So, while the still and stony place he’s awakened inside me roils and tosses in choppy waters, aches and yearns, begs and pleads, old habits still refuse to die. Old wishes refuse to be put aside. And so, with considerable effort, I say, “Might be good if you spent some time with your aunt this week, pal.”
The hurt that flickers over his face just about tears my heart in two.
“Yeah,” he says. Pushes up the glasses. “I should.”
“It doesn’t mean that —”
“No, I know.” He steps away. “I understand. I guess I’ll see you.”
And then he gets the pastel purple suitcase and he’s gone.
On Tuesday, when I get home from the garage, I take a shower.
I attempt to jerk off in the heated steam, but I fail. Twice. I sit on my bed after in a state that I can’t define. It’s like when I’ve gone too long without a smoke. I get jittery, irritated, and there’s an ache in the back of my throat.
And now I have another kind of ache.
Propelled by an unseen force, I get dressed. I walk out of my apartment. I walk across the alley. I walk over to the gate. I open it. I walk across the yard. I walk around the house to the front door. I knock.
Paul answers almost immediately.
“Hey,” I say, surprised.
“Hey,” he says.
“Are you busy?”
There’s a wariness in his eyes. “No.”
“Cool.” I pause there and feel the jitter of nerves. “Want to do something?”
He nods. “Okay.”
I nod. “All right.”
He calls inside to his aunt, and then he follows me to my apartment, his hands in his pockets, eyes cast down. When we get inside, and I’ve got the door shut, he’s still standing that way by the coffee table.
“Gets kind of boring around here,” I say lightly.
He nods, keeps his eyes on his feet.
“Something wrong?”
Head shake.
“You sure?”
He looks up finally. “I didn’t think I’d see you. Not until Friday.”
“Well.” I shrug and glance around at anything but him. “I suppose I missed you.”
He presses his lips together, stands a little straighter.
I stare at him. “What?”
“Please don’t mess with me. Okay?”
“What?”
