In between sips, I can’t help but sneak a peek at Everett, who, even though this bar has a million little nooks and crannies, happens to be seated right where I can see him. I can tell from the set of his jaw that his smile isn’t genuine and that he’s just being kind. I sniff, knowing my friend willnotbe going on a second date with this Darren idiot.
Maybe I should go on more dates with him and help him to weed out the riffraff. As the thought occurs to me, he shifts his gaze in my direction. It’s a subtle move, but I can tell when he spots me because his jaw goes soft and the tiniest smile drifts across his lips.
Sorry, Darren. You’renevergoing to get that look frommyEverett.
4
Rafi
I’m a weird ball of energy after getting home from Spider House, so I check out the kitchen and find it already sparkling. Same with the living room and the bathroom. I’ve tried to get Omar to let me help with general upkeep, but like everything else, he quietly, stubbornly does whatever the hell he wants to anyway. It’s kind of sweet, actually.
He and I make quite the odd couple. He’s my late husband’s brother and is an inch or two north of six feet tall, just like Asadi. They share an often startling number of facial features and expressions, but that is where their similarities end. Where Asadi was a big teddy bear of a guy, Omar is leaner and well-defined.
Asadi was warm and inviting and kind, but Omar is the emotional equivalent of a closed door. He’s a good five years younger than I am, but most people would guess older. He’s obviously generous, having let me stay here without so much as a conversation, but he keeps his secrets close to the vest.
While I tend to be a bit lax about my housekeeping, Omar likes to run a tight ship. I’m guessing all his socks and underwear are folded neatly in specific sock and underwear drawers, not mixed in with the rest of the laundry still in a basket at the foot of his bed a week later. It’s a good thing our rooms are on opposite sides of the apartment.
Still, the space we share is warm and inviting. The art and drapes are from Iraq, and with the rich textures, gorgeous colors, and the slightest bit of gold thread woven through the fabric…I can almost feel my grandmother’s weathered hand on my cheek.
When Omar and I are in the same space, we don’t say much, save to review anything related to our shared existence. This is oddly calming, and our silence is never awkward. Even though we’ve never said the words to each other, I could depend on him in an emergency and he could depend on me. It doesn’t exactly feel like I got my Asadi back, but maybe like I’ve gained a brother.
I’ve got a couple of hours before Omar comes home, so I flop on the couch, missing my Everett pillow.
What about me? Am I chopped liver?
No, Asa. I miss you always.
I turn on the TV and Netflix is already queued up.God’s Own Countryis on the suggested list, and since I’ve heard about it from a couple of friends, I figurewhy not. At the start it’s kind of a depressing story about the hardscrabble life of a gay guy in Ireland, and you see him go through a couple of meaningless fucks in the first part of the movie. I shiver at how empty his life feels, wondering if it’s because mine feels a little empty, too.
I almost turn off the movie, but then his family hires a laborer for their struggling farm. And he’s…lovely. Not magical, not the most special person in the world, just someone kind in the middle of life being so hard, and it makes my heart thud in my chest. By the time they get to their sex scene, I’m shocked to discover that I’m hard.
With that comes the realization I haven’t even jacked off since before my Asa died.
Wait…that can’t be right, can it?A whole year without so much as a sad wank?
It’s really kind of disappointing. You’ve got such a pretty little cock; you mustn’t waste it.
Asa always was a dirty one, I think, grinning to myself. Whenever he had the opportunity, his hands were on me, touching my butt, skimming my nipples, cupping my junk. The memories, paired with the desperate, tenderly violent sex on the screen, push me to unzip my pants and pull out my long-neglected dick. No one is in the apartment, but I feel weird about touching myself.
Have you actually forgotten how to masturbate, my love? It’s too bad I’m not there to remind you how it’s done…
Ugh. When the subconscious representation of your dead husband is giving you shit about a shy hand job, it really makes you take stock.Fine, I mutter to myself, stroking the warm, estranged flesh while watching two men go after it in the dirt.
Huh…I’d forgotten how good that feels.
I think about the last time I made love to Asadi, I think about the first time I made love to him, and I pick up the pace, careful as I stroke myself dry, marveling at the intensity of sensation after a year of pain and numbness. I’m not going to last long.
I take off my T-shirt and run my hands over my nipples, imagining it’s Asadi, that he’s kissing me as he tweaks the sensitive peaks. I let myself fly, almost there. In that dreamlike state, Asadi pulls back, his eyes skating down my body. He always liked to pause right before, likely to torture me, but he insisted I was never more beautiful than I was in the moments before climax. I imagine staring into his gorgeous dark hazel-green eyes…but it’s not Asadi anymore. Everett’s blue eyes sparkle as he takes me in hand, kissing me thoroughly as he finishes the job.
The orgasm hits like a tidal wave, washing over me as my thighs jump and my knees angle out, the warm, earthy splats on my belly making even my arms go wobbly.
I look over, shocked by my reflection in the TV. Debauched in every single way, my body a twitching noodle and my thick hair sticking out in all directions, like L fromDeath Note.
More like that Dragon Ball Z guy, but whatever.
The fact that my subconscious even has Asadi’s fond way of teasing down to the fine details is…annoying.
I didn’t mean anything by it, my mountain. You’re the only one who turns me on.
