Watching Dean chop it up with my mother is one of the more absurdist experiences of my life.
"I'm sorry, that's a
toupée.
Don't do yourself the disservice."
"Oh, please," She scoffs, as this is all in reference to a besotted colleague who's been making more frequent, increasingly forward advances. A professor in the mathematics department, last name Klements. They both attended a 'collaboration' retreat two weekends ago, and he's a big 'memory maker.' Many group photos and selfies were foisted on her, and Dean is scrutinizing one such memory on Mom's phone. He's not pulling his punches, either. I'm familiar with the professor in question, and it absolutely is a toupée.
"--at my age, that's hardly a dealbreaker."
"You mean
his
age. He's got what, twenty years on you? What's his endgame here? You'd be giving a eulogy before exchanging vows."
Mom snatches her phone from Dean's hand, embarrassed but coughing to cover a laugh.
"Three
years."
"Liver spots!"
"It's a
mole!"
Liver spots.
It's a lighthearted back and forth that none take too seriously. Since Dad's passing three winters ago, Mom's not dated, nor have we discussed whether she'd ever want to. I'm under no illusions about my parent's relationship, more a textbook demonstration on 'making it work' instead of the nuclear fantasy promised by misogynist propaganda in the fifties. In the late seventies, women were suspected to have their own conscious experience separate from the men they reluctantly married. A shock to us all. Their marriage wasn't passionate in the loud, obvious ways, but it was...admirable. Grinding through the same routines with the same person every day, even on days they disliked each other. Hated, maybe.
They definitely loved each other, but time changes the landscape of anything standing still against its perpetual flow. Before Dad died, I think their love was almost entirely platonic, though not to say it wasn't powerful. I'm sure there were days they made it work out of pure obligation, but I'm just as sure there were days they were grateful they picked each other to work with.
Not everyone has the capacity or energy for larger than life feelings. Not everyone's like Dean, and not every relationship is worth writing a story about. Meet, date, marriage, kid, work, die. Relationships like that are an ugly truth, which makes it at least worth a poem. What's poetry if not beautifying reality?
In any case, Dean's right. If Mom decides to date again, she's got her pick of fish. They throw themselves on the dock to suffocate at her feet, honestly.
She lifts herself from the armchair, huffy. "I'm getting some more coffee. Sammy, top off?"
"Yeah, I'll get it."
She swipes a kind, brief touch across the back of my hand as she passes, and I can't decide if I'm being babied or not. Normally, she'd offer at least once more. Dean, too. He isn't treating me like a newly diagnosed paraplegic as he would any other time we're together. Which tells me they're aware of my desire not to be catered to and overcompensating. Therefore, catering. Simple math. I'd sound deranged trying to address it, though. 'Uh, excuse me, you're supposed to be forcing me to accept your unsolicited help? Try again, thank you.'
Dean's slouched on the floor in front of the sofa, the end I'm occupying. With Mom gone from the room, I absentmindedly rake my nails across his scalp. I just can't bring myself to be blatantly affectionate with him in front of her, it's
weird as fuck.
He drops his head against the cushion, and his eyes are a darker shade when turned away from the biggest source of light in the room, Mom's prodigious tree. Gray, like choppy seas stuck in a bottle.
"How's Christmas?" He asks, his own unobtrusive way of verifying my wellbeing.
"Good."
"Yeah?" His gaze flickers over my face, pausing on my mouth.
"Mm, weird...? It's weird."
"Because your mom finds me witty and charming?"
"God, yes. That's so fucking weird, Dean."
He shrugs, "I can't just turn it off."
Liar. He can turn it off in a heartbeat. He can be cold, cruel, and unapproachable. I take guilty pleasure in being the sole recipient of his sincere softness, because while he might like and respect my mother, this is an intuitive facade. In fact, even when he's being genuine with others, there's always a noticeable tinge of disinterest. I snort softly, and Dean's brows reach for his hair. Before I realize what I'm doing, I'm tracing the bone structure in his face. His eyes slip shut in quiet appreciation of the doting touch.
"Kiss me." He mumbles. "I miss you."
"How's that?"
"My lips miss your lips."
I try to be incredulous, "are you--"
--who the fuck am I kidding?
Perking an ear, I try to ascertain Mom's position. There's the distant jangle of glass bottles as the fridge opens. Either getting creamer out or replacing it on the shelf. Plenty of time. Leaning my face over his, I smooth my lips against his forehead. Then, the point of his nose. His eyes twitch under lid like he's immediately slipped into a daydream. Warmth. Firm bone and bendable cartilage under seamless, soft skin. Dean's scent diffuses in my head. It'd take a person of much stronger will to deny him this simple, sweet intimacy. To deny myself. His mouth parts with anticipation, tracking the nearness of mine with each breath that washes across his face. Verging on our best recreation of Tobey Maguire's iconic, upside down kiss with Kirsten Dunst--
"A--hem."
Cockblocked. Sort of. By my own flesh and blood. Like it would've killed her to loiter in the connecting hall for thirty more seconds.
You know, Tobey almost drowned filming that scene. So, there's probably something poetic about being interrupted. I snap back into place against the armrest with embarrassed, obvious color rising from my neck like mercury in a glass thermometer, like Elmer Fudd bested time and time again by Bugs. Dean's eyes crack open, but he doesn't pick his head off the cushion. He clicks his tongue, disgruntled. I'm sorry, he might be spending Christmas with us, but I'm not going to
kiss him about it.
Not in front of her.
Even if he were a normal man of socially acceptable age. PDA is uncomfortable as is, but I've never actually brought anyone home to the folks. Or, folk. Growing up, my parents weren't physically affectionate people. Not with me, not with each other. Hugs, kisses, back rubs, hand holding. Someone had to be hurt, dying, or celebrating a huge success to warrant such theatrics. Mom might be aware of my orientation, but she doesn't need a demonstration. Also, she taught Dean his fucking ABC's. Probably how to wipe his own ass, too. We shouldn't have that in common.
