Instead, though, I swallow my emotions down. I bury them as deep as I can, and I make a silent prayer that they’ll fade away or at least hurt a little less over time.
“No more boyfriends,” I tell him.
Rafael smiles. “Just friends,” he says and strokes my arm. “Who needs more than that?”
“Wine?” the man asks, yanking me from my thoughts.
I look up with a startle, then clear my throat. “Uh, thanks,” I say, then take the little plastic cup he’s offering.
I’m at Rafael’s art opening, a showing of his illustrations in a professional, fancy gallery. It’s been a long day setting up, and I must be tired because I drifted into that memory so deeply, it was like time-travelling.
I blink and glance around at the crowd, looking for Rafael. At least it’s not a mystery why that particular memory came back. The art opening tonight is a celebration of my best friend, and just like that year when we first moved in together, I am utterly, painfully, pathetically in love with Rafael.
No more boyfriends.His words echo in my memory, as clearly as when he first said them five years ago.
Damn if my best friend isn’t the kind of person who can say that kind of thing at twenty-one and actually mean it.
Rafael will never be anyone’s boyfriend, but that doesn’t make our friendship any less special.
He cooks us elaborate dinners most nights while I’m on my transit home from work, and I clean up the hurricane-level mess he leaves in the kitchen after we eat. I spend my day, busy at work in the library’s gay and lesbian archives, wrapped up in the quiet of my career, then come home to an apartment that we fill with music and laughter. Rafael is no good at adulting, so I sign him up for health insurance and make sure his bills get paid. And I’m useless at exercising, so he drags me to the gym for dance classes and buys us matching sweatbands and sneakers to make it fun.
We’re perfect for each other. Actually perfect.
It’s not like my love is unrequited or whatever. Rafael tells me that he loves me all the time, and I tell him, too. Some nights we still fall asleep in the same bed, watching old movies late, and after living together for years, we’re pretty much as intimate as you can be.
No secrets, except my one big one.
That sometimes, I feel like I’ll literally die without a kiss from my best friend.
Tonight is one of those nights when thedie without his kissesfeeling is especially strong. My eyes move across the crowd of friends and strangers, all admiring his illustrations, until my gaze finally lands on what I’m searching for. Rafael stands, his hands shoved in his pockets, nervous but trying to hide it, and practically shining in the middle of the gallery.
He looks up. The gallery light flashes against his round, dark-rimmed glasses, and my best friend scratches his black beard as he spots me. His face opens in a smile, and we both cross through the crowd, meeting in the middle.
“Hey,” I say, then bump my shoulder to his, a little ritual we’ve been doing for years. “How’s it going?” I sip from my little plastic cup of wine as I smile at him.
“Good?” He steps back. “Except I overheard some guy. He was talking about buying one of my illustrations just to lock it away.”
I tilt my head to the side. “Excuse me? Lock it away?”
“No one would ever see it again,” he complains, “including me.”
I have to think about it for a second before I put the details together. “Oh, like in a storage unit?”
Rafael scowls and scratches his beard. “Art purgatory.”
We look at each other, then both try it at the same time. “Purgartory?” he says.
“Purg-ART-tory,” I answer, drawing the sound out, and we both laugh.
Rafael’s work is amazing. He makes these gigantic sci-fi illustrations, visions of futuristic megacities that are rendered in stunningly complex details. They’re a real experience to see, telling countless stories through the tiny people and robots inked in and with the sci-fi technologies and urban innovations all carefully researched and based on actual science. Each illustration takes months for him to complete, and I know he’s anxious that the show will somehow flop and he’ll never find an audience for the work.
“It would suck if the work just ended up in a storage unit,” I agree, “but I know you’re eager to sell something, too. And hey, look around. There’s a big crowd looking at it right now, and they all love it.”
He softens, releasing some tension. “You’re right. I’ve never shared my work like this before. I should try to enjoy it.”
“Right,” I say with a nod. “I’m proud of you, Rafael.”
His smile widens when I say that, and when he turns his eyes back to the gallery, I get a chance to take him in.
