’m down and lonely. A day I’ll keep remembering, because of those few seconds. The day you tentatively put your hand on my leg and leaned in. The Day Our Lips Touched.
“Do you see a difference in the sunlight of summer and winter?”
You’re walking towards me, carrying a beer crate with some bottles of white wine on top, plus a plastic bag with what seem to be candles. You look thoughtful for a moment.
“Um. Yeeah. It’s brighter in the summer. The shadows are sharper. Why?”
“Nothing. Just thinking.”
You sit down in front of me, smiling. We pull out our acoustics from the cases and as you put yours under your arm, you sigh.
“It’s been way too long,” you say melancholily.
“It has, hasn’t it,” I agree.
As I open a bottle of beer, you grab the cork screw and with a skilled movement uncork the first bottle.
“This is a stash for like, three days,” I chuckle.
“At your rate?” you reply without missing a beat.
“Hey! I can control myself when I want to,” I say, feeling silly for defending myself.
“No need for that right now.”
Gah, don’t say that. But you’re raising your arm quickly and we clink bottles.
“To Radiohead,” I boast.
“To music,” you add. “And to us,” quietly. We look each other in the eye, like a proper toast, and your glance is playful while mine is searching.
“So what have you got?”
You’re first. Damnit.
“Uh. Not much. I mean, a lot, but I can’t make anything out of it.”
I lean over to grab my bag and pull out the crumpled pages, folded two times. There’s five of 'em, all full of words and scribbles. There’s almost no white left. Horror vacui. Fear of empty space.
I study them for a while, slowly shaking my head.
“Can I see?” Your hand has snatched them away already. You’re almost as eager as me, it seems. I’m a little nervous, but giddy because we’re finally doing something again. Music-wise, of course. Why am I nervous? I ask myself. Before I can think of an answer, your voice fills the late summer air.
“D’you have a pen?”
Sure, I nod, rummage through my stuff for a bit and fish out an old pen. It has bitemarks at the tip from chewing. Another one of my bad habits.
I watch you read, a frown of concentration on your face. You start circling things and I get more nervous so I take my guitar in my lap and start plucking a melody I don’t know yet. As soon as I’ve found a rhythm your foot is moving along. Now I notice you’re barefoot. I like your feet. I usually don’t like feet, but yours are long and slender. They don’t have weird angles or gross calluses, they’re not hairy (like mine, a bit) and your toenails are a healthy pink. I want to take my shoes off as well, but I’m too jealous of your feet and too ashamed of mine. After a minute I decide I’m being ridiculous, this is you, and I take them off anyway.
“I can offer free nose clips,” I say, somewhat unsure.
You look up and snort. I take a gulp from my beer and you do the same. Your bottle is almost halfway already. You keep scribbling and I scratch my neck. I hate waiting.
After a few more minutes I’m at my third beer and start complaining.
“Come on, Jon. Let’s start already. We’ll do lyrics later.”
“I’m done, I’m done.” You lift your head, make the last penstroke and give them back.
“So I have this riff...” but I’m not listening, just reading. You didn’t mark much.
dead from the neck up
nothing with the same glow ever again
it’s what you feel now
offer unconditionally
I love you but enough is enough
fingers in the blackbird pie
tingling tingling tingling
I can’t read on. My mind is turning every sentence into something it’s not. Or is it? I look at you but you’re busy playing. I look back at the words and try reading them objectively. There’s not much going on, but still. It’s the blackbird pie that does it. We were discussing it six years ago, on this very piece of cloth. The grossness of it. If you turn the blanket around you’ll find a purple stain of the blackberries that triggered the conversation.
You remember, then.
I look up and focus on your playing. The most beautiful riff is hanging in the air, waiting for my ears to pick it up. When they do, I’m speechless. I don’t look at the guitar, don’t look at your fingers. I don’t look at anything but your face. Your eyes are closed, lips slightly pouted. I realise I really missed this. If I were really honest I could say I missed you, but I’m not ready for that yet.
When you’re finished, I awake from my reverie. I hadn’t even realised I was gone. Other noises are seeping in again. Laughter from behind the brick wall on the far left. Your wife and kids, over at the neighbours. An uneasy feeling enters my stomach. But the smell of outside, of backyard, of freshly cut grass and flowers and warm air soothes it again.
I realise you’re looking at me, expectant.
“It’s... eh... I love it. It’s brilliant. I really love it.”
You duck your head and smile, and I involuntarily do the same.
“It needs some fleshing out, and-“
“It needs nothing,” I interrupt. “It needs lyrics.”
I take a fresh bottle out of the crate and open it. If I keep up at this rate I’ll be drunk in no time. I take a swig and my head starts spinning from the fast movement. I don’t care, though. I’d rather be drunk than painfully sober. I look at your bottle and see that it’s almost empty. What reason would you have for drinking so fast?
Part 2
The air is turning purple and chilly, and my bones shiver under my skin. We’ve been working on this song for two hours now, and we’re absolutely positive that it’s going to be brilliant. Admittedly, everything’s brilliant when you’re lit. Our spot is surrounded by empty bottles, my half of the circle with beer bottles, yours with two wine bottles. Over the years your body has become quite adjusted to alcohol, I must say. White wine, at least. I remember the time when you would drink two glasses when Coz wasn’t watching, and start swaying immediately. And giggling. Oh, the giggling. Six years ago you were giggling as well. Hand hiding a beautiful mouth with imperfect teeth. I had hoped that the urge to cover those lips with mine, to run my tongue over every imperfection of those teeth, the urge to make you feel as beautiful as you are, would fade away over the years. Well, nights like these sure don’t help the cause.
I shiver again. You notice and offer to move us to the back of the garden, to the fireplace spot. I blink for a moment, then remember.
“Fab idea, Jonjon,” I slur, and try to keep my balance whilst getting up. The guitar proves more than helpful. Together we throw everything that’s still useful in the blanket and drag it along the lawn to the back. When we arrive at the dark spot in the grass, you disappear into the shed. In an instant I’m alone with my thoughts. The mill in my head I can’t shut off. And I realize that this second, this very second, I am happy. Just being near you gives me enough endorphin to stay on a high for a week. Creating music together is the absolute summum. It’s the reason I survive our year long breaks in between tours and new studio time.
It’s a bittersweet feeling, knowing that all I need is right here and yet it won’t ever be completely mine. Maybe I’m just too greedy. It must be that. I’ve had way too much luck in my life for one person, so I have to compensate by having what I want the most just out of reach. I’ll probably have to learn and live with that. Actually, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing for six years now. Longer. Nine, if I’m honest.
You come stumbling out of the shed, the door slamming against a flowerpot, and you cringe but your arms are full of firewood. You throw the pile onto the burnt spot and kneel down to set fire to the smallest branch. Meanwhile I just sit on our blanket, hugging my knees and drawing your silhouette with my eyes. My eyes, which only barely have adjusted to the darkness. Suddenly the silence between us is deafening. I start to think of something to say, but nothing comes up. This is ridiculous, I tell my brain, he’s my best friend, of course I can come up with something to say. But before I’ve found a subject, the fire breaks the silence with its crackling, growing both in size and loudness. You come and sit next to me on the blanket and throw the part we’re not sitting on over our shoulders. I’m painfully aware of the cotton being the only link between our bodies.
“Good job, boy scout,” I say, taking a swig from a fresh bottle of beer.
You rub at your nose as a form of a ‘meh, it’s not that hard, but thanks anyway’.
“I bet you could survive in a forest like it’s a four star hotel.”
“Five, if it has a lake,” you reply. “You can’t compare yourself to me, you don’t eat meat. You’d have to build a… soy plant or something.”
“You lost me at ‘build’. I’m too lazy to live in a forest.”
“What if you were forced to?”
This is an old game of ours. What if. We used to do this for hours. We used to go on and on, create an adventure where we’d be Roman galley slaves and overpower our captors by singing the Song That Never Ends in canon and driving them completely barmy. Or that one time when we created an entire parallel universe, where we were fleeing from alien invasions and you accidentally found out how to travel faster than light and we ended up in the Middle Ages.
“What if I were forced to… I’d make use of the universal rule of exile which allows me to take one object of choice with me.”
“And what object would that be? A fridge full of quorn burgers?”
“You, of course,” I say smugly, but as soon as they’re out of my mouth, the words gain weight I hadn’t meant to give them.
“Me?”
“Who else is going to make me a fire at night?”
Your laugh reverberates in the bottle at your lips. You take a swig.
“It’s easy, I can show you in a minute-“
“Once I’ve chosen you, you can’t go back. You have to come with me. And make me a fire every night.”
“Oh yeah? And what do I get in return?”
My belly tightens. At this moment the conversation can still go both ways- the light one, where we keep asking each other silly questions, or the other one, where we tease each other with double meanings and flirtatious remarks and end up basically stabbing each other in the heart. The heat of the fire burns in my face, but turning my head towards you would kill the casual mood of the conversation.
“I’ll play you a lullaby on the flute I made out of a branch.”
“Don’t bother, I have my own.”
Alright, you your way.
“I doubt the sounds it’d produce would be prettier than my piece of craftsmanship.”
“That would depend entirely on your own skills,” you reply without missing a beat.
I can’t help but snort.
“Payment in natura is so fifteenth century,” I say dismissively, waving my bottle, which starts foaming at the top. My reactions are so delayed that the bottle only reaches my mouth when the liquid has long started spilling on the grass. I see your head turning out of the corner of my eye, and an instant later your black, piercing gaze is burning a hole in my skin when I lap at the spilt beer.
“Since you spent your object wish on me and not money, trade in natura would be the only kind of trade,” you explain businesslike, but the timbre of your voice now different. “But I can’t imagine you objecting to that, now would you?” you add.
I close my eyes and make a decision that surprises even myself in this state.
“Jonny, stop.”
The request is simple, and you know what I mean by it. Your head turns to the fire again, but I don’t look to check the expression on your face. I know that by saying this I killed the mood, but I had to.
“I still think of you.”
Okay, that came out of nowhere. I open my mouth, then close it again. I have no idea what to say to this, except a repetition of my last answer.
“I still lie awake sometimes, thinking about what would’ve changed if I hadn’t been such a coward that day.”
“Jonny, please-“
“I need you to know this, Thom. If we’re going back to working together frequently, I need you to know that I haven’t changed a bit. I have to be honest with you about this, or I’ll go mad.”
“And you think by telling me this that everything’ll be better? That you can clear your conscience by confessing? Did you ever consider that maybe I didn’t want to hear that?” I turn my head towards you now, but you keep staring into the fire, your irises orange and flashing.
“Thom, it’s been over a year and a half since we’ve been alone together. It’s obvious that time didn’t help us the least bit. I can’t- I’m just so tired.”
You bury your head into your hands and rub at your face. I can’t stand seeing you like this.
“Jon-“
“No, Thom, listen,” you sit up and look at me, “it’s been six fucking years since – I just… I love you, Thom. This isn’t some hobby of mine, it’s not a phase or anything, it’s there and it’s real. It can’t be anything other than real, ‘cause it makes me physically ache. It’s come to the point where I feel like Sharona is the affair, you know. I feel like such a cheater all the time. And I’m not even doing anything. Is this how it’s going to be for the rest of my life? I’d like you to tell me now, then.”
You try to keep your voice stern, but your eyebrows are already furrowing and I have to look away or I’ll start bawling. I take a deep breath and place my chin on my knees.
“I don’t know, Jon. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I made one promise to myself in my life. I would never ever leave the kids. That’s one promise that’s both keeping my life together, giving it a purpose, and making it fall apart, and I don’t know what to do. I really don’t. I can’t leave ‘em, Jon, I’m sorry, I can’t-“
A sob from you makes me bite my lower lip. I won’t cry, I won’t.
You wipe at your eyes and take a shaky breath.
“I just want to hear you say it.”
“Say what?”
I look at you again. God, I can’t take this. Your cheeks are wet and your eyes swollen. You look me straight in the eye, with a certain determination.
“Say how you feel about me. Please. Say it out loud.”
I swallow. I don’t think I’ve done that since That Day. Saying it would be admitting. Carving it in a tree. Spray-painting it across the house where my children are growing up. Where my wife is waiting for me. It would be admitting that for about a decade, my life has been a lie, a complete joke. I let out a deep sigh, look away and rest my weight on my wrists behind me. You’re still watching me. I don’t know what to do; I feel trapped.
Suddenly I’m flat on my back in the grass, your weight pinning me down by the hips. Your face is inches away from mine, and from the distant flickering of the fire I detect a furious expression.
“Fucking SAY IT, you coward!” you spit.
I close my eyes, but you grab my jaw and shake them back open.
“Say it,” you hiss.
And I give in. I don’t say anything, but only because I’m kissing you. I’m kissing you as if my life depended on it. You whimper and I respond by kissing you harder, pulling your head down by the neck and scraping your lips with my teeth. Your knees give in; your weight covers the entire length of my body, and I whimper just as helplessly as you just did. I roll you over so I’m on top and completely devour your mouth with mine. I would’ve eaten you if I could. By the time I come up for oxygen I’m crying so badly I can’t keep my shoulders still. I don’t look at you but get up and walk to the shed, closing the door behind me. As soon as it’s closed I start crying out loud. I don’t hold back anymore and let out long wails, alternated by hiccups and shaky intakes of breath, folding almost double with my arms pressing into my stomach. I don’t know anything at this moment other than that it hurts. Everything hurts.
It feels like I’ve been crying for two hours when you come in and wrap your arms around me from behind. I’m still crying so loudly, my chest pushing at your grip and my own arms wrapping around yours. You lay your cheek against mine and I hear that you’re crying too, softly. I realize how wrong this situation is, how unfair everything is when two people are in so much pain. This can’t be how it’s supposed to be.
Later, when I’ve calmed down and my breathing has more or less returned to normal, we go back to sit by the fire. We’re both remarkably sober, and I have the feeling that it must be quite late.
"I do, by the way," I say lamely.
"What?"
I take a breath.
"I love you. I'm in love with you."
You wrap an arm around my waist under the blanket and press your body against mine, and I know that I didn't lie. For the first time in a long, long while I told the truth.
When you press a light kiss at my temple, I turn my head towards you and our lips find each other again, this time slowly and softly.
"What do we do, Jon?" I whisper, and tuck my head under your chin.
"I don't know," you murmur.
"I can't leave 'em, I can't just go," I say apologetically.
"I know," you murmur.
A long time passes in silence, before your voice reaches my ears again.
"We could... see each other. They wouldn't have to know. Not yet."
I duck my head and sigh. Not the most brilliant option, is it?
"It wouldn't have to be... maybe just from time to time. To keep us over. You know. Until we're both ready."
I don't say anything for a while, letting it sink in.
After some time, I slide my arm around your waist. You crawl even closer to me.
"Yeah. Maybe we could work something out."
THE END
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