Smooth jazz played in the background, making Oscar feel like one of those fancy men who understood wine and spoke about undertones and roundedness like this even mattered in the grand scheme of things. As he reached for a bag of oats, his phone vibrated. Oscar hadn’t noticed the messages coming in, immersed as he’d been in his conversation, but there were five lined up and waiting.
CowBoy0705: I’m a free man!
CowBoy0705: Coffee shop??
CowBoy0705: Hello? [Hello hello hello] - imagine this echoing like in those 90s kids’ films.
CowBoy0705: Speaking of, what’s your favorite film? Do you even like movies?
CowBoy0705: Shit, I hope you’re not driving!!
Oscar smiled to himself, imagining the evolution of Aaron’s mood, painting on the memory of his face the expressions he must have had. Oscar frowned, a little upset that he couldn’t exactly remember what Aaron looked like. In his mind, he could picture his eyes and his mouth, his dainty nose, the exact color of his hair. But he couldn’t quite piece him together. And it bothered him.
In lieu of a decent response, Oscar sent him a photo of the chocolate chips he’d just thrown into his basket.
CowBoy0705: Do you ever eat anything other than sweet things??
Spikey: I’ll have you know I’m quite excellent in the kitchen, sir.
CowBoy0705: Are you now? :O And what else might you be good at?
Oscar fought the heat racing to his cheeks, his pumping heart obliterating the saxophone drifting from the ceiling speaker.
Spikey: That information is classified and must be earned.
Oscar pressed send before he could stop himself. As the message sat crude and unfiltered in front of him, he supposed he might have fared better if hehad. Well, shit.
CowBoy0705: You got headphones?
Spikey: I am not a serial killer, Aaron. Of course I have headphones. I’m out in public.
The bouncing dots appeared on his screen and vanished.
Twice.
Thrice.
CowBoy0705: Wanna call?
Oscar wondered whether this was what an aneurysm felt like. He wasbadat voice calls. Not just awkward and floundering, butbad. The thought of someone listening to his voice without looking at his face drove him crazy, painting ugly pictures of people misgendering him, wondering whether they’d called Oscar or someone who couldn’t possibly have a name like that.
But the bouncing dots shot an arrow that pierced into him like a pin to a balloon, deflating his joy as he imagined Aaron taking back the invitation.
Not giving himself a chance to chicken out, Oscar popped his earbuds in and pressed the phone icon with his sweaty shaking finger. If he said no, then he might never get to hear Aaron’s voice again, and Oscar had wondered many times over the previous weeks whether he remembered it correctly, whether it was as lovely as his recollection claimed.
Standing still as a statue in the middle of the cake aisle, Oscar studied his phone for the few seconds it took Aaron to pick up. The gleeful beep of the call starting and the brief silence that followed drenched him with a new anxiousness that brought him back to life, fueling the furnace of his heating neck.
“Hey.”
Oscar became the sweat puddling out of him, melting atthe sound of that warm voice, taking him back to the orange chairs of the waiting room, the yellow light, the queer books on the shelf.
“Hey,” he said.
Silence. It must have lasted two seconds tops, but to Oscar, a lifetime passed. The wines Paul stocked weren’t the kind that aged well. The sommeliers would come and shake their heads, call everything expired.Speak, Oscar thought.
“So, how do I declassify the information?” Aaron asked. “Should I make an offering?”
“The Church of Oscar accepts cash or credit,” Oscar replied. An easy smile settled him. This he could do. Snark and humor and unserious was his holy text. “We unfortunately don’t accept human sacrifice, severed breast tissue, or perishable goods.”
