Author's Note: Thanks so much to those who have left feedback so far! It means a lot to hear that people are enjoying the story. I know it's a little light on sex for this site, but there will be some more later. Feel free to send me an email. I love communicating with readers. Hope you continue to enjoy.
*****
I did not wake until close to noon. Marie had left already to satisfy a prior obligation. I drank two brimming glasses of water, locked the door behind me and slept through much of the transit back home. By the time the 40B shuddered to a stop down the street from my apartment I no longer felt any nausea, but just a lingering and unspecific lethargy.
I willed myself up the gradient street, passing a cluster of pines that still retained some overnight rainwater and dripped steadily in the sunlight. The deep blue of my suit jacket drew in the sun's rays and my face was met with a constant, cold breeze that moaned down the hillside. Nature's dichotomy refreshed me in a moment when I had been feeling extremely unrefreshed, and would carry me through to the hot shower for which I was currently clamoring.
I stopped suddenly before unlocking the front door; a small, folded and tucked triangle of paper was wedged into the doorframe. I took care not to tear it when coaxing it open and found a message penciled in deliberate and unadorned handwriting:
"Hey, I couldn't find you through the usual technological avenues. Sorry for stalking you at your place of residence and in general. I spoke rashly on the bus yesterday. This experience is new to me and confusing. Thank you for being patient. I will be home all day tomorrow if you would still like to talk. Please come by if you have time."
The note concluded with the street address for his building and apartment number. Flipping it over, I discovered a small sketch of a chickadee, minutely cartoonish in its glowing face but otherwise precise, like the artifact of some ornithological study. It bowed slightly on needle-like legs and its tiny feet gripped the suggestion of a spindly branch.
I stood there in the breezeway staring at the drawing long enough to feel chilly in the absence of direct sunlight. It was a creation that reflected admirable artistic skill, especially because it had probably been done in haste. I refolded the paper, careful to obey the exact pattern, a relic of my childhood reeled in from the fringes of memory, and entered my apartment.
I completed a few sets of upper-body exercises on the floor between the bed and living room, then took my long-awaited shower. I ate lunch and watched two episodes of a show. Eventually I fell into a very long novel chronicling the lives of several families in 1950s India, at which I'd been etching away for the past few months. The evening carried on in much the same way, with only a brief call from my mom to break up the languid scene.
I'd hardly given any thought to whether or not I would visit Mikey. There was nothing to consider. If the sun rose in the east the next morning, if the earth had managed to heave itself one more time around, I would go see him.
One these terms, I found myself standing before his building's intercom sometime before one o'clock the following day. I pressed the button to ring his apartment, anticipating some sort of interaction, but instead the door to the stairwell emitted a metallic clack and I hurried through. I did not rush up the stairs to the fourth floor; being short of breath would certainly not calm any of the nerves now bouncing off the walls of my stomach.
His building was at least a few decades older than mine, but had been meticulously preserved, and exuded the refinement and class of something that is not of this time, but has surrendered none of its relevance to the passing years.
I waited a very short time after knocking on his door. It swung inward and there he stood, barefoot, white cotton t-shirt, slim flat-blue pants and hair restored to its wild midnight glory. His skin appeared slightly darker now that more of it was visible, especially where upper arm met soft, white sleeve.
"So glad you decided to come over," he said energetically. "Come in. Sorry it's a little warm; I don't have any control over the heat."
I followed him silently into the living area, removing my coat.
"These old radiators...they're all kind of connected," he continued. "Sometimes I even have to open a window. We should be okay today, but let me know if you're too warm."
"It feels nice," I said, looking around the room.
"Good," he said. "Please make yourself at home. Sit down if you want." He pointed to a deep, brown leather Chesterfield sofa that fit the space handsomely. He reached out to take my coat. "Do you want something to drink?"
I asked for some water. "Wow," I said. "Your place is beautiful." He had hung a few framed pieces of artwork around room, each striking me as tasteful and distinct. His bed lay at the far end of the unit from the front door, sectioned off by a wall that reached about halfway to the ceiling. His apartment was somewhat larger, but he had not filled it with any more furniture than I had mine. The furniture itself was of much higher quality that anything I owned. It formed a space that was uncrowded and minimal, but did not feel empty. At large TV sat on a low stand with a Playstation and cluster of controllers perched on the shelf underneath.
"Thank you," he said, handing me a glass and sitting opposite me and against the armrest, knees tucked up near his chest. "It's the first time I've been able to be kind of selective about things. I like the way it turned out."
I set down the glass and tugged my sweater over my head, now also down to just a t-shirt, prompting him to mention the heat one more time. "It's really not that bad," I assured him. "T-shirt weather, for sure, but I'm comfortable."
"Okay," he said. "If you're sure." He paused for a few seconds and then added, "Sorry for coming by unannounced yesterday. I realized later that I shouldn't have done that."
"Really," I said, "it didn't bother me at all." Suddenly I noticed a small, sloped drawing desk at the edge of the room by the kitchen and remembered his sketch. "That drawing was really cool, by the way," I added.
He flashed a slightly crooked, captivating smile. "Thanks. Kind of a creative outlet for me."
"Well, you're really good at it," I said. "It made me feel...uh, I don't know." I lingered on the edge for a second and then said, "It made me feel really good."
His chest heaved slightly and he said, "Alright, good. That's all I wanted. It's so hard to know when it's going overboard and when it's not."
"I know how you feel," I told him. "It was perfect, believe me."
"Okay," he said. "So, look, about yesterday on the bus-I feel bad for leaving you hanging like that. There's some stuff I really should have told you and I didn't. I know you don't think I did anything wrong, but hear me out on this."
"Alright," I said, pulling my feet up off the floor and onto the cushion. We now nearly mirrored one another, backs propped against opposite ends of the couch.
"So, the thing is," he started slowly, "I hooked up with a guy a few months ago. I met him at the gym and he took me to his place. It was pretty bad. I mean, I really didn't feel good about myself after. Since then it's been this weird thing for me. Like, why did I want do something that..." he paused and I smiled to show him that I was not alarmed. He nodded vaguely to himself and said, "I wanted something even though it didn't feel right."
"It's okay, Mikey," I said.
He was still for a few seconds and then attempted to smile. "And here you are. I'm just worried that it's the same thing starting all over again."
I felt that deep down, he suspected the situation might be different now-that I might be different, but I didn't know this for sure.
"I wasn't lying when I said I prefer women. At least that's how it feels. Thinking about guys in that way...it just makes me so nervous. I don't get any of that when I picture myself with a woman."
I'm certain there were things about myself that I still did not yet know or acknowledge. But my attraction to men stared me in the face long before I ever left high school. For Mikey, it hardly showed its face at all, and only recently had begun making sounds, too loud to ignore, from some back room in his mind.
I thought for a minute and then said, "Maybe it would help not to focus on men versus women so much. I mean, if you can put that aside, what kind of person attracts you?"
He sat and stared at me for a few seconds before saying, "That's a good way to think about it. I can try to start thinking that way."
"If it helps," I said, "I'm not expecting anything from you."
"Thank you," he said. "I know. You're so patient with me about all of this."
