Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It's raining.

People are surprised and curse on the other side of the window. Curious attitude when the black clouds warned that they would end up pouring over us from dawn. We prefer to ignore what we see coming. It's easier to cover our eyes until everything passes. However, the time to see again always comes, and what happens then? The usual thing. Instead of having abated, the storm is closing in on our heads, and as we squeezed our eyes so hard to see nothing when we should have, we are left blind, we are left defenseless; the storm eats us.

Who when he could did not want, will not be able when he wants. A succession of emotions nests within us that ranges from despair to remorse, passing through frustration, ending in the poignant need for someone to notice our misery. But let us not forget that humans cling to induced blindness, to that kind of sensory self-deprivation that makes us focus our attention on the cheerful store awnings just after having noticed the sadness beyond the pretty color that surrounds the pupils of the stranger with whom we have just come across. Could it be because we care so little that it does not affect us?

"... so I told him to come, what do you think?"

Perhaps our own bitterness is so great that there is no room in us for more pain.

"Bibs... Earth calling Bibs!"

The sung exclamation makes me turn my head automatically and, a second later, the sweet texture of the cream fills my mouth.

"Will sugar alleviate your abstraction? At least it has captured your attention."

Jeff's charming smile is even sweeter than my favorite flavor. I take the freshly baked donut my best friend just stuffed between my teeth out of my mouth, chewing until I feel like I can talk without spitting.

"Sorry, mate. What were you saying?"

"More importantly, what were you thinking? Something happened to you? Or do you have a weird day?"

A weird day... Jeff is one of those friends that is so hard to find, the kind that constantly tries to empathize, to understand. The beauty of his soul is matched by the beauty of his body. Also, he sings like angels and makes a pastry to die for, that's why he was the most eligible bachelor when we were University students. I'd envy his popularity with the ladies if I hadn't feel myself how mindblowing his handjobs are. Of course, that old isolated episode of our lives only served to make us realize that two people who work as best friends, work better as best friends. Although his skill with sweets I have not stopped enjoying to this day.

"I'm like the weather" I sigh brushing the cream from the corners of my mouth with my thumb before sucking on my fingertip, "you know, the darkness of the sky brings with it nostalgia, and all that shit."

Jeff nods, tucking an unruly lock of hair behind an ear studded with dainty silver earrings, his charcoal irises slightly shadowed by the undercurrent of my words. I fake a serene smile, taking the heat out of the situation, and he smiles back convinced I'm okay.

"What was it you were telling me? I've stayed in, don't you know I have a new signing? Whether we are talking about an interesting gentleman or a splendid lady, it is your responsibility to solve the mystery."

"Sorry to disappoint you, but there's nothing erotic about this mystery" he tilts his head, looking up as he reconsiders his own answer, "although the guitarist who has offered to play here this afternoon is hot as fuck, that's for certain."

"Have you hired a guitarist? You're just short of money, can you afford it?"

"I'll pay him with lunch and a sandwich to go" he winces at my shocked expression, "it didn't seem fair to me cause the guy plays like hell, and you know that my compliments aren't worthy of just anyone. But the conditions were set by him."

"What a gift from the Goddess of Fortune, a bohemian in the middle of an economic recession."

"I bet he doesn't leave you indifferent."

"Jeff darling, I'm out of tea."

"Marching, Grandma Lucille!"

When Jeff looks up at the lovely lady cuddling her fluffy little dog, his profile is a summer sunrise. He arouses smiles and sighs, contenting the heart of those who contemplate him. So, after winking at me and retiring to serve tea, I too feel invigorated, less gray than before.

My bite of the rest of the donut is slower than expected, so I drool as my tongue comes into contact with the spongy texture. Little things produce bigger things. Although, to tell the truth, I would like to feel intensely again with something more significant than a round of dough smeared in a dense sugary dairy product.

The door opens and the sound of the rain is accentuated. With my mouth full, I instinctively turn to look: a tall guy with sodden boots, ripped jeans under a well-worn brown transitional jacket, half his face hidden behind a long navy wool scarf and a pristine black guitar case on the shoulder. I realize a curiosity when he leaves the transparent umbrella in the stand: his body is wet, but the case is practically dry.

The bohemian who shares his Art in exchange for food, without a doubt.

He uncovers his face and a cordial greeting comes out of his mouth.

"Good afternoon."

"Hi, Mile! Go ahead and sit by the fire!"

Jeff smiles at him charmingly. He is glad to see him. Understandably, the bohemian is attractive: thick and characterful eyebrows, a wide nose, small sharp, expressive eyes. Long dark hair, tied up in some sort of casual bun, ear piercings. When returning Jeff's smile, his gesture of happiness is one of those that lights up the entire room. My best friend is right: his pleasant presence does not leave you indifferent. I watch as he removes his jacket, as he sits by the fireplace, as he rolls up the black sweater that hugs his impressive chest. He gives Jeff a very honest “thank you” when Jeff serves him a plate of shortbreads and a large cup of hot coffee. With skin-tingling care, he pulls a gleaming green and brown acoustic guitar out of its case, which he cradles in his lap exchanging his impressions of the incessant rain with my friend: “No one likes to get wet, but breathing the clean air after the storm makes up for it.”

Bohemian, positive and ecologist. He must have life figured out.

The vibration of my phone interrupts my idle deductions about the stranger. I know the number when I see it. It is a number that is remembered after years without being seen, a number that is never forgotten, one of those that has been with you since you can remember until death takes your conscience away. Nine digits freeze my breath, nine are the digits that paralyze me and prevent me from stretching out my arm, even more from answering the call. Lagging behind my cup of coffee, I hide behind my steamed-up glasses and feel how the weight of my emotions multiplies monstrously. The screen turns off. The screen comes back on, the caller insists. I begin to feel small, as if I were diminishing: more, more, smaller, me; more, more, louder, the vibration. On the verge of a nervous breakdown, an external stimulus reaches my ears deafened by panic.

A sad and violent sound.

The sound of my feelings.

Chapter Text

"Kind are his hands.
This fire is warm.
Outter rain does not stop.
Humidity fills my bones.
Cold nights will come.

On the old matress, I dream.
Inside an empty place, I sit.

Recurring nightmares do not sleep.
The past is stuck within me.
Pain, blood and fear.
All eyes on me.

Youth snatched by lonely walls.
Reminiscing familiar smiles,
indifference hurts.
Coloring the white painting
with a lover at dawn.

Isolation madness brings.
Sensations we better don't feel.

Confusion running on.
Abuse, pain and blood.
Approaching oblivion,
I remembered remorse."

The fingers go numb and Music stops flowing. The self-inflicted trance slowly releases me, unfurling the soft fingers of its fist, planting my feet on the ground. Reluctant to open, the eyes finally see, and upon observing they discover:

The melancholic smile of a lady, the watchful gaze of a cute little dog, the pleased face of two gentlemen, the indifference of a teenager lost in his laptop screen, the amazed gesture of the friendly person who makes delicious coffee.

The familiar darkness in a stranger's eyes.

His handsome features are tinged with shadow: the frown, the mouth parted, the cheeks moist and flushed. He looks for a handkerchief that he can't find in his pockets when he realizes that he is crying. Hastily, he wipes his face with the sleeve of his maroon knit sweater and sniffs.

"Jeff, mate, I'm leaving. I have to prepare for tomorrow's classes."

Jeff stares at him with concern between his eyebrows hearing his raspy voice, noting the stranger's eagerness to evade, the eagerness to turn around to hide the expression that defines him at the moment. However, he only sighs before pronouncing: “Okay, Bibs. See you tomorrow." Turning his back, the stranger nods, takes his belongings, walks out the door; I put the guitar aside, step away from the comfort of the fire. “I'll be right back, Jeff,” and I'm out in the rain again.

"Excuse me."

He keeps going, so I speed up. Even though I try to touch his shoulder as lightly as possible, he jerks around with a start. Upon discovering me, his black eyes widen behind his silver glasses and the involuntary urge to sniff out his dripping nose wins over him. The sadness he feels is immense, that's why I offer him a handkerchief with my kindest smile.

"Music is wonderful, isn't it? It connects and moves us. But sometimes Music pokes too deep into our wounds. In that case, it's best to vent. I like to talk and I'm a good listener, and I'm going to be in Jeff's cafeteria tomorrow's afternoon. A good conversation is always welcome."

Puzzled, he analyses me. He's impressed, awed, upset, and not surprisingly, he doesn't trust me. However, he accepts the handkerchief.

"Thank you."

I watch his tall figure walking away: water drops stain the back of his leather jacket.

As I feel my dry shoulders, I silently praise his kindness and return where the fire awaits.

Chapter Text

“I was told when I get older, all my fears would shrink”

"But now I´m insecure, and I care what people think."

“My name's Blurryface and I care what you think”

"Wish we could turn back time..."

“To the good old days”

"When our mama sang us to sleep but... Ouch, shit..."

"What's the matter?"

"The patient resists."

I suck on my red finger, noticing how my eyebrows approach each other. I'm tired of trying to fix the metallic clasp on this leather bracelet that someone lost or dropped on the street. But it's so cool despite its small flaw, it's so whole despite its useless clasp, that I just can't give up. So I focus again, force the pointy ends and...

"Fuck" ... and suck my finger again, this time feeling the taste of blood.

"At this rate, you're going to get a new piercing" he says from the sofa hand on temples, letting out a deep sigh for the fourth time, "and we've run out of antiseptic."

"Luckily I have a couple of painkillers, do you want one? You haven't stopped touching your head or sighing since you walked in the door."

I notice him squinting at me as I blow the clasp. His foot follows the rhythm of the radio, and that's the only movement he makes for a few moments.

"Hasn't it ever happened to you... It's going to sound weird even coming from me, but... hasn't it ever happened to you that you see a stranger and suddenly you recognize your own ghosts in him?"

"It doesn't sound weird and it has happened to me."

"Well, that's it."

"Yeah", I try to turn a microscrew with a wooden toothpick, "and you want to help."

"Mn."

"Did you approach him?"

"Yes."

"Did he answer?"

"No."

"And you're going to insist?"

"If I have the chance."

I nod, smiling conciliatoryly without looking at him.

"Go ahead. May the heart show the path and the dick make way for you."

An amused snort and a head shake, the wanted reaction.

"Put that down and eat already" he points his finger to the plastic bag hanging from the metal coat rack next to the sofa.

"That's for me?" I put the bracelet down on the work table. When I unwrap the silver package, I find a vegetable sandwich. My favorite. "And you?"

"I had a few snacks in the cafeteria."

"Thanks, Mile."

He moves his thick eyebrows up and down, outlining a slight grin. Then sighs again and loses himself in his worries. I watch his closed eyelids and frown, his heavy breathing. Mile's mind is swimming on the surface of the sea of bad memories. I don't like to see him like this, but there is a part of me, the most perverse part, the sickest part, that feels inevitably attracted to sadness.

Barely realizing it, as if moved by a natural impulse devoid of reason, I am on his body. He lets me invade his personal space, always kind, always calm. As I kneel on the ground and unbuckle his belt, he only smiles apologetically when the most vulnerable part of him is exposed.

"Seems I´m not in the mood f..."

I won't let him finish the sentence. With determined hands, I take his cock into my mouth; He throws his head back, releasing a hiss that ends in a sigh. I feel him grow little by little against my tongue, the cold warming, and my mind is so empty that the finger I just injured doesn't even hurt when I slide it against his fevered skin. When he starts to moan, my own body reacts, demanding my left hand's attention. I jerk off as I suck him, the density of his cock increasing as much as my urge to cum. Only when Mile digs his nails into the sofa spunking recklessly in my mouth and the morbidity is so unbearable that my left hand fills with semen, the pain in my finger returns, the cold that surrounds us returns.

I break away from his trembling body and wipe my hand on the empty plastic bag, spitting into it. Throwing the plaid blanket that hangs on the coat rack over him, I notice how his face has relaxed. Now his breathing is not as heavy as before.

Mile zips up his pants before getting up and putting the blanket around my own shoulders. I take a bite of the veggie sandwich, handing him the half-smoked cigarette that was briefly forgotten in the ashtray. He pulls back the green burlap and lights the cigarette with a match by the concrete bay that shows the bleak, dark wasteland. It's 11 o'clock, says the radio on, and Mile answers:

"We have to be in The Basement before 12."

Chapter Text

"Who would have told you that you would end up like this?
Who, that you would live surrounded by sin?
Who, that you would watch and enforce it?
Who, that you would condemn other young
torn filial love from you?"

Mixed with the stench of the welder, the sweat and the unbranded alcohol that replaces most of my meals, the pungent odor of the substance from the green plant when cut down in this unventilated basement makes me hallucinate in the form of poetry. I walk around the small room contemplating the movements of these young people: to the left of the rectangular table, five of them style and prepare buds that they first take from the center and pile then on the yellow tray; on the right, another five manipulate the internal circuits of the broken electronic devices that Mek will later sell as reconditioned terminals.

One of the ones on the left, the thin boy with two fine braids that reach from the roots to his waist, is the only one who enjoys what he does. Unlike the others who sigh and shift in their uncomfortable plastic chairs wanting to finish, take their money and go away, he seems to abstract himself from everything by screwing, soldering, meticulously cleaning the thermal paste from the plates. Watching him is entertaining and, in a way, makes me tender. He makes me wonder how someone with that talent ended up in this illegal dump. Then I think about how I went from being a policeman to this and nothing seems crazy to me anymore.

I sit in the corner chair for a moment, feeling quite dizzy. Seems I've had too much to drink tonight, but I try to fix it by taking another sip from the almost empty flask. My eyelids are heavy, everything is dyed black, and when the colors are restored, everyone waits up for me to pay them. I take the wad of bills out of my back pocket and, after checking as best as I manage that the job is done, I split the money between them: 40 bucks each for 4 hours. I close the door and throw myself back on the chair, with not enough strength to start walking home.

What wakes me up is a blow to the face that knocks me off balance and crashes my body into a terribly hard surface.

The surface is the ground.

The blow is the impact of Mek's fist, who is looking down at me as if he were going to kill me.

"We've been robbed, you piece of shit! Get off your ass and go find that bastard!"

After checking the images from the discreet security camera, I take the brass knuckles that he has left on the table and go out into the street with the taste of blood in my mouth.

Chapter Text

The alarm rings, the melody of my favorite song greeting my ears.

"Wake up, it's daylight", says my mind, and little by little my senses recover the sensitivity. The morning light causes some discomfort in my eyes that soon transcends into a gratifying sensation. As I stretch, my back arches, seized with the daily pleasure of coming back to life. My insteps move to the rhythm of the sung words; jealous of their little dance, my parched throat emits a hoarse sound until it manages to sing.

Music begins to possess me and I abandon myself to its charm: My bare arms reach up to the ceiling, my fingers playing an invisible piano. My shoulders sway slowly, my waist moves along. In this way I remove the covers from my body and leave the bed, finding my own reflection in the wide surface of the closet mirror. The sweet phrase that my lips sing makes me smile deliciously to myself, despite the just-woke-up expression and the traces of dried saliva on the face that I see before me.

I ruffle my disheveled hair with my hands, dancing, dancing, dancing. My legs are weightless; infinite are my arms. As if I Ascended, as if I were transformed into the smoke of an incense stick, every time I give myself up to the Dance it is as if I were flying; the walls dissolve and the boundaries of my mind melt like honey in the sun.

"I want you to be my end, if I had to say goodbye to you, I would rather die. Rather than 3 daily meals, I prefer you. If I had to say goodbye to you, I would rather die."

Suddenly, I am aware of the meaning of the song. Reality hits me and my mouth remains ajar on the crystal full of golden sparkles. The tune ends and restarts, and I take off my shorts and toss them aside. Under the shower water, my body seems to weigh a ton. The freshly made breakfast tastes indifferent as if it were reheated, so I have a hard time chewing and swallowing the toasts.

I go out into the street clad in my brown coat, my backpack in one hand and the garbage bag full of recent leftovers in the other. Looks like yesterday the clouds spilled all the moisture they kept so the blue of the sky is clear and clean today. When I deposit the garbage bag in the corresponding container, my phone rings. The grimace that forms on my face when reading the notification that appears on the screen must be as ugly as the feelings that the illuminated words cause deep inside my chest.

"Shameless bastard..."

"Morning, Apo."

"Oh."

My courteous neighbor adjusts his silver glasses on the bridge of his nose, outlining a slight but sincere smile.

"Morning, Bible. How are you?"

"Well" he shrugs, "good. And you?"

"Still alive, which isn't little these days. Have you heard the news?"

"Is there a way not to be aware of them? That the world is increasingly crazy is the reality that surrounds us."

"The World is going to shit. Are you heading to the metro station? I'd like to discuss a couple of things with you about the Theater book you lent me."

"Yes, sure."

We set off side by side, chatting about the moral paradox in "The Importance of Being Earnest." Talking about literature with Bible is uniquely interesting. Since he moved into the attic above my flat, we have shared our impressions about a considerable number of classic works on several occasions, and everytime I have felt his passion for his craft. This is the first time that passion has lost to his introverted character. Now, his eyes shine less when talking about what excites him the most.

Seems he's having a difficult patch. I venture to guess and dare not ask, for I have always noticed that he does not like to talk about himself despite he does not mind listening. He has helped me many times when I have asked him for input and opinion to develop my characters. Dance and Theater are closely linked, both sharing a total dependence on Literature.

After all, it is in books where the original knowledge that drives ideas and gives wings to the body resides.

"... so they are despicable and hypocritical characters, but all they seek is to free themselves from the moral corset of the time."

"Curious thing that's such an effective comedy."

"The best comedies hide the worst tragedies between their lines. That's why they leave you with a weird feeling in your stomach after they've made you laugh out loud."

“Laugh to keep from crying, right, Bible?"

“Laugh to keep from crying”.

At the station entrance I hesitate before saying goodbye. His subway and mine run different routes.

"Hey, Bible."

"Yes?"

"I have a creative block. Magic lately dissipates before exploding; I start dancing and I lose the desire halfway. It's like I'm running out of strength, emotionally speaking."

He looks at me in silence. His expression is so neutral that for a moment I have the feeling that I have put him in an awkward position, I think he doesn't know what to say. Then he accomodates his glasses again and answers:

"I'm not a good adviser when it comes to creative blocks. But if it's inspiration you need, I know a way that might help you get it back. There is a guitarist who has started playing in a colleague's cafeteria and, even though I have only heard him play once, I find his music special. Whenever you have time, you might give it a try."

How am I going to refuse, when his eyes have lit up like a birthday sparkler?

"How about this friday at 6?"

Chapter Text

In these streets, the earth looks like granite and syringes shine in the sun like stars. The air smells of misery, despair lies in every corner. To the left, to the right; Ten steps earlier, twenty steps later you won't find prosperity, though you may see a dark future just above the exact spot where your shadow begins.

It's in the skinny child that spins around under the dirty arch of bare red brick.

It's in the man covered on grimy beard who smiles as if the rotten tooth he's just pulled out it's a funny curiosity between his blackened-nailed fingers.

It's in the pregnant woman who, with her head resting on the urine-soaked wall and her body entrusted to the dangerous ground, raises her eyes to heaven.

It's in the belt attached to her bruised forearm that I see what I used to see.

And yet I keep coming back to this lost corner of the world time after time, as if missing my deviant roots. As if it's possible to crave one's worst memories.

I feel a certain attachment to decadence, from where I came out only to live walking the thin edge that separates me from it. If only I didn't feel this adversity towards substances that offer sweet dreams and bitter vigils, I would occupy the empty place next to that woman. I would be yet one more evocative image for another person on the brink of the abyss.

What is that I see among the gray earth? I remove the pieces of plastic, and between my rubber gloves there is a notebook of crushed spring and folded sheets, only two pairs of which retain their integrity. I carefully tear them off, keep them inside the handmade cardboard folder with which my insomnia was distracted at midnight, close the backpack that had the shape of a t-shirt last summer.

I continue to observe, looking for broken objects. For something else to fix.

What is shining in that alley? Dodging the vomit of the half-naked girl who turns suddenly in my direction, I stomp onto the asphalt and yank on the rope sticking out of the glittering pile of trash.

"Cling cling cling"

A door hanger. The blue, red and violet colored crystals have broken corners. I could reuse the rope, decorate it with new crystals from disposed bottles, a little paint... Mile would also like its sound.

"No more... no more..."

An exhausted voice, nearby.

"No more. I can't. No more!"

Ahead is a door.

"No more. Can't take it. No more!"

Two legs frantically contract and stretch. The raw lament belongs to a man. When I stop in front of what's left of him, the broken glass clinks and he looks up, filled with fresh and dried tears.

The watchman of The Basement.

He is drenched in alcohol inside and out.I see blood on his hands and chin. Judging by the brass knuckles constricting his fingers, the blood doesn't belong to him. Instead the desolation and tears do.

By the time I realize it, I've taken off my gloves and I'm holding his blank face just inches from my mouth, which utters a single sentence:

"Let me fix you."

Chapter Text

I am levitating.

An external force drags me.

That force sustains me, moves me, takes me with it.

My feet collide with various obstacles.

I slide down, I'm pulled up.

A sound, like a snap. “Tsk”

Like a struggle. “Ngr... ngr!”

I'm a dead weight on a thin stand.

I fall.

I'm dizzy.

I'm so sleepy...

…

…

…

Lava. In the throat. Chokes.

It chokes.

“Hey!”

That force pushes me.

“Hey!”

That force holds me to one side.

“Spit it out!”

That force keeps my teeth and my tongue apart.

I breathe.

I sleep.

****************************************

I open my eyes with unimaginable difficulty. The stench I catch as I sigh is as unpleasant as my headache.

"Aaaah...fuck..."

"Keep drinking, man."

I am not alone. Despite my ridiculous level of alertness, I manage to raise myself up on my elbows to look in the direction the nasal voice is coming from. There, at the foot of my bed, a figure stands out in the complete darkness of my room. The slit of light that slips through the curtains falls on the two fine braids resting over the marked bones of his bare back, on his inclined face, on the smoke from the cigarette he carries in his mouth.

The boy from The Basement?

"How did you get in?"

"You had the keys in the lock."

The only one of his eyes that I can see looks at me nonchalantly. Then I remember the bloodied face of the other boy, the alcohol, the unbearable dizziness when I sat in the doorway. This boy picked me up? A wretch like me?

Why?

"This?" he points to the cigarette with his crooked index finger. "Yes, I've stolen it. Take it as a compensation for fixing you. Lucky you have water and detergent, otherwise I would've stolen a shirt too."

"Fix me?"

"Five more minutes wriggling down there and you would've drawn the attention of someone who needed your shoes, or your clothes. Or that thing you carry in your hand."

The brass knuckles are still there, around my skin smeared with dried blood. Its mere image makes me sick.

"True need doesn't understand delicacy. They would have left you just as broken as the person you're sorry you've broken. Besides, I've saved you from choking on your own vomit. I've fixed you. Twice."

I watch stupefied as he releases one last puff of smoke. There's something hypnotic about his image, and I feel so dull I can't put the words in order to build a coherent answer. So I just continue to observe.

"No need to say thanks" he shows me my own pack of tobacco, now in his hand, "this is enough for me. I'll take my things and go. Don't bother walking me to the exit."

His shadow steps away from the light and leaves. I hear how he messes around in the laundry room, I hear how he closes the front door.

He's unconventional, that enigmatic boy obsessed with fixing everything.

What was his name? I don't remember.

Losing myself in his marked bones burnt on my mind, I take the bottle from the nightstand and continue drinking.

Chapter Text

“I know I don't know you, but I want you...” I sing.

“So bad..." Mile joins me, "wanna hear it?"

"Please."

Mile nods with pursed lips, finishes his cup of coffee and rolls up his sleeves again. He takes the acoustic guitar with that kind of love only us musicians understand before his hardened nails strum the perfectly tensed strings. I tilt my head just as he does to better hear the guitar's response. When he uses the body of the instrument in order to set the rhythm, mixing percussion and melody, I unconsciously tap my leg. The chords progression draws an intoxicating enigma tinged with sensuality: my head is already following the nuances and my lips remember the corresponding lyrics, adding themselves naturally to the guitarist's fingers.

“I know I don't know you, but I want you so bad. Everyone has a secret, oh, can they keep it? Oh no, they can't.”

The customers look at me in surprise; Mile grins with such sincerity that I can see his teeth.

“... don't think I know how to go slow. Oh, where you at now? I feel around... there you are.”

We focus on each other with amazing timing:

“Cool these engines, calm these jets, I ask you how hot can it get, and as you wipe off beads of sweat slowly you say...” harmonyze our voices, “cool these engines, calm these jets, I ask you how hot can it get, and as you wipe off beads of sweat slowly you say…”

“I'm not there yet. I know I don't know you...”

Each word is freedom; each silence is breath. We stay immersed in the intimate ethereal space we are weaving, sharing this same energy, this understanding that does not need words.
Music expresses everything. It is, to me, like oxygen to a person swept away by the tide on a moonless night.

The man sitting by the fireplace lets the strings vibrate until they recover their static shape. He then extends his right hand to me and I squeeze it affectionately, the connection we have experienced makes us laugh and the customers applaud.

"How nice, Jeff, honey."

I wink at Lucille, my sweet favorite granny.

"You should record an album."

"Or participate in a TV show."

Faced with the flattering comments from my regular customers, Grandpa Owen and Mr. Kla, his life partner, I put my hand on my chest and reply:

"Thanks, thanks. But the credit belongs to our musician, who with his talent makes everything beautiful."

"Your voice needs no decorations. It conveys everything by itself."

I shake my head without adding anything. Going behind the bar, I inquire:

"Coffee or tea? Hot chocolate, perhaps? I have some delicious croissants too."

"Jeff, you've already..."

"You choose or do I choose for you?"

"Decaf and one of those croissants, then."

"Marching, Mile."

I open the display case and pick a shiny croissant. I heat it up in the small oven on the wall shelf with my back to everyone so I can focus on what I'm doing: when the butter in the filling slowly bubbles up, I serve the mouthwatering confection on a white speckled grey plate and refill the cup that Mile fiddles with sitting at the bar. I urge him to proceed, pointing to the plate with a graceful gesture of my hand and he, as always, pronounces a heartfelt “thank you”. Then he takes the cutlery, cuts the crescent-shaped sweet in three, pricks a small piece with the fork. He bites moderately, but not before stopping to enjoy the aroma, showing manners that contrast with his simple untidy appearance. He raises his peculiar eyebrows, covers one corner of his lips with the knuckle of his index finger to keep from salivating excessively, and says when his mouth goes empty:

"I think this is the best I've ever tasted, Jeff."

"Glad you like it. Modesty aside, if I'm proud of anything that's my Friday specialty" I admit, rearranging the contents of the display case. "Mastering the recipe gave me a lot of headaches; had a hard time getting the right texture to match the right flavor. I tried and tried to exhaustion, but the effort was worth it. Don't even know how many kilos of tasteless baked dough we got to eat between me and Bibs so we wouldn't waste so much food. The poor man suffered more than one indigestion along with me. If it wasn't for his support and encouragement, I'd now be selling frozen substitutes."

Bibs, where are you? Why do you answer my messages with monosyllables these days?

Brother, how are you?

"Bibs… you mean the person who was here on Monday? Your dark-haired friend with attentive, sad eyes."

His apt description snaps me out of my reverie and gives me an amused feeling of surprise.

"Fair and precise. Seems my best friend made quite an impression on you... " he shrugs, chewing with a sheepish smile. "His name is Bible, Bibs when you are as close with him as I am. Professor of Literature, loyal, intellectual, introverted; a dreamer. Oh, and almost forgot: single."

I make sure to emphasize the last word with a knowing stare, and he makes sure to show me he understands my hint by nodding with an equally knowing smile.

"I appreciate that last detail, thank you. But to be honest, what most intrigues me is something else."

"As long as I've the right to tell you, I will."

He leans on the bar with his elbows. Then he looks me straight in the eye completely serious.

"I'd like to know how I can help him."

He has caught me so off guard that I have to analyze his face for a moment in silence. I would have expected anything: “what's his number?” "How can I see him again?" “Are you sure he's into guys?” Anything to do with a superficial attraction. But this, that he has noticed something wrong inside Bible after only seen him once, the fact that he intends to help him without having exchanged a single word with him...

It's bewildiring. Ilogical, almost.

"Yeah. That's been weird and invasive. Sorry."

"No... no. It's just..."

Cling cling cling

"Hello."

"Good evening."

Chapter Text

The tinkling of the hummingbird surrounded by bells that greets us as we enter predicts a pleasant stay in this intimate cafeteria now spread out before my eyes. Warmth and aroma are my first sensations within these four walls of cream and chocolate colors. The smooth lighting makes the night through the long window-which starts from the first dark shelf on the other side of the bar, under which a modest display case with appetizing contents stands out and ends at the point of touching the door-, singularly beautiful. Two attractive people at first glance turn around as soon as they hear the greetings we offer; both have joy light up all over their features.

"Bibs!"

"What's up, mate? This is Apo, Jeff; Jeff, Apo."

"Apo, Bibs' neighbor, right? It's nice to meet you. Bibs always says you're almost as passionate about literature as he is."

"We dancers are condemned to adore the Arts. That's why we know how to appreciate beautiful places like this one."

"I'm glad you feel comfortable. It's a space that beckons you to linger, I must admit. And you know what makes it a real spiritual haven? The magic of Mile, our guitarist."

"Nice to meet you, Mile."

"Pleasure, Apo."

"Oh, Bibs. I didn't introduce you the other day: Bible, Mile; Mile, Bible."

"Yeah. Yes. Nice to meet you."

"Nice to see you again, Bible."

"Come on in, sit down. The usual, right, Bibs? What can I get you, Apo?"

"A cup of hot chocolate and the tastiest sweet you've got, please."

"Marching."

We take off our coats while Jeff checks that he has no chocolate sachets left on the shelf and disappears through the "Private" door. I deliberately delay sitting down until Bible takes the seat next to Mile. I watch these two with narrowed eyes as I sense the curious tension floating between them.

"You know, Mile?"

"Mn?"

"Bible recommended this place to me with you in mind" I notice how my neighbor covers his mouth in discomfort, and I hasten to add: "He says your music is special. I can't wait to hear it."

The guitarist is surprised. He looks at Bible-who fiddles with the napkin holder pretending to be oblivious to the situation-and then looks at me, with a gentle happy expression on his appetizing mouth.

"I understand. I'll try to play something that lives up to his words."

He stands up and I can appreciate his broad back until he sits down in front of the customers. His chest muscles are fabulously pronounced as he tunes the acoustic guitar. I discreetly nudge Bible, who jumps in his chair.

"No wonder you found him special at a glance..."

Bible shows intent to speak but ends up letting out a deep sigh. Two minutes later, Jeff approaches us with his hands full.

"Your cream doughnut and coffee, Bibs."

"Thanks, mate."

"And... your chocolate and my special croissant."

"Can I get extra syrup?"

The café owner pulls out a small jar from under the bar. The fibers of the pastry brush spread a generous, glistening layer across the golden pastry.

"Enjoy."

"Sure, Jeff."

It's impossible not to return his charming smile with an expression as lovely as his, and he's impressed by mine, too. That's funny.

I pick up the croissant with a napkin, offer my neighbor a bite and he cordially declines. I bite mercilessly, taking a good chunk of the fluffy crumb between my teeth.

"Mmm."

I express to Jeff the sense of perfection invading my taste buds by tracing a circle with my thumb and forefinger. He touches his chest in solemn appreciation. How polite.

A fresh, upbeat sound grabs my attention. The tempo gradually increases, revealing Mile's lofty musical prowess. There is intention in the way he expresses himself on the guitar. As a result, my own figure is drawn in my mind, dancing in the shadow that precedes the dawn. Like a pencil sketch, I interpret the harmonies and measures with feet and hands, shoulders, knees and hips. Thus the sunlight falls on my silhouette, filling it with the colors of the morning.

"His music is indeed..."

When I try to tell Bible how evocative I find Mile's craft, I find the teacher gawking at the guitarist, lost in the performance with his coffee cup still in his hands, so I shut up and hide an amused smile behind my own mug. Then I spot Jeff following the chords with the swagger of his sensual, veined neck as he dries some silverware. He notices my stare and raises his eyebrows, smiling at me as before. I move my head to the rhythm of his neck. He accepts me as a dance partner, leaning a little closer.

How interesting.

Chapter Text

“Drink, drink, drink, drink, drink!”

“I said I don't want any more, damn it.”

“Don't you dare refuse a full glass, it's bad luck.”

“Apo is right, don't tempt Fortune.”

“Drink, drink, drink, drink, drink! Yeeeeah!”

Bible slams a grumpy blow on the table with the empty glass. The behavioural code to keep up with us makes him uncomfortable. Jeff and Apo's proposal to have a few drinks together after closing the cafeteria has caught him as off guard as it has me. Despite everything, here we are sitting side by side. After the state he was in on Monday, I didn't think I would see him again so soon. I'm happy I was wrong.

“Hey, Mile, handsome, bring that glass up.”

With the bottle in one hand, Apo makes a suggestive gesture to me. I touch my ears, visualizing the red color they must have now.

“My ears are burning.”

“And I don't drink alcohol because it makes my stomach swell, but a night is a night. Bring it on", his fingers insist, reluctant to any kind of negotiation. So I tip the elbow again and get the giggles watching the pair of two chanting obscenities that come to mind on the spot.

“Do you know how to twerk?" I shake my head at Apo's random question. “Bibs?”

“No.”

“What about you, Jeff? Hold my drink, I'll show you.”

Apo steps back from the table and looks at Jeff, who is watching him very carefully. Then he flexes his legs and moves his hips with such amazing flow that even I am dumbfounded.

“Oh, wow" the cafe owner snaps from the center of his gut.

“Got it? Stand up. Right, move this part first" he says reaching behind Jeff as he places his hands on Jeff's groin, "then you bend over, and....”

“And there are no chips left.” Bible doesn't seem to appreciate the impromptu masterclass. “Get more snacks, Jeff, or we'll end up swinging on the chandelier tonight.”

“OK, OK. I'll see what I can get. You coming, Apo?”

“Sure”, he claps his palms together like he's meditating. “I'll shine my spiritual light on your snacks. Guide me.”

They link arms like a middle-aged couple and, before disappearing behind the "Private" door, Jeff turns, points at Bible with his eyebrows and winks at me.

Oh.

Is that an indication that I should seize the moment to probe his best friend? Looks like the snacks will take longer than expected to arrive.

Feeling grateful and a tad hunted, I turn my eyes back to Bible and find his pretty black eyes focused on me. Embarrassed and a little slower than he'd like, he tries to hide it by raising his glass to his mouth with such bad luck that we both realize there's nothing left inside. I manage to hold back the laughter that rises in my throat with difficulty. He turns his face away from me, so I have no choice but to rest my elbow on the table and my head on my fist, watching my silent companion without any qualms. He notices, and when I catch his gaze he's slowly surprised, stares at my goofy smile for a moment and then clears his throat lowering his eyelashes. It's a beautiful expression, intimidated and full of doubt. He remains quiet, picking up crumbs from the table with his thumb until he finally plucks up the courage to ask.

“What are you doing?”

“Waiting.”

“What for?”

“Anything.”

“Why?”

“Because you came.”

“Apo asked me to accompany him.”

“But I am the reason you recommended this place.”

“Do you think I'm interested in you?”

“Maybe. I am, in you.”

“What intrigues you about me?”

“Why were you like that on Monday?”

“You play well, you're talented. You moved me.”

“What memories I've brought back? Your sadness is immense.”

“It's unwise to venture to define the feelings of a stranger.”

“From the moment our emotions connected we were no longer strangers.”

“Seriously, what do you want? To fuck me or something?”

“I want to help you.”

His thumb stops dead in its tracks next to the mountain of leftovers and spices.

“Oh. Now I understand. You have a Hero complex. Your comfortable life bores you, you don't see the point in collecting hard-to-get vintage vinyls anymore. So you've decided to make yourself feel like a better person by offering comfort.”

“What else? Go on, please.”

“You live in your golden bubble thinking everything is music, everything is poetry. You seek inspiration from the mundane chair of an ordinary place finding profound stories in occasional tears. And, from your privileged status, you believe you have the right to wait. You believe you have the right to listen.”

I nod slowly at his words biting my lips to inhibit the urge to laugh.

“Do you want to check? My privileged status.”

“Huh?”

“If my home is as you imagine, deny me any rights involving you. Otherwise, let me hear your story.”

“You're crazy if you think I'm going to follow you anywhere.”

Chapter Text

Apo's fine rings dig into my forearm as he leans against me going up the stairs. I close the door in order to provide privacy for those who have been left outside. Maybe Mile can get something out of Bibs. Maybe it's easier for Bibs to talk to a stranger. Be that as it may, and even if it hurts me, I prefer that he share everything he carries inside even if it's not with me.

“You know? I've been wondering what was in this secret place. I envisioned crammed shelves between four gray walls, but you keep a neat and tidy warehouse.”

Apo walks past the shelves running his fingers over the objects that rest on them. He stops with his back to me. The outlines of his fit body, from this angle, are worth admiring.

“How cool, you have everything sorted!”

He caresses the various handwritten labels, picks up one item, drops another, examines what catches his eye. I lean back against the closed door letting him touch everything while I examine him. The sinuous curves that shape his skintight jeans are hard to ignore. Then I remember him dancing like he did a few minutes ago. I remember how he touched me, and prudently decide to put my hands in the pockets of my pants.

“Are this chips OK?” he asks, showing me a red packet.

“To be honest, I'd like to leave them alone for a while.”

The dancer squints his expressive brown eyes.

“Ooooh. To give them a little push, right? I also think they need it.” He puts the packet back in its place and crosses his arms, staring at me with a certain intensity, “and what do we two do in the meantime?”

“I don't know”, I say imitating his body language, “what about playing Word Chain?”

“Or you could tell me where those stairs lead to.”

“They lead to my bedroom. Wanna give it an eye?”

“Why not?”

My heart races, the tension against the fabric covering my crotch growing as I climb the stairs. By the time I step into the open space where I spend my free time, trying to conceal the new shape that stands out just inches from my belt buckle it's useless. Apo looks down and smirks so smugly my arousal hurts. His way os staring has me ready for anything he asks of me. He moves forward without a word; I don't back down. I have him right in front, and he brushes me with his hips in a tortuous sway that forces me to hold him by the waist drawing him closer, closer, closer... until the new shape emerging in his body is as noticeable as mine. I close my eyes immersed in his sighs and kiss him, receiving an agressively good response. I grab the zipper and button of his jeans. I think of nothing but taking them off and seeing what they squeeze up close. He murmurs a question in my ear that sounds fuzzier than usual.

So I doubt if I'm under the influence of this man's incredible attractiveness or if it's alcohol that makes my decisions.

“Stop, stop, stop.” Apo stops immediately. His sensual eyes show intent to understand. “I don't want us to mistake.”

“Don't worry. I am not looking for commitment.”

“Me neither. But we've been drinking and our actions aren't fully under control.” I reach over to grab a permanent marker from my nightstand and start writing on his palm under his questioning gesture. “If tomorrow you still feel like doing it, call me.”

When I write the last figure, I let go. He looks amused at the dark ink, snatches the marker from me, raises my arm and tugs up the sleeve of my sweater. His hand writes just below my elbow allowing me to enjoy the focused expression on his face. When he's done, he leaves a kiss on the thin skin, raising his eyes with obvious seductive intentions.

“I'll have to look in the mirror to decipher your number.”

“It's more exciting that way, don't you think?”

After leaving my private space, we are greeted by indie music and the number of people equal to none.

Chapter Text

The street lamps are increasingly distant from each other and we have left the asphalt behind. The footsteps, rubbing the earth, resound above the dense layer the silence interweaves. The stranger keeps smiling without stopping walking. I wonder if I should start worrying when he stops for the first time.

A huge building stands gloomy in the middle of nowhere. The stranger grasps the edge of the metal door and pulls with considerable effort. Under the waning moon, the creaking sound sends shivers down my spine and a constant urge to swallow. Nevertheless, I cross the entrance.

I catch a glimpse of vague silhouettes until I hear the click of a lighter. The halo cut out by the figure of the man carrying it in his hand becomes a Guide; when the processional route ceases, the fire multiplies, enveloping the wick of one, of two candles. Secrets hidden in the shadows are revealed as the third candle burns.

A wide desolate space, concrete walls that return answers. Empty workshop tables, one of many filled with indistinguishable objects. Another breaks the rows and, placed in the center, holds the light and a gleaming ashtray. A two-seater sofa embarrassingly shows the many holes in its fabric, its visible stuffing out of place. A rusted metal coat rack resembles a dry tree in a vacant lot. The plastic sheeting covering the openings in the walls barely fights the cold that clings to my skin.

Looking at my shoes, I try to digest the unfortunate situation that the musician is making me witness.

“So, what do you think of my privileged home?”

Several locks of black hair frame his composed expression. Despite his comforting image, I shy away from his gaze lacking the guts to utter anything other than two syllables:

“Sorry.”

The conjectures I spoke aloud with crushing conviction are now gall in my mouth. Overwhelmed by the indignation I feel with myself, I rest my hands on the table.

“Do you want to sit down?”

I shake my head and nod a second later. Mile pulls the blanket off the sofa and hangs it on the coat rack. I try to be careful sitting down because I'm afraid I'll break this only resting place even more. He sets the case down on an empty table before taking a seat next to me. The wind swells the makeshift protections, threatening to tear them from the openings.

“Forgive me.”

Even if I apologized endlessly, no amount of repetition would erase the guilt. I accepted a long time ago that I am an expert in making mistakes. And yet this error mortifies me.

"There would be no need to apologize even if you still thought the same, but thanks for changing your mind."

Flames flicker in the absence of conversation. I would like to say something, what could I say?

How do you feel on rainy days, when the dampness bursts in at dawn, freezing your blood?

How many times have you had to curl up into a ball trying to hold in the warmth so you could sleep?

How do you endure the nightmares during the horrible storm?

“By showing this I share with you one of the keys to my life.”

He leans forward resting his clasped hands on his knees.

"I wish it was enough for you to trust me. You were encouraged to define me earlier. Let me do the same. There is in you a deep sadness whose origin has long been hurting you. Although that origin will never disappear from your memory, the sadness will be drastically diluted if you tell your story. I understand that the possibility of hurting your loved ones because of sharing your pain with them is scary. But I'm just a wanderer who wants to listen without judging. Give me the chance, Bible. Grant it to yourself.”

I've closed my eyes from his fourth sentence. I feel like I would break down if I looked at him now.

"I'm tired, Mile."

He adds nothing.

Chapter Text

“Let me spend the night here. I'll save your life if you choke again.”

The boy obsessed with fixing everything is back asking for one favor in exchange for another. His unexpected visit has turned out to be the perfect incentive for me to stand up and climb the stairs leading home. Who cares about the danger of falling asleep among beasts in human form when one's own existence is despised? But if it's for another person, for a pleasant presence... who wouldn't put aside his lack of interest in life temporarily?

I turn the key and let him pass and lead the way: he leaves his extravagant backpack on the couch where my favorite people used to sit, walks to the kitchen, pulls the package of toasts and the jar of peanut butter out of the top cupboard. I light up a cigarette leaning my shoulder against the door frame as he saturates two pieces of crunchy bread with light brown before handing me the first one. We chew scandalously and I think I should clean the grimy tiles one of these days. I grab one of the bottles awaiting on the counter without looking and take a long sip. When I offer it to him, his bony fingers ignore the bottle, opting instead to take the cigarette from me. Crinkling the corners of his sharp eyes, he takes a deep drag.

Then he pulls off his jacket, removes his overstretched sweater and tank top. My stomach shrinks at the sight of the muscles sagging over his left ribs. I step aside to make way for him as he strides purposefully into the hallway. He takes off his shoes, socks and pants, rolls them up and tosses them to me before disappearing behind the bathroom door. I close the jar of butter, toss away the empty packaging, then run the washing machine with the sweaty clothes in it. Recalling that my bed is unmade, I dress it with a set of clean sheets, put on my pajamas, and lie down with my eyes closed.

Several minute strokes later, his footsteps approach, his fresh scent invading the disorganized room. Then I feel the moisture from his bare skin on top of me. I struggle to avoid the temptation to open my eyelids until he gives up and lies on the other side of the bed. Now I allow myself to observe his silhouette in the light that sneaks through the poorly closed curtains. I distinguish every detail of his spine. This boy's life surely is not easy. Could it be as tough as mine?

"Your name?" I ask in a low voice.

"Nodt" he says loud and clear.

"Peter," I reply even though he doesn't ask me to. I am about to take the bottle that I grab from the nightstand to my mouth when he points out:

“The stench of alcohol bothers me. Don't drink any more tonight, Peter.”

I look at the bottle, I look at Nodt. Several times.

Finally, I keep my lips dry despite the game of chance sleeping becomes if I don't drink to the point of losing conscience.

Chapter Text

I'm feeling good.

Because the late February sun is starting to heat up.

Because my hair roots don't itch.

Because my old clothes smell clean.

Because my sight reaches to distinguish the brilliant colors of noon.

Because why not? I like the look of my eyes when they look.

And the sound of these flat little stones. One of them is conscientiously polished due to the natural wear and tear of all things. It's like velvet to touch. Since I like to caress it, I won't throw this one away. I'll keep this stone, take it with me everywhere, and when I feel like having it between my fingers, I'll be able to do it wherever I am. I'll wrap it in a handkerchief so that it does not suffer from the rubbing of the things that I carry in my backpack. Everything that we want to keep must be treated with special care if we do not want it to end up dispersing in the air. The guarantee of this is high if we are talking about objects. When it comes to people, you never know. We have more choice than stones. Therefore we are unpredictable.

Peter is a such an example of that. Last night he let me eat his food, waste his water, sleep in his bed. He even gave up drinking when I asked him to. And oh, surprise, he didn't once tried to fuck me. Not even when I climbed on top of him naked. Nor this morning when he was just as hard as I was. So I've been left half-hearted, a little frustrated. He hasn't given me everything I expected him to. Although the explanation might lie in that pile of happy photos reflecting a better time in his life. A bygone era like that would be reason enough to not raise either of the two heads we guys have on our bodies.

The range of the stone I throw is greater than I thought and it hits some sparrows that flee in terror. The past can hurt and harm; If I allowed myself to be punished by memories, I would feel like a victim and an aggressor so intensely that I would linger in one place until my legs atrophied. But, to be honest, I prefer walking.

“Hey, Nodt!”

Mile is sunbathing outside the abandoned building sitting on an empty soda crate. I toss him a packet I take out from my backpack. At the sight of the chocolate scone I snatched from Peter's pantry, his face lights up and he thanks me before taking the first bite.

“Something good happened to you?” I ask seeing that he eats so eagerly he dirties his lips, something so unlike him.

“Mn?”

"Any luck with the stranger you felt connected to?" He raises his eyebrows, still chewing. “Last night I heard you talking to someone. From the topic, I assumed you were with him. So I went elsewhere.”

“Thanks for giving us privacy, Nodt.”

“No problem.”

“Where did you sleep?”

“Remember the watchman of The Basement? We're mates now. I slept at his house.”

Mile thinks for a moment, debating whether or not to tell me the same as ever.

“Be careful, Nodt” and, as always, he does it. So I answer the usual.

“I know.”

It's not that I don't have reasons to be cautious. But for as long as I can remember I have walked on a surface of hot embers. I hope I know where to step to burn as little as possible.

“So?” I shift my weight from one leg to the other, lighting a cigarette, "did you get him to tell you what's wrong with him?”

“I got him to listen to me.”

“It's a start. Did you two agree to see each other again?”

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sighs.

“Last night his friend Jeff, the owner of the cafeteria where I play, invited us for drinks and we drank a lot. I think that's why I asked him to come and I think that's why he came with me. Since we were almost drunk, we passed out on the couch. He left before I woke up. So I don't know what will happen. I thought that by showing him this, a not very nice piece of me, he would feel safe and share a little bit of himself. But maybe I've scared him and he thinks I'm some weird tramp.”

I scratch my brow with my thumb and let out a chuckle between a cloud of smoke.

“Well, you're indeed a weird tramp.”

“Right” he smiles sheepishly with a shrug.

“But you're a hell of a guy, Mile. You've shown him your good intentions. If he hasn't noticed, that's his problem. You've done your part.”

He pats my lower back, but I know he's not convinced by my words. Mile is like that; he never realizes how noble he is. He thinks everything he does is too little. That's why he always has that smile on his face: to many, it will seem pretty, serene. If they only knew how fucking sad it really is.....

“Nodt.”

“What?”

“Do you want me to suck you off?”

“Okay.”

Mile never realizes he always gives more than he gets.

Chapter Text

“Okay. Sean, very good. You nail the part where Kindness longs to give herself to others. As a note, try to extend your arms higher when you express fullness, as if you are coming out of your own body.”

“Roger, Sam.”

"Apo, you're tense. Wariness must follow Kindness as if she were a gust of wind, a stream of water. You must be like a shadow: overwhelming and oppressive, but fluid. Work more on that, please.”

“Thank you, Sam. I will.”

“Well, that's all for today. See you tomorrow afternoon.”

Sam turns off the tablet and closes her folder before waving us goodbye. Sitting on the laminated floor, I stretch out my torso. My joints ache from this sticky constriction that can't be drained from my body. When I bend at the waist, my tendons crack. Suddenly, I feel something ice cold on the back of my neck and I jump. I look with irrepressible contempt at the jerk who just touched me with his water bottle.

“Leave me alone.”

“Feeling cold on warm skin used to have a very different effect on you.”

It is not enough for him to resort to repulsive flirtations whenever he gets the chance. Now he also brings up the past and airs it as if he were trying to rescue an old set of blankets about to rot. I would answer him, but since I understand that what he wants is attention, I start to collect my things without dwelling on him anymore. He hasn't changed a bit, he's insistent: he follows me into the locker room, scrutinizing everything I do with those striking blue eyes full of opportunism as I remove my tights and dancer belt.

“I knew it, hands don't lie. You're even hotter than you were two years ago. Your calves are perfectly defined, and your beautiful thighs...”

I stop his hand in its tracks, gripping his wrist tightly. There is satisfaction in his well-groomed features full of selfishness and shamelessness.

“I can bear you touching me while we dance because it is what it is, I have no other choice. But dare to try it outside of the strictly professional and at least one of the two will be forced to boast of criminal charges on his resume.”

He touches his sore joint when I let go. However, I have to put up with the grin of his face reflected in the locker mirror.

“The other morning I proposed you to do additional rehealsals and you left me in seen. What do you think now, after Sam's remarks? Your resentment towards me is an obstacle we must overcome if we want our stage chemistry to work.”

“It's not resentment” I close the locker and pronounce flatly: “It's disgust.”

The night wind hits my heated cheeks once I go through the automatic doors. I feel a terrible urge to rant loudly right here, in the middle of the crowded street, until the passers-by stop, until my indignation manages to pause the whole world, giving me enough time to bring down these ugly feelings I'm never proud of.

Why, with all the good artists out there, does precisely Sean have to be my partner for this play? Why the hell is he trying to seduce me again after putting me through all the pain he caused me when he held me in the palm of his hand?

Why do I have to breathe the same air as him? I suffocate every time I have him around, he robs me of the calm I need. He turns my stomach like a bad meal on a sweltering hot day.

Damn it...

I need to get distracted.

As I pat my face, I notice the black smudge lingering on my right palm and I'm thankful I saved his number in my address book.

Chapter Text

Life is a box of surprises.

One moment you have to deal with the bad taste of the wrong flavor: You assume someone won't call you, you resign yourself to the indifference received. You go on with your routine as if nothing happened. Then you arrange the chairs in your café after having lowered the blinds and, as you are about to turn off the last lamp, the call that you have been waiting for all weekend suddenly comes.

When you blink, your pants are at your ankles, the edge of your T-shirt smeared with lube. Wet sounds invade your ears and you ram a pair of hips on top of one of the tables you've been busily cleaning minutes before.

You go from being ignored by a person to literally being inside them.

“Ah... aaah...”

The right angle. I slip an arm under one of his shoulders, holding him by the opposite collarbone. I increase the pace; the contact is so full it makes me roll my eyes and clench my jaw. Apo sobs with pleasure as I wrap my fist around his hot, veined cock, giving him what he needs as intensely as I can.

“Ah... ng...”

“Ah ah ah ah...”

Our spines tense. The electric impulse reduces us to our knees on the floor.

“Are you OK?”

He breathes hard and looks dazed, trusting me with the weight of his body.

“It's been a hard day. I've been rehearsing since noon. Sorry about the sweat, I couldn't wait.”

“I'm not gleaming either. You caught me closing the café.”

“In Dance, we call it improvising.”

“Not bad.”

“Not bad at all.”

We share an amused grin as he regains his strength. I carefully take my cock out of him and remove the slippery condom.

“Do you want to go upstairs and take a shower?”

“If I got in the shower right now, I'd fall asleep under the water. But if you stoke up the fireplace a little and offer me something sweet, you'll make me the happiest person in the world. I haven't eaten since this morning, I'm starting to see stars on the walls.”

“Let me see what I can find. Sit down and rest.”

I add a log to the fire and Apo throws the dirty kleenex into the flames. After adjusting his clothes, he concentrates on the shape of the fire while humming whatever song comes to mind sitting on a chair full of cushions. I wash my hands conscientiously before picking up the piece of carrot cake previously destined to be my after dinner dessert. It has just the right sweetness, the freshness of the cream, carrot and almond standing out on the spongy texture. The chocolate bubbles in the copper saucepan, so I distribute it in two blue-gray cups with streaks perceptible to the touch. It is not just what is served, but how it is served. The shape, the materials, the colors, if well chosen, sublimate the experience. They turn an everyday action like eating into a memorable anecdote.

“Did I guess right?” I ask as I show him what I have chosen for him. His brown eyes sparkle with joy amid the fatigue.

“Your intuition is good. You know people's tastes.”

“It's part of my job.”

I sit in front of his profie and take a generous sip of the aromatic chocolate. It's the perfect accompaniment to good sex: my body remembers the comforting power of cocoa after so long without sharing an intimate encounter with someone. This familiar novelty is doubly gratifying when that someone is a man like the one in front of me, a man of almost ethereal beauty. Not even in my best fantasies could I have imagined myself with such a person in a situation like this.

“You're preparing a play about the different parts of the Self, aren't you? I remember you told us it was complex.”

Apo nods with puffy cheeks before wiping his sensual lips with his tongue.

“It's a symbolic play that forces the dancers to completely abstract from what we really are. I, for example, am an emotion. The Weariness of the Self.”

“How do you represent it?”

“As a sinister reflection that lurks and creeps. I am the distrust that torments Kindness, a luminous, well-meaning feeling. Kindness tries to advance and Weariness to stop, to slow its steps so that Doubt has the opportunity to invade the Will.”

“You give form to the limitations of human generosity.”

“Exactly, to one of them.”

I nod in fascination. Apo, as an artist, is also on another level.

“I see. Understanding an abstract idea and being able to integrate it under the skin on stage is incredible. The chemistry with your partner has to be out of this world.”

“It's precisely the bad vibes between us that sucks the energy out of me," he replies with a bitter smile at my surprised gesture. “Personal rifts are usually harder to deal with than technical discipline. I enjoy dancing but, honestly, I want to leave this play behind as soon as possible”

“I hope you premiere soon.”

“At the start of June. I'll get you free tickets if you guarantee me more moments like this, at least until the premiere.”

“Only if you guarantee me the best views even at the premiere.”

We hold a suggestive shared gaze. He releases his unique wipers-like laugh and, in my subconscious, I begin to feel lucky to have met him.

“Well, how was your day?”

“Quiet, as usual. Serving my customers, making calls to suppliers, cooking..." He cuts a piece of cake and savors it, paying attention to me. “And chatting with Mile, too.”

“Oh, how did it go with Bibs? Was there fireworks at the end of the night?”

“They seemed to talk, but Bibs.... Wait, fireworks?” Apo nods. “Why do you say that?”

“They like each other.”

“What?”

“Haven't you noticed? Bibs' eyes sparkle talking about Mile and Mile.... well, Mile practically can't stop looking at him.”

I struggle to shut my mouth open in shock.

“I had an inkling about Mile, but about Bibs...” I let the sentence hang. “Lately everyone seems to understand him better than I do.”

“What a long face" he smiles, squinting. “Do you like Bibs?”

“No" I hasten to deny sincerely. “But he's a very important person in my life. He's been with me in my worst moments. And I'm not aware of what's happening to him. I feel like I'm not up to the task as a friend.”

“Friendships have their ups and downs. Don't eat your head off.”

We finish our chocolate in silence. Then Apo looks at his phone and jumps up.

“Shit, it's so late. Tomorrow you have to open early, I'd better go.”

I leave the cup on the table and walk over to him until I'm so close I can make out the shades of his beauty marks.

“I've had a great time. Come back whenever you want.”

Apo strokes my neck with his hands. The soft touch of our tongues makes me shiver from start to finish. With his captivating stare, he says as farewell:

“It's been incredible. Thanks, Jeff.”

Chapter Text

After four in the morning, the damp cobblestones gleam under the artificial lighting. In this deserted time slot, only the lost, the homeless, the criminals and those considered insane, who actually aren't that crazy but wish they were so as not to be fully aware of the misery surrounding them, walk past this sinister convenience store of supernatural fame. Some say they have seen shadows in its corridors; others, flying halos. I simply see the advantageous consequence of those awkward comments: the cheapened products on the other side of the transparent window protected by gray rows of symmetrical diamonds. Also, I see a rough wall where I can rest my back while I wait for Mile, who is inside hobnobbing, perhaps, with ghosts without knowing it. The piercing cold shrinks my balls, so I crouch down to endure it better.

What's that tangle swirling around the corner? I rub my gloved hands together and the oval being takes short steps on the wet pavement-chas chas chas chas-until it stops in front of me. Wheezing through what appears to be a peeled nose, it sniffs my fingers; then ducks the gray tangle on its head in disappointment. Slowly, I lift it off the ground and place it on my legs; he stretches with pleasure when I scratch the matted fur on its neck. I clear its face by pushing back its long bangs. Underneath are a pair of huge, beautiful eyes.

I rummage in my jacket pocket. The metallic touch confirms that I have found what I am looking for. I pull out the object, I unfold it. I feel the edge with my thumb. The animal is defenseless, entrusted to my kind caresses. The time is now.

CHAC

I shake off my dirty hand. Two dilated pupils rise splendorous to the dense night ceiling.

“Much better” I run my fingers along the unclouded bridge of the graceful bicolored nose. “Now you are more you.”

Animals are grateful beings: the dog licks me amicably, making me smile like a sentimental fool.

A sudden sound of footsteps puts us on alert. The person is in such a hurry that he doesn't even say hello before going through the automatic doors. He must have run out of alcohol after having been sucking on his flask the whole time. Walking around in an enclosed space like The Basement for four hours straight has to be a bore. He could have helped with the welding; tonight the work was double the usual amount. Having your hands full keeps you from vices. You just have to find what to fill them with.

“Finding the candles was not easy. I wonder why they move them around continuously.”

Mile squats as soon as he spots my miniature friend. He takes a handful of crackers out of the blue jar inside the paper bag and offers them in his generous open palm, receiving a frantic tail flick accompanied by a gratifying chewing sound: yum yum yum. Mile fills my hand with tasty toasted coins as the dog finishes off the last crumb left in his. He always shares without being asked. After entering that place where little monsters are taught how to resemble more a human and less a beast, I learned true humanity from him. Am I what they call a successful case? At least when it comes to a part of my personality... yes.

The automatic doors sound again and then the black shoes walk past us in the same hurry as before. Thirty seconds later, they're just below my line of sight. When my eyes run over the owner of the shoes, the volume of his bag is larger than a bottle would occupy, and his face seems to want to express something.

“Nodt. Do you want to come? With me.”

His free hand is shaking. The blush reaches from his slight mustache to his ears.

“OK. Mile, see you.”

Mile takes the dog in his arms when I pass it to him. He nods with resignation at my chronic boldness.

“See you.”

Lighting a cigarette, I tell Peter:

“Let's go.”

Chapter Text

The impact of the drops distorts the views across the window, the radio attached to the frame with long strips of cellophane sounds. Above the water serpents stretched across the reinforced glass surface, the rhythmic mist floats.

"Triangles are my favorite shape"
"Three points where two lines meet"

He touches the restless serpents with his fingertips, or trace the path to dawn with his face turned toward the sleeping city. Perhaps leaving that man alone in the falling rain gives him some concern, or perhaps...

Nodt thinks to himself and only says what he thinks when he wants to. That's why I imagine.

"Toe to toe, back to back, let's go"
"My love is very late"

He and his possible circumstances if I have him, if I don't have him, in front of me, haunt my thoughts. I'd like my doubts to be solved, but nothing gives me the right to ask the solutions.

"Til morning comes..."

He chooses to remain silent; for me, his presence is enough.

"…let's tessellate."

Nodt is not surprised when I park far from my house. Although the old car is dirty and badly devalued, its parts could be sold, traded, for alcohol and third-class drugs. Neglected or not, it is one of the few things I can still consider mine. That's why, even though I hardly use it, I prefer to keep it.

Having traversed the repulsive and pitiful Dantesque path, the boy obsessed with fixing everything stops to look at the trampled instruction booklet lying on the stairs. He picks it up and shakes it out, blowing the dust between its pages before entering my house with it. He sits on my precious sofa in the lotus position: resting the backs of his hands on his knees, he concentrates on reading at the makeshift lectern.

“What does “cadence” mean? You know?”

“Regular succession.” I take out the contents of the bag and arrange it on the table. “What's that manual about?”

“Earbuds. “Cadence”, “cadence”. "Regular succession," "regular succession," he murmurs as if it were some kind of ritual. “I'll remember that, Peter.”

As I think I recognize implicit gratitude in his last sentence, my heart floods with warmth. Nodt has multiple effects on me: he keeps my curiosity and emotions engaged in a way that often helps me forget about drinking. Then there is that surprising fact, the one that I verify by observing each one of the puffs that he takes from the cigar, each one of the times that he looks me in the eye without blinking. It is when the favorite phrase of one of the songs that filled my home more than five years ago comes to my memory: “I, who believed me winter, am a tender tree.”

I open the dusty cupboard on which the tedium-shrouded television waits. I accumulate what a priori is useless. Therefore, they are still here. I place them on the edge of the table, within Nodt's reach, and Nodt looks up alerted by the nearby movement. His pupils widen more than usual at the sight of the stack of manuals. The indifference in his gaze dissolves completely as he spots the box of detergent, the package of toast, the jar of peanut butter, and the packet of chocolate buns. He looks me straight in the eye.

“You think a lot about me.”

He's not judging me, he's not upset. He likes it. As if I were a teenager whose shameful secret had just been noticed, I blush. I don't know what to do, so I wring my hands, grab my recent purchase and head to the kitchen. I pick up a butter knife, a handful of toast, open the jar. My pulse trembles as Nodt sits on the counter and fiddles with one of his braids. When I hand him a toast, his lips are turned up. It's the first glimpse of a smile I see on him. Not knowing what to do, I stare at the rust stain in the sink, trying to calm down the sudden reactions of my body.

“Your family?”

The sudden question out of nowhere makes me break through the barriers of embarrassment and focus my attention on his fingers, which are holding the photo just torn from the fridge door. I feel a pang of pain inside me before answering:

“Yes.”

“Your daughter?”

“The girl laughing in the middle.”

“Your wife?”

“Dead”

“You loved her?”

“To the last fiber of my being.”

Nodt approaches the photo, his gray orbs trailing across the glossy paper behind his short lashes.

“No wonder. She was full of love, this submissive and complacent woman.”

The description stings me as if he just pricked my thumb with a needle.

“It's only a photo, how can you speak of her with such certainty?”

“Because her gaze is completely opposite to my mother's.”

The rotundity devoid of bitterness overwhelms me.

“Is she a bad person?”

"She just never loved me."

“How can a mother not love her son?”

“How can a father abandon his daughter?”

“I didn't abandon my daughter!”

The bite he just took on my insides makes me scream and bare my fangs. Not intimidated at all, he stares at me in disbelief. The humiliation is great, but the outrage surpasses anything. I drop everything I have, go to my bedroom and close the door with a slam that resounds throughout the block. I grab the bottle that has been resting on the table for days and drink. I drink, throwing my head so far back that I fall to the foot of the bed. I drink until it's hard for me to breathe. And I curse Nodt for saying that, I curse him twice, thrice in my head.

Finally, in my heart, I acknowledge that he has only spoken the truth. The outrage is immense, but it cannot overcome the remorse. Remorse quenches fury by unleashing tears, and tears embarrass me so much that I bury my face in my hands even though no one can see me.

When Nodt enters the room and lies down on the mattress it is almost daylight.

“Peter. If I was wrong, why did what I said hurt you?”

I have to swallow several times to be able to answer him.

“You're not wrong. I abandoned... I abandoned her.”

He comes, kicks the bottle. He kneels between my legs, doesn't let me hide my face anymore, takes it in his hands. He kisses me in a way that mystifies me and we kiss until the need to hold him consumes me; Nodt represses the latent desire in his complete nudity, settling for my embrace, understanding my despair as if it were his own.

Chapter Text

The breeze and the sun play on my desk as if they were the protagonists of a shadow theater. The minute hand is ticking, the pile of uncorrected exams has not diminished. The answers of this eloquent student manage to surprise me even though I have to reread to be able to understand perfectly: it is obvious that she has only skimmed the book, but her inventiveness in linking four basic notions about the plot with the social issues we have dealt with in class these last weeks is, to say the least, commendable. Although she does not apply the specific solutions that the questions ask for, what she recounts in these lines written in ballpoint with rounded handwriting is appropriate. That is why I give her a B. It is necessary to know how to relate concepts: if in practice pure theory falls short, uncomfortable phenomenon not at all unusual, a solution must be found through other different resources, resources that must be selected and combined properly.

“Brr brr”

JEFF (voice message): “What's up, Bibs? How are those exams going?”

BIBLE: “Good.”

JEFF: ☺

JEFF (voice message): “Cool! Drop by here when you're free, we miss you! Right, Mile?” “Yes.”

I stare at the screen, it fades, I switch it on again, slide throgh the messages, play the last one.

BIBLE: “I'll try stop by this friday.”

JEFF (voice message): “We'll be waiting for you, Bibs.”

The chair turns, the lamp blurs. My glasses hang from the thumb and index finger of my right hand when I close my eyes. The induced vertigo transports me to that moment: it is night and it is cold. My face is wet and hot. In the candlelight, his face is kind. His voice, delicate, tenuous, drags the heavy burdens that numb my sensitivity. He moves them, millimeters. Suddenly, the urge to tell what was kept under multiple steel chains strikes like an intense and brief lightning bolt. But I'm unable... I'm unable. Tiredness is a thick fog over the wasteland of my consciousness. Then light, sound. A sharp headache when looking from side to side, and yet an incredibly comfortable shoulder under my temple. Mile is asleep. His broad chest sways like waves in calm water. The warmth of his arm between mine is so comforting…

... So much so that I'm caressing my own forearm while evoking his.

Missing that sensation gives me mixed feelings because I don't understand how it's possible.

“From clumsy to listless, from listless to irrational. I'm worse than I thought.”

I fit back into the desk, pick up the red pen, put on my glasses; I try to concentrate on my work even though my attention is divided. Mile is one of those divisions. Why does his way of playing the guitar absorb me? It's beautiful, but I've never had a soft spot for music. Why does he know what I feel? It has always been difficult for me to connect with people. Why does my skin crawl hearing a simple "yes" through the phone speaker? My stomach tingles at the prospect of seeing him again.

Nevertheless, I was an idiot. I am very aware that he must feel offended even if he does not show it. Even if it was under the influence of alcohol, the attitude with which I treated him until I saw with my own eyes his harsh way of life was deplorable.

Why did he share that intimate detail with me? Why did he keep smiling at me after my mistakes? Why does he want to listen to my tribulations? Why...?

My eyelids itch. When I drop the last page, it's half past seven. My back, like a bent wire, resists being straightened. Looking around, I have the impression of being in a dream. Combining external information processing and involuntary thinking has altered my perception. I have to get some fresh air. Not without my personal effects, I leave the attic after refilling this empty bowl that belongs to Grey, the explorer of nooks who comes down from his favorite scratching post to say goodbye with the softness of his well-groomed fur.

I take a deep breath at the edge of the sidewalk. Before I cross the street, I see Apo dancing through his window. I would like to greet him, but I know that recently the inspiration has not coincided with him. I'm glad it's holding his hand right now. I won't interrupt him.

I walk through the crowd; the noise bothers me. The mixed and inconclusive conversations, the unstoppable slippage of the tires. The people about to crash into me, the glaring headlights, the underhanded smells. The dizziness is more pronounced than before.

I find a seat in the last subway car. When I get off, I have brought my fists so tight that it is difficult for me to stretch my phalanges.

There's a quiet traditional restaurant here, two blocks from Jeff's Cafe. The owner's admirable wrinkles are very marked when she sees me. By her warm smile, she remembers who I am. Although she tries to start a conversation with me, she gives up perceiving my apathy. I need to eat but the journey overloaded with stimuli has closed my stomach. I put the noodles in my mouth, drink water to swallow better. Thus I begin a more insipid ritual than I would like it to be. The owner cooks great food. The problem is within me.

"Brr brr"

AUNT ANGELA (voice message): “Hi, my dear, how are you?”

AUNT ANGELA (voice message): “You see, dear... your sister phoned me asking for you.”

AUNT ANGELA (voice message): “She said that she's been calling you but you ignore her calls. And I understand it, honey. I do.”

AUNT ANGELA (voice message): “But she insists a lot in talking with you before... before that day. You know she never contacts me. It must be important.”

AUNT ANGELA (voice message): “That's why... that's why I've given her your new address. She's visiting you in two weeks.”

It has to be a joke.

The fork clangs as it hits the table and the chair scrapes against the floor. I leave a bill that doubles the value of my serving next to the napkin holder. Running through the night, I pass through shadows and lights blurred like the yellow paint of a brush drowned in a glass filled with black liquid.

“Ah...”

Teeth clash painfully as strength escape my throat. Regardless, I won't stop.

“Arf... ah...”

I can't stop. Because if I stop now I'll go crazy.

Because this burden is too heavy for me alone.

Chapter Text

A thick layer of dust invades the house as if no one was breathing inside. The walls look like yellowed paper, the floor is cracked, the finish on the surfaces scratches the thin skin of the elbows. The curtains stick to my fingers when I pull them back. I take in my fingertips part of the gray and black mixture that covers the lower frame of the window after opening it wide. The new white line contrasts with the dense darkness of the dust, as does the pretty shade of this small lamp, this sand-colored sofa in mint condition decorated with shiny brass studs, this old record player carefully preserved. The vinyl shines on the bearing waiting for the caresses of the delicate needle; once the initial friction of the two superimposed bodies has been overcome, the fragile notes of a piano emerge through the background noise reminiscent of the crackling of flames in the middle of winter.

Looking around, I feel it in my marrow: this is the face of loneliness. Peter exists without living under the static gazes of a family that doesn't even exist anymore. Chance took them from him and he let them go. There is no immaculate story; we are all victims and executioners. For this reason, although I know abandonment, I do not condemn the abandoner. I'm interested in the motives, actually. Motives of all kinds. Because knowing them helps me better understand the emotions that I have a hard time understanding. I integrate the explanations of these manuals with a naturalness that surprises others. It's bad luck that people are to me like manuals of glued pages difficult to separate without tearing. Although at least I try. I try not to break anything. Sometimes I fail. As happened last night with Peter. My words, maybe my coldness, or maybe both, were like incisors driven into the soft spots of his neck, his forearms, the back of his knees: there where it hurts. I am always amazed at the suffering that sincerity causes.

The sound of the doorhandle coincides with the flapping of the page I turn. Bare feet leave me behind and stop in front of the curtains blowing in the wind. Peter sits among the unfolded window sheets. The folds of his shirt are deeply dug grooves against the flowers of the hard chair back.

“I'm not used to these views. I used to look from the outside in. My parents' house was hell.”

He utters each syllable wearily, as if fourteen hours of sleep had been insufficient. Years corrode the insides of the youth that at first glance he preserves.

“My father spent all the money he earned on gambling, on prostitution. My mother just kept her head down. The disease he caught from another woman killed my mother first. I remember feeling angry and helpless, wanting to run away. So I made a name for myself on the streets. I stole, I beat people up. Until I met Hathai. Beautiful, kind Hathai.”

He pauses and looks up. I close the manual, trying not to make any noise.

“She was convinced I was a good person, probably because she noticed my habit of feeding the cats but never saw me break anyone's nose. I liked that she ignored my faults, though I didn't want to lie to her. So, little by little, as we hung out more and more outside of school, I corrected my behavior. I set out to be exactly the man she thought I was. Because her kindness and her love were two things I couldn't afford to lose. I think that's why I got into the Police. Ha, a law enforcement figure, someone like me...”

He shakes his head. Even though I can't see his face, I know he's smiling bitterly. It's the direct consequence that accompanies sarcasm.

“But the truth is that in the police station, rather than order, there was controlled chaos. There were assaults we prevented and people we saved. There was a lot of blind eye, hasty reports to close a case as soon as possible for selfish convenience. Hathai idolized me for wearing the badge and that was all that mattered to me. Then we got married, we were very happy. When we managed to hold Erika in our arms we rocked her, told her stories, went camping, to the park.... We laughed with her every genius and suffered with her every fever.... But, in spite of everything, we were happy... Very happy...”

His voice has become thin and fragile. I feel an uneasy cramp in my guts when I deduce that what he feels must be what people call loving to the point of exhaustion. It is sad.

“Until that afternoon, when Hathai was victim of a hit and run. That afternoon, six years ago. In the middle of a crowded street, in a second. It was sudden and fatal. Two days later the killer, a fifty-year-old alcoholic, nearly ran over two children. He luckily stamped himself before doing so. The Judge sentenced him to three years in a detoxification center and two years in community services, because he considered that it had been manslaughter under the influence of alcohol... So I left the Police and began to plan my revenge. I was blind with rage and disappointment. So much so that couldn't even see the needs of Erika, a 10-year-old girl who had just woken up to life in the worst way possible. I neglected her for six months. On the seventh, Hathai's parents asked me to leave her in their hands. And I did it. Her heartbroken cryings as I walked away from her resonate in my mind every day.”

He covers his face with his hands. Getting hard at a time like this would make anyone feel guilty. I am used to this inevitable reaction. At least now I'm able to stop it from controlling me. The discomfort that this man's situation causes me is greater than the stinging desire to surrender to my primitive instincts.

"Nodt, am I bothering you?"

I look up and put the manual down on the table when he gives me a sidelong glance.

“I'm listening to you.”

He lets out a deep sigh, he is quiet for a moment.

“You know what's the funniest? That, when I had already reintegrated myself into the underworld, moving here to feed on bad memories and past frustrations, when I had rid myself of all pity, all emotion except anger, when I had prepared myself to die by killing... The murderer was found hanging in jail. A month away from having him within my reach. I could no longer avenge Hathai. I could no longer get my daughter back. I had turned into a monster who couldn't look at her face again. So I started drinking, drinking as much as my wife's murderer and falling down a well, to the bottom. Until ending up as a drug dealer's thug,”

He shakes his head again, gets up from the chair. He leans on the window frame with both hands.

“I no longer have purposes. But I'm such a coward that I don't dare end it all.”

"You'd be a coward if you dared" I get behind him, at a prudent distance. “Living is not easy for anyone.”

I take a cigarette from the pack on the table and feel the immediate calm of the smoke in my head after a slow drag.

“Do you want to hug your daughter?”

“More than anything in the World.”

“Well, there's your purpose.”

“I can't get in front of her again. I can't put her through that.”

"All I wanted when I was a child was for my mother to want to hug me." Peter turns completely. His waterlogged eyes meet mine with a strange mix of emotions. “Despite her indifference towards me when she was alive and the fact that she no longer exists, I always want it. You are here and you feel love. Try it. If you were able to sink into the well with all the consequences, why don't you climb up at all costs?”

“Because…” he leaves the word in the air, covering his face again and, when he discovers it, he asks “how do I start?”

I break the meter that separates us. He expects answers, and I have one. So I move the cigarette from my mouth to his.

"Cleaning up your bad memories." His shirtfront is wet when I shake the dirty fabric, "Peter."

Chapter Text

Blue.

Electric blue and cotton flecks.

Beautiful glowing light that illuminates everything: the green of the grass is so intense that the sap can be smelled from afar.

Indigo lavender in the shadow of the ancient dark trunk. The tree stands imposing across the line of the horizon.

White petals without blemishes. This cherry tree full of beautiful flowers is not like the others. Trunk rough to the touch, its roughness hurts. A thick drop runs through the pale skin with swollen veins.

Orange. Intense orange. It mixes with purple, consuming the luminous color of the sky. The wind rises and it seems that the immaculate flowers...

I feel as if I suffered a hard fall from a terrible height. I have a hard time guessing where I am when I open my eyes. I search with my hands until I find the disoriented response of the strings. My sigh of relief is deep; the repulsive quagmire implanted in my stomach clears up, allowing me to focus my attention on the uneven texture of this old mattress, allowing me to reclose the drawer of horrors present in my memory.

Where are the emergency cigarettes? The heavy boots make a scandal when I walk through this gray second floor as empty as the first. I open the plastic cabinet, stick my fingers into the pockets of the case, pushing aside the small guitar components. The crumpled package has lost its original volume; putting the stub between my lips I realize that I am smoking a lot: One cigarette for each sudden sunset in dreams. Fortunately, the firmament is black this quiet night. Behind this theatrical veil of smoke, it seems that the last piece of moon that remains up there longs for the days when it was whole.

"Always still and alone, and immobile it is never."

"Always watching below and will not descend."

"Always remember and never back a step."

New verses inspire new melodies. I'm about to turn my head to my guitar, but a frantic movement in the clearing captures my interest. I strain my eyes and focus on that point that is moving very fast. There's someone running this way. I go downstairs, standing behind the door, doing nothing but listening. The piercing gasps of exhaustion that I hear seconds later tell me that this person is waiting just like me.

"Mile... hah... Mile, are you there?"

My heart leaps in my chest as I recognize the tone of the agitated voice.

“Bible...”

I grab the edge and yank it with all my might, quickly drawing the heavy rusty door away. Bible is leaning on his own body, bent at the waist. He tries to catch his breath with visible difficulty.

"Mile, do you have time? I need to talk.”

He says it while looking at his shoes, like the night I guided him here.

He must have received a nasty emotional shock.

“Do you want to come in?”

“I prefer to walk.”

"Give me a second, please."

I crush the cigarette butt that dies with a hiss against the ashtray, go up for my guitar and put out all the burning candles. Carrying the case over my shoulder, I close the shelter.

“Whenever you want.”

We set out on a path with no apparent direction. Silence also extends along this long sidewalk that separates the suburbs from the city. Bible bites his lip, his hands clenched in the pockets of his fantastic leather jacket. He looks at the ground at all times as if he were searching for the missing letters of the words he wants to say. Sometimes, his steps hasten. Intuiting the sensations that he is experiencing, I adapt to his rhythm. At a certain point, his anxiety decreases and he walks slower. Two rows of vegetation–huge trees, stylized hedges, radiant blossoms prematurely kissed by spring–welcome us inside this park. These orchids always look beautiful to me.

"You smoke," he states out of nowhere, almost in a whisper.

“Regrettably.”

“Yes.”

I stop for a second to sniff the sleeves of my jacket, detecting the trace of tarred smoke on the fabric.

“Do you dislike the smell?”

"On the contrary," he stops in front of me, "it's tempting. I used to smoke a lot before. Tobacco, among other things.”

“You had sensory curiosity.”

“And wanted to…how to explain it?” With his ring finger pressing on the gleaming frame, he brings the glasses to the top of the irregular bridge of his nose. “Shed skin?”

“Evade the circumstances that surrounded you.”

He raises his sad black eyes, observing me for a moment.

“Yes. Exactly.” His pupils move across the light-colored pavement. “I managed to separate myself from my circumstances for a while. But when I wanted to realize it, they were still there and had gotten worse.”

“Something ended up going completely wrong.”

“Yes.”

“With your partner? With your family?”

“The second anniversary of my mother's death is in three weeks.”

The sentence spoken in one go vibrates inside me like a breaking string. My stomach contracts as much as his lips full of tiny wounds.

“I understand. I do understand, Bible.”

“The worst thing is... the worst thing is that there is...something...someone...”

I stretch out my arm, noticing how much his words choked on him, how his breathing is turning rough. I nuzzle his shoulder and lean in a little closer.

“Ok. It's enough for today.” He lets out a ragged breath, nodding several times in a row. Then a good idea comes to my mind. “I want to show you something, will you come with me?”

He gives me another brief glance and nods again.

I lead Bible across the wide park. We pass by the colored fences that delimit the amusing children's kingdom that is silent now, when the kids sleep. The gravel crunches under the soles, the night turns colder and darker as we approach the bowels of this place. The red building is still here. There is no music or joyous dancing between its low railings, but the stairway to heaven is in the same place. A little brittle, so we climb slowly. We turn and ascend, and once at the top, the ground is thankfully still solid against the light of the surrounding streetlights. Bible stands next to me in the center looking out over the bustling city. We breathe in the playful air that drags the clouds above our heads. The gentle and continuous movement surrounding us evokes a succession of six chords joined in sweet legatos.

"Shall I tell you a secret?" His expectant expression makes me smile embarrassed. “I sometimes search for tall buildings at night. Buildings from which I can see beyond my natural line of sight. It entertains me to imagine what kind of lives are on the other side of the illuminated windows. In that high block full of cold light, for example” I point with my index finger at a construction full of white specks, “I imagine several office workers working overtime. One of them wants to have a cup of tea in a bubble bath while listening to his favorite folk music. He'll do it when he gets home, as a reward for his hard work, even if it annoys the neighbors and he has to deal with a handful of complaints tomorrow. There, behind the violet light of those windows that stand out among all, do you see them? A single person looks in the mirror for the fifth time, feeling secure in the tight fabric of a sensual outfit that will attract the attention of a new lover. And there, in the middle of those two skyscrapers, a baby has sweet dreams with his favorite rattle, the one in the shape of a round star, while he hugs his best friend, a big dog who wags one paw, dreaming of finding a lot of dog treasures among the garden soil.”

A gust of cold wind ruffles our hair and shakes the leaves from the ghostly branches. Bible looks at the distant destination that the triangular tip of my fingernail points to.

“And you, Bible? What do you see?”

“Me?”

“Mn.”

“I see tired people in the darkness of their rooms.”

The discomfort he feels in himself conditions even his imagination.

"I have class early tomorrow," he puts his hands in his jacket pockets, lowering his gaze again. “I should go home.”

“Can I accompany you to the station?”

“Yes. Of course.”

Our rhythmic footsteps grow lazy. I brush these orchids with my fingers as a farewell. Despite the rich variety of storefronts along the streets, he gives attention to any of them. The apathy he feels is completely understandable to me. When feelings are broken, it's hard to look elsewhere than inward.

“Being a teacher seems like a nice profession.”

“Yes.”

“It must be rewarding to see the students grow.”

“It is.”

Though he answers me with short affirmations, he does so without a frown. Calm embraces us when he stops in front of the stairs of the appropriate subway station.

“Here we are.”

“Mn.” He takes his phone out of his pocket and adjusts his glasses looking at the screen. “Are you on time for the last train?”

“Yes.” Taking a breath, he raises his expressive black eyes. “Thank you, Mile.”

I remember the heartfelt “thank you” he gave me in the rain last Monday. Along with my name, it sounds different; the feeling of closeness makes me smile inevitably. I am no longer a stranger to him.

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

I watch as he turns around. He starts down the stairs without looking back. So I call him out loud.

“Bible.” He turns around with his feet on different steps. "Thank you for giving me the chance to listen to you." He shakes his head and sighs. “See you on Friday?” His slightly uneven eyebrows jump a little before he nods, causing a flash of excitement within me.

“See you on Friday, Mile.”

Tonight his back and his face are dry as he leaves. Tonight, I know the fundamental reason for the sadness of his black eyes. His deep sense of loss connects with mine. The underlying melancholy surfaces.

I look for lost tall buildings to calm my own heart.

Chapter Text

I'm becoming one with my fantasies.

“You like it?”

May the tongue make my skin stand on end.

“Tell me...”

May the breath surround my ear.

“Mhm?”

May the nails dig in sweetly...

“Ng... ah...,”

... and the hips warm me inside...

“Apo... ah... ah, ah...”

... and this hand make me cum.

“Ah... aaah...”

May the unconscious thought remind: “This is the precise way to fuck me.”

Satisfaction makes me smile against the sheets.

“I've dirtied your pillows.”

"It's all here." Jeff's fingers gleam in front of the warm paper lamp. I feel how his smile widens behind my right ear. “You wanted to see me badly, huh?”

"Careful when removing the condom, it could spill all over," I return the teasing insinuation. We giggle and he slowly peels his chest from my back. I watch his arm reach over to the nightstand for a handful of Kleenex. The prominent shape of the vein that starts from his elbow and ends between his knuckles looks extremely attractive to me. He grabs my buttocks and spreads them apart, separating us completely with that finesse he puts into everything he does. It feels like he were kneading a pastry that is about to rise by heating it. The simile tickles me amusingly in the belly; his professional hand skills are singularly useful in bed.

“What's with that laugh?”

“Nothing. I just feel great, don't you?”

“Me too.”

“Can you help me turn around? I'm like a pancake stuck to a frying pan.”

"I'm an expert at flipping pancakes." Jeff hugs me, sticks me to his hot body again and falls sideways on the bed, dragging me with him, “see?”

"Such good technique," I grin stretching my legs.

“Thank you.”

We stay this way, laid on the messy quilt of gray wefts. I feel his hips on my ass, and I love the feeling. It's not just that it turns me on. It's nice, spiritually speaking.

"I'm glad you feel better.”

Jeff's voice is velvet just behind my ear. I got desperate to the cafeteria. My anxiety was visible. I couldn't even stop to tell him on the phone; I simply came.

Sean and I were supposed to hug today. Today he has embraced me more than the script demanded. And today he left me a bracelet from my favorite designer on the locker. “Look up”, said the sticker of the cartoons that I have been so fond of since I was two meters tall. I've remembered that Sean knows everything about me. The frustration has been so severe that I almost commit the sacrilege of tossing the expensive jewel in the wastebasket instead of leaving it on top of his own locker. The sticker? I have torn it off. With a rage that has caused my fingers to tingle.

“Why are you so thoughtful? Say what crosses your mind.”

“Today is my Birthday.”

Jeff's stomach goes still.

"Having known it sooner, I'd have prepared something special for you.”

"You've already given me something special."

"There's a couple of hours left until the day ends." He stretches his head, looking at the yellow digits of the digital clock. “Wait.”

Jeff gently shakes me before getting up. I lean against the headboard, watching the defined grooves of his back, the attractive shapes of his shoulder blades, his firm buttocks.

“Where are you going? Don't tell me you're thinking of preparing a Birthday cake right now.”

“Who told you that I only know how to make cakes? I'm a multi-talented gentleman.”

He winks at me, hands resting on the industrial design desk against the pearl gray wall, and grasps the two pulls on the long drawer. From inside the drawer, a large electronic keyboard appears.

"Wow," I celebrate in amazement. Jeff sits in the armless chair with a pleased smile on his face. He adjusts the parameters of the device and does one of my favourite gestures of him: he tucks his tousled hair behind his beautiful ear with the ring finger of his left hand. Then, with a very straight back, he begins to play.

Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday, dear Apo...
Happy Birthday to you.

The classic “Happy Birthday”, endearing and simple.

It's when Jeff gets serious and dances his fingers on the black and white keys. His simplicity turns into complex skill and his voice... his voice into a refined instrument. He accompanies jazz improvisation with vibrating melisma. His naked profile moves as if the music produced by the piano were an electric current that entered through his fingertips and exited through his mouth of small white teeth. His lead foot steps rhythmically, as if used to playing the invisible pedal of a grand piano. And his eyelids, closed, express a profound passion.

... Happy Birthday to you.

His defined chest slowly rises and falls. His lashes split. After the trance, his look is different. It's a look I haven't seen on him before. That's why it touches me in a whole new way.

"Happy birthday, Apo."

"Oh..." I swallow, "thank you, Jeff. It's been fantastic.”

Jeff walks over to the bed with a warm smile. He sits next to me adopting my posture. I narrow my eyes at his still lit face.

“You studied Music. Professionally, I mean.”

“How do you know?”

“Because of your posture. It's that of a classical conservatory pianist.”

His half grin widens.

“Very observant. I've been playing the piano since I was 6. I have a degree in Music Education.”

“Oooooh... so you're also a teacher.”

“That's what the papers say.”

“Have you ever worked in a school?”

“Two years ago, for a semester.”

“You quit so fast? Did you get a class of problematic teens and got so scared you ran away?”

I notice that my question, formulated with obvious joking intentions, makes him stir and sigh. Perhaps I have said something I shouldn't. Jeff, however, pulls himself together quickly, leaning towards me with a raised eyebrow.

"Who told you that I wasn't the one who made them run away in fear?"

“Come on,” I exclaim with completely unconcealed incredulity, “you're one of the most approachable people I've ever met. You sure were a cool teacher.”

“If I want, I can be very severe.”

“Of course. The problem is that you never want to.”

He laughs, sighs again, and drops his head against the padded surface that supports us.

“It's actually the simplest thing you can think of. There are paths that we choose and end ahead of schedule. For some reason, life doesn't want us to stay that way. We can only resign ourselves, accept it and continue on alternative routes that we would never have explored otherwise. Working at the café gives me a peace of mind that perhaps I couldn't get from anything else. I find it really comforting.”

"But it's not what makes you truly happy." Naturally, I keep that phrase to myself. We both know. I just saw it in his expression and he just felt it in his gut while playing the keys. Saying the obvious does not serve except to irritate the emotional wounds.

“Apo.”

“Tell me.”

“Have you ever considered giving up dancing?”

Quitting Dance… when I was sneered at my lack of coordination the first time I stepped foot in a private class? Or that time I sprained my ankle in the middle of a performance and all my teammates started ignoring me? Maybe now, when the scenes with Sean repulse me over and over and over again?

“No. No matter how difficult it is, no matter how unpleasant it becomes to deal with my partner. Dancing is all I know how to do. Dancing is all I want to do.”

Jeff's calm eyes have locked on mine. The resolution of my words has disturbed the peaceful pool of his consciousness as if a handful of exhilarating high-decibel sound waves had passed just over its dull waters.

“Shall we celebrate your determination with a cup of hot chocolate?”

“Please.”

Chapter Text

The pitch black night has become bright morning. The natural gleam of the old wood shines at last, the windows and armchairs look dignified in their clean, colorful fabrics. However, they won't ever be like their first day out of the workshop since they were neglected after the lady that chose them for her house passed away.

Would mom be proud? She would stand in the center of the open doorway of the living room looking around her. She would observe the corridor without mud stains, the lamp that my grandmother gave her as brand new as on that endearing occasion, the now distinguishable green color of the carpet. She would walk with a clenched fist on her chest and, discovering her kitchen tiles free of grime and grease, she would stifle a sob in the palm of that same outstretched hand. She would smile at me silently before going off to rest, with true calm, after decades of restless sleep.

My mother, she would find relief. As I find it in the foaming soap that removes the sticky filth from my life. I scrub hard and yet the water still comes out dark when I rinse. It is not easy to erase the stains of a disastrous existence like the one that has characterized me up to this moment. And something always remains. Footprints, scratches. Nothing will be intact again, but it will return to being useful. Will I be useful again? I doubt it as much as I want it. Desiring it is proof that I have regained hope.

However, just as excitement overflows within me, so it disappears, leaving me with an unbearable feeling of emptiness. Confronting and constantly alternating, the Meaning drives me and the Void destroys me. When it's too hard to bear, I want to drink. I throw my trembling body on the mattress snatching the very slow poison from the bottle.

Before I can intoxicate myself, Nodt comes looking for me. He removes the poison and I do not resist. He lies next to me naked as he feels best. He does not speak but extends his arms, in which I take refuge. It's an unspoken code: he hints that he can offer me more; I fall asleep in his embrace. As hours go by I also want to increase our closeness. But in my conditions I cannot satisfy our desires. Am I shocked by what this man provokes in me? Who would be shocked by the immense emotions that a wonderful person arouses.

He's usually left me when I wake up. Nodt leaves me to solve what I couldn't achieve the day before: when I walk out the bedroom, my unfinished tasks are done and a new handful of my home's deep flaws have become virtues. He never mentions it. His plausible effort does not seem to him a merit to which he should refer. Is he aware of how much it means to me?

This dawn he reads one of his beloved manuals swaying on the sofa as it happens when he concentrates. Moving a little closer, I notice the state of the skin on his thin fingers: there are fiery red cracks on each knuckle, the extreme dryness verging on bleeding. The pale fingernails have broken and are losing attachment. I ask him if it hurts. He says yes, but he doesn't care. "But I do, Nodt. I do," I repeat.

The gray of his indifferent eyes loses its coldness when I kiss his hands with all the care in the world.

Chapter Text

"Have you given it your magic touch, sweetheart?"

"One teaspoon of eucalyptus honey. Are you sure it won't hurt you"

"My glucose is under control. I can indulge in a little treat every now and then. Living in balance, that's the best way to live, son. It's not convenient letting our passions burn wildly like a frightening fire, but we must keep the spark of life alive!"

Gandalf rubs his woolly little nose against Lucille's cheerful tulip dress and the radiant lady cradles him in her arms giving him a kiss on the head. Contemplating the unbreakable friendship of these two companions makes me smile, and it's the kind of smile that comes from absolute honesty. What an important reminder this image is: the beauty of the world is everywhere if one takes the time to stop and look around. These days I am more perceptive than usual to the positive side of things, I feel constantly happy. Surely problems never stop nagging me, but there is a stable spark lit in the center of my mind. As to who is the fuel that keeps that spark alive, I have, of course, my own hypothesis.

"Hello."

A new voice!

"Hello! Come in, please."

The young woman with very long pumpkin-colored hair smiles with her brown eyes, leaves her yellow folder on the bar and sits on one of the stools. I make sure to dry my palms completely before offering my right hand, a gesture that surprises her. Although it is not customary to introduce oneself in a context like this, I am faithful to my own habits. I have always liked getting closer to people.

"Welcome. I'm Jeff."

Joy soon replaces her amazement. Her hand is small and soft.

"Hi, Jeff. I'm Gwen."

"What can I offer you, Gwen?"

"Let's see...", her expressive eyes walk through the boards on the wall behind me, "that sweetened condensed milk Expresso, is it very, very sweet?"

"Very, very indeed."

"Just what I need."

"Marching."

I go for the condensed milk whistling happily. It's not usual for people to notice my cafeteria. My offer, although exclusive, is limited. I can't afford long display cases filled with a wide variety of breakfasts and snacks. Furthermore, the visibility of my business is reduced in this remote corner near the suburbs. Despite this, I am not discouraged. I put special care into everything I do, leaving my personal touch in the details; I evenly distribute the condensed milk at the base of the glass before topping it with a generous amount of Expresso at just the right temperature. The homemade cream that I usually have prepared, softer and less sugary than commercial creams, decorates the aromatic coffee to the edge of the glass with translucent triangular decorations. A bit of cinnamon powder to bring dynamism to the whiteness of the cream and...

"Here you have."

"Such nice presentation. Thanks."

"May you enjoy it."

Gwen's long reddish eyelashes flutter at the scent as she holds the spoon.

"Is this specialty coffee?"

"That's right. I work 3 varieties: Colombia, India and Sumatra Mandheling. Every week I offer a different variety. This one, it's Colombia."

"I knew it. This aroma cannot be found everywhere. Now I understand why Nakhun likes to spend his afternoons here so much."

Nakhun, the serious boy glued to the laptop who only says hello when he comes in and goodbye when he leaves? Even those who are aloof enjoy sharing the things they value with those they appreciate.

"So you're Nakhun's friend."

“Yes,” she says, taking a spoonful of cream. "He says this is the best café in town. And it seems that I won't be able to contradict him. The place is great and this coffee is really good."

"I'm glad you feel comfortable. If you fancy something to snack on, my Friday specialty..."

"Dude, the toilet paper has run out." Bibs approaches the bar, cleaning his glasses with a microfiber cloth. “Tell me where you have the package and I'll replace it if you're busy,” he says before giving the newcomer a cordial look. "Hello."

Gwen waves at him taking a sip of coffee that leaves a funny frothy mustache in the split second it takes to wipe it off with a napkin.

"Don't worry, Bibs, I'll go. Excuse me, Gwen."

"No problem."

He has gone to the bathroom twice, he cleans his glasses every 5 minutes since he's here. He wears light perfume on his skin and has shaved thoroughly. Today he's not here only to chat with me while eating his favourite sweet.

Today Bibs is waiting for Mile.

This afternoon he behaves differently; Although his self-absorption is permanent, his apathy is slight. Over the past three months, I have noticed a worrying progressive introspection in him. However, he has started the conversation when he has walked through the door. He has told me about Grey, about the real estate company's financial scandal his colleages were talking about this morning, about the funny face he drew on a student's exam congratulating her on her eloquence and how she smiled at it. There is a sliver of brightness amidst his dark tribulations. Apo is absolutely right: Bibs has found in Mile a new hope, or at least a small incentive, at this sad time of the year.

Apo. Observant and attentive, he detects details that are difficult to capture. He sometimes breaks through the layers of my body going further than anyone has ever gone. That makes me feel even more naked than I am when I'm with him. That worries me a little.

When I leave the bathroom, Gwen has left her folder near her half-finished coffee. At a glance, I find her talking on the phone on the other side of the window. Taking advantage of the fact that Bibs is alone at the bar, I look at my wristwatch and utter as if it were an innocent comment:

“Quarter past five. Mile is about to arrive.”

“He comes every day at the same hour?”

“He normally comes around half past five. But there are days when he doesn't come.”

“I see" his shoulders rise and fall in a deep sigh, "I see."

“He will come.” I check the display case with a poker face. “He knows you could stop by this afternoon. I'm positive you're aware Mile's kinda interested in you.” He turns red and looks down, pretending to wipe the table with his thumb. I close the display case, rest my elbows on the polished bar and murmur just to the two of us: "Bibs, you've met him alone, right?"

“Give me another donut.”

“Answer,” I demand, noticing how the right corner of my mouth rises as his blush intensifies. “Being your best friend gives me the right to know at least that much, don't you think?”

“We have met alone a couple of times, yes,” he admits after nodding his head at my last sentence. “I find it... relaxing to walk with him. I like chating with him like I enjoy chatting with you.”

The last sentence sounds so blatantly doubtful that it makes me snort in derision.

“Bibs, dude…” I run my fingers through the collar of his navy blue sweater, brushing his collarbone “…you never wear perfume when you come to see me. In fact, you haven't worn perfume since you were fucking that colleage from your same class at University.”

I get a little closer until I can hear the nervous vibration of his heartbeat and I confess in his ear:

“You like Mile.”

He stands still with his gaze squinted to the right, reflecting on what I just told him. Finally, he sighs again, running a hand through his straight hair.

“I don't know. Maybe. I'm horrible at this stuff, Jeff.”

“Just let yourself go. Go with the flow.”

“As if you didn't know how difficult it is to pull the reed from the shore.”

“Mile's arms seem strong enough to free the reed from the shore.”

He wants to deny it again, but a tiny smile escapes his lips This is the complicity between us. I feel an immense relief to recognize such complicity after these strange months.

“Anyway, Bibs, it's great to see you like this.”

“Confused and embarrassed?”

“Excited. We both know it's been a tough two years for you. It's great to see you like this again, really.”

He swallows several times and I clench my teeth, repressing the sudden rueful gesture that accompanies my words. I manage to hide it from his forced smile.

"You worry too much, Jeff. I'm okay.”

So much for the confessions: “I'm fine” always means “let's change the subject.” I hope Mile breaks through that barrier.

“Nakhun says your fingerstyle is amazing.”

“Yeah? Well, I do what I can.”

“Then I'm sure you can do anything with those fingers.”

“Oh...heh heh.”

Wow. Bibs and I turn our heads towards the door with our mouths open in shock. Mile smiles, caressing the top of his own head at Gwen's brutal flirtation. As soon as he sees Bibs—whose face is a poem at this moment—his expression changes from embarrassed to sweet.

“Hello, Bible.”

“Hello...Mile.”

“Jeff”, he offers me his right fist and I reciprocate his gesture trying to hide my confusion.

Because I didn't misinterpret his inclinations, right?

Mile is into guys... right?

Chapter Text

JEFF: "Apo, are you free tonight?"

JEFF (writing...): "We need moral support in the cafeteria."

APO: "Hey, Prof ☺♪"

APO (writing...): "I'll be there at 9:30 pm, what's the problem?"

JEFF: "Mile needs to be probed. He's all smiles with my new client, a very sweet girl."

JEFF (writing...): "Bibs has his hopes up for him. Can you help us clear up doubts? In return, I give you whatever you want ~"

APO: "Ooooh. Damn, we need to find out the truth. Probing is my second specialty, leave it to me."

APO (writing...): "I'll take that as a promise, Prof. I am altruistic with my friends but I never give up a good deal."

“I have never sneaked into a closed building at night.”

"You were the only hormonal repressed one of the four of us when we started growing beards, Jeff."

"Let's just say I'd rather experience the adventure genre in a movie than in real life."

"And perhaps you are also a little clumsy?"

"Bibs can confirm that. He had to help me cross more than one difficult path when we took up hiking. Do you remember that time, when my sneakers got stuck in the mud and you had to carry me like a princess to the nearest gas station so we could call a taxi?"

"Ooooh."

"I remember, mate. The clerk looked at us as if we were from Mars."

"I guess he wasn't used to seeing two men in such situation."

"Do you think it's bad, Mile?"

"The fact that?"

"That two men show themselves that way in public."

"It's unusual."

"Do you mean unusual in a surprising way, or unusual in an offensive way?"

"I would say that the three things usually go hand in hand, from a social point of view."

"Well, it's time for those ilogical things to let go and fade into oblivion, isn't it, Mile?"

"Mn. I agree, Apo."

"Well, it's my turn. Let's see... Apo, stop it!"

"Don't look at me, Jeff. It's my hand that wants to tickle you, blame her."

"I can't focus with your unruly hand running around. Give it to me."

"Okay, here you have it. Throw your question already."

"Let me think..."

"Can you pass me the peanuts, Mile?"

"Sure, Bible. Want some chips, too?"

"Yes, thanks."

"No problem."

“Ok, here's my question: I have never had bisexual tendencies.”

"Ooooh... Jeff, you're drinking?"

"Well, once I fell in love with a girl. I was 13, she was 17. Needless to say, nothing happened except in my head."

"The quiet girl from the bookstore in your neighborhood, you are referring to that girl, right? You told me about her during a drunken exchange of memories, mate."

"Thank you for paying attention to everything I say even in my silliest times, Bibs."

"So you fantasized about a woman..."

"I fantasized what a 13-year-old child is capable of fantasizing. It can't compare to the fantasies I have as an adult, Apo. I guarantee you that."

"I trust you. Your eyes can't lie."

"Water, Bible?"

"Yes, please."

"Shall I put a new glass for you?"

"Yes, thank you, Mile."

"Anytime."

"Okay, next."

"Hold your horses, Jeff. Mile also took a sip at the last question. Mile!"

"Mn? Oh, yes. I drank at Jeff's question because, when I like a person, I don't care what's between their legs. That's why I've been with women and I've been with men."

"The heart gets you more than the body."

"It's a good way to put it, yes."

"I didn't expect less from a sensitive musician like you. And, since you are so sensitive, I guess you have quite keen intuition."

"Mn. I think so."

"Let's see, tell us: what feelings do each of our energies cause in you? Let's start, for example, with myself. What do you read in me?"

"I can see you are outgoing and lively; you are the driving force that moves the conversation forward. Like talking, not just for the sake of it, but to be able to listen to others. You have your worries, but you don't let them interrupt your daily life, probably because you consider that time is a scarce commodity that should be spent enjoying life instead of suffering by paying attention to tribulations."

"Mile is spot on, Apo."

"Yeah, spot on, Jeff. And in our host who is an expert in delicious drinks, what do you see?"

"Jeff is both generous and understanding. He pays special attention to detail, his own, because when it comes to others he usually does not give importance to defects. He is cautious and tries not to invade the personal space of his friends, but the affection and loyalty he feels toward them is genuine. He considers taking leaps of faith, but his responsible conscience is stronger than the most intense of his desires."

"He never moves til he's sure you agree to his intentions."

"He is the most conscientious person I have ever known."

"It is a faithful description of myself, indeed."

"Impressive. Two out of three, Mile. If you leave Bibs as naked as you just left us two, I will admire you forever."

"You don't have to say anything, Mile."

"You're not going to get away by acting grumpy, you know?"

"This is nonsense."

"What do you think of my best friend, Mile?"

"Mn. Bible is, to me, like a song half composed. I can intuit the chord progression, the variation of melody and harmony, what the bridge will sound like. However, I dare not take any unwritten note for granted. If I think of a particular tone, another could manifest itself by revealing itself and joining with the sound that is already familiar to me. So all I can say now is that I don't know the full composition, but I want to find it out. If the song wants to be known, I want to learn it."

"Ooooh... That's just... wow."

"What do you say to Mile's beautiful words, Bibs?"

"I say… I say that... I think we've had enough to drink already. I can't fit a single more drop of alcohol in my body. And I'm tired after the long day. I'd better go."

"Come on, Bibs, tomorrow is Saturday..."

"I'm also leaving, I'm a bit dizzy."

"Mile, you too...? Ooooh. OK, OK, go ahead, you two."

"Here, Bible, your jacket."

"Ah. Yes, thank you, Mile."

"Have a good night."

"Bibs. Text me."

"Sure, mate."

"Mile, come and play whenever you want. This is your home."

"Thanks, Jeff. I will."

"Good night."

"Good night."

Cling cling cling

"You noticed? Mile compares Bibs to music. Bibs is like a song to him."

"And Mile is a musician. He loves music. He meant he likes Bible."

"He likes him and he is dying to get to know him better. Do you think your mate got it?"

"Literature is his specialty. Bibs wouldn't miss a metaphor."

"That's true. Hey, Prof."

"Tell me."

"We have a deal. I have done my part. What is it you have in mind to give me in return?"

"I promised to give you whatever you asked for."

"I ask you for a suggestion."

"Shall we go to the movies on Sunday?"

"OK."

I will never date anyone seriously again.

Chapter Text

The breeze intensifies the smell of liquor that our breaths project as we exhale when we plunge into the cold night. He, Bible, raises the collar of the leather jacket that I like so much, adjusts the maroon scarf with his bare hands. Bible, he looks at me behind his fogged-up glasses, and tenderness exclaims in my insides. One brief moment, this brief moment, the interjection of that tenderness, that fleeting interjection touches a deep sensitive fiber. Have I compared Bible to a song? Before, feeling totally relaxed, I compared his being to Music. Does that mean my emotions are getting more and more excited about him the more I see him? It had never happened so quickly for me with anyone else; This tenderness I feel, these thoughts, these sudden desire to get closer to the edge of his scarf and retract it a little until I can...

I have drunk too much again.

I shake my head and then Bible has me by the elbow. He asks if I'm okay. My answer is affirmative even though apparently I must have gotten dizzy for a moment. He suggests that we walk together until I feel better. His cheeks are flushed and my answer is once again an affirmation. So, we walk.

We walk side by side, and I have the irrational feeling that maybe this is what we are destined to do forever. He no longer holds me, but our sleeves touch. Bible speaks. He speaks and I do everything I can to sharpen my battered attention. When he speaks, it is important. When he speaks, I'm interested in knowing what he has to say. He begins to recite what sounds like a passage from a book. About the night, when it seems endless. About the darkness, which threatens to swallow everything in the endless night. In a context of dark eternal night, one can only survive by becoming a shadow. That way, you decide whether to hunt or lie low. If blackness is not imposed by absolute nighttime, but comes from within, then you hunt. Then you join the night to devour the other shadows, which only long for a ray of happiness in the midst of that terrifying desolation. Thus, some oppress and others suffer. Those who suffer always wonder why. They do not understand the reason why they are prey to the undeserved evil. Those who oppress do not need reasons to cause harm. Regardless of whether they receive kindness or affection, eagerness for understanding, they hurt others.

The fable ends and silence envelops us in the middle of the concrete buildings. Just like the wounded shadows in his story, Bible sighs bitterly. What he has told me, these words murmured over the sound of the traffic, are an indirect way of talking about himself. I know that to talk about pain it is easier to use a secondary route.

I don't want the memories to overwhelm us tonight. Telling him another happier fable, of melodies on rooftops that break the shadows until dawn appears, of a dawn that takes away the fear of a night that in the end turned out to be harmless, finite, we
get to the subway station.

Bible, with his fogged-up glasses and his attractive lips exposed to my view, asks me if I want to see him the next day in the park with the orchids that always seem beautiful to me.

My heart, of course, smiles as well when I accept.

Chapter Text

One turn.
Two turns.
Three turns.

The little plastic toy moves between my hands; the action on the rotating lever tightens the string that wraps around the hidden gear and, by inertia, it begins to loosen little by little on its own, causing what can be seen with the naked eye: the little ears of the doll in the shape of a yellow giraffe speckled with brown dance happily to the rhythm of the funny little feet that stick out of the plastic frame, through which a melancholic little song slips in until, the toy devoid of strength, the song with it also stops.

On more than once we are like this toy: eager for the motivation necessary to keep moving, although made of living tissue instead of industrial. Some people find the drive to move forward relatively easily (me, as I'm able to see it in the small things and the most primitive things), but others lose the ability to reach out to turn their own lever, perhaps because they have forgotten where it is, or because they are afraid to do it, or they have realized the natural effort it takes to do so and that naturalness becomes distorted, artificial and complicated. Then, if someone else notices those difficulties, they can take it upon themselves, if they want, to help the person get back on track. Being careful is essential, in that case.

Act slowly, decisively and delicately, so that the person gradually transmits their sadness.

Repeat the process, this time guiding the person's hand, and check that they start working again on their own.

Act with caution, avoid turning too hard. If you do, the rope will come loose and end up out of its gear. The person will no longer move. Remember this, it is important.

The instruction manual of the human being is complex. It is full of details and variations, making it an inexhaustible source of knowledge. I keep learning. I know, for example, that there are factors common to all people, as I also know that each person has their own unique and non-transferable manual. Few of these manuals have ever intrigued me as much as Peter's.

His story moves me; his way of thinking and acting arouses my curiosity. I always find myself wanting to know more about him, and when I do, I am left wanting to discover something else.

I have a need to understand him, to dive beneath his layers, to reach deep within and see all his landscapes. It's similar to what happens to me with Mile, but it's something different. It is a new situation for me and, since I like novelty, I embrace it.

The wind-up toy stops. I activate it carefully again and my thoughts now...

"Nodt."

I hear his footsteps behind my head. When I look up, I see his black trousers, his leather belt tightened to the max, his white shirt tucked in just the right way, and his face as tired as it is calm. He stares at me from above, causing a pleasant stimulus in various places on my body, he looks at the toy in motion, he smiles.

"Can you make room for me?"

Then we are sitting on the sofa next to each other, he with his feet on the floor and I in the lotus position. The noise of the turbulent night is foreign to us as we listen to the tinkling melody of the little giraffe that now rests between Peter's trembling fingers.

"How's the nausea going?"

"It's given me a break. I was able to get up and clean myself up a bit without my stomach jumping and mixing with my brains. I was a mess. Sorry."

My head marks a lazy denial when I analyze what kind of feeling is behind his eyes attentive to the toy.

"Your daughter's?"

"Yes. It was one of her favorite toys when she was this little", I deduce from the position of his palm with respect to the ground that he refers to an age between 4 and 6 years old . "She loved to watch this giraffe dance and she used to imitate it with her little hands."

The memories make him chuckle briefly. Then, tears appear on the edge of his eyelashes. Feeling such great love looks beautiful. I find it charming and painful and suddenly I have the urge to ask:

"Did you ever fix it?"

"Fix it? Yes, once. Erika was a very careful girl, but there was a moment when she got too excited, didn't measure her strenghth and accidentally broke it. She cried his eyes out. As you know, I am a world-class clumsy person, but I managed to fix it after trying a lot."

"You would have done anything to stop your daughter from crying."

He purses his lips into a sad smile. He leans his head against my shoulder and I hear him sigh heavily. Suddenly, in the midst of the relative silence, in the midst of the physical noise that the half-formed erection causes in my body, I notice a kind of raging waves churning in my stomach and an unfamiliar need arises from it. Words flow.

"I had a similar toy. For some reason, its nice mechanism or its bright colors, I adored it. I couldn't get away from him. It was like there was a light around it, I guess because I saw it through childish eyes. So when it fell off the windowsill and smashed onto the cement floor, it was like darkness suddenly enveloped me. As if it was night in the middle of a summer morning. It felt like a giant rock fell on top of my ribs, crushing my guts. I guess I cried, although I don't remember the tears. I don't know when was the last time I cried." I feel his cold fingers on my chin and I wrap them between my own, which are still warm. “What I do remember is how I felt when I saw the toy fixed the next day. It was shining against the light on the table, in the center of the four corners filled with dirt and piled up trash. A current of powerful, very pleasant energy ran through my entire body. It was like when you see an exceptionally beautiful sunrise when fog has been forecast and it catches you by surprise. I liked that feeling so much that I haven't stopped repairing things since then. I really like the feeling of reward."

"Nodt."

"Peter."

He smiles against my shoulder. Peter likes me to respond with his name when he calls me by mine.

"What would make you happy?"

"Right now?"

"Yes."

"A slice of bread with peanut butter."

"Something more important."

"More important than food when you’re hungry?"

"Something that you would like to have within your reach at this moment and you don't have. A desire or achievement that you aspire to."

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye when he says the word desire. The first thing that comes to mind isn’t the answer he expects. Kissing me has become a regular thing for him, but he’s not ready to fuck. Anyway, that's not that relevant either.

What would make me happy? Genuinely happy.

"Seeing you with your daughter. It would comfort me to see you recovered, with the piece you're missing. With your daughter."

"Really?"

"Really."

Silence isn't awkward when it's implanted between us. It means we need a truce to chew on what to say next. It's a necessary step to take the conversation to the next level.

"I'm still a drug dealer, Nodt."

"But you're changing. You want to quit drinking, and you're quitting. You're doing it for your daughter. It's a change that makes no sense if you don't get close to her."

"Mek won't leave me alone. I'm neck-deep in his world. He won't let me go just like that. He's called me countless times and wants to see me tomorrow without fail, under threat. If I were to just disappear to look for my daughter and by chance he saw her with me in the hypothetical case that Erika accepted me, I'm afraid of what he could do to her. He's capable of horrible things, more horrible than he's ever ordered me to do."

"Mek is the problem."

"Yes."

A wrong piece stuck in the gap between the two pieces that need to be joined together for the puzzle to be solved.

"I see."

I've always been good at puzzles.

In this case, as in most, I only have to move the piece that is getting in the way.

Chapter Text

Virgil freed Dante from Hell.

The medieval writer had lost his way in such a way that he could no longer find even the induced inspiration. His psyche absorbed in Nothingness, which was separated from his body, was denied access to Paradise. But Virgil was there. There, in the middle of the path when Dante was forced to leave the gates of Heaven behind him, Virgil, an admired poet, was ready to guide him toward Redemption. He showed him the desolation of Purgatory, the terrors of Hell, and rekindled the disgraced writer's hope, his desire to "not let myself be destroyed." Then, the poet shared his wisdom with him, propelling him toward Enlightenment so that Dante might once again be able to embrace Life.

Since Virgil was a wanderer, unworthy of Hell and barred from Paradise, he decided to help lost souls rediscover the Fulfillment that had been denied him. A piece of luck for those who knew him implied the fact that Virgil lived in a permanent Limbo. How unfair Existence was to the poet, despite the serenity with which he faced it.

If I had to frame two artists in the same picture, I would choose Mile and Virgil. Both channel the essence of the Beauty of Being and share it with the world in the form of song and poetry. Both are Guides like lit candles on a moonless night of thunderstorm. They are generous, content with temporary settlements, and smile to ease the tears of those who weep. They have an unfortunate past that they clearly try to distance themselves from and only mourn in silence.

Mile doesn't talk about his past. It must hurt him enough to divert his attention from it when it touches the emotional barriers we all build around our most delicate memories. I wonder if I'd get a reciprocal reaction if I were completely honest with him. If I could know exactly what's hurting him, could I give him the relief he gives me? At least I know I'd like to.

It is when I realize how abstracted from reality I am, when I notice my right shoe filled with dirt on the inside from digging furrows in the dusty soil of this park.

The park of beautiful orchids; Mile's favorite place.

As I gaze at the flower petals, I understand. I have so many things on my mind, so much anxiety in my chest. And yet, I feel hope. This hope counteracts everything else, lightens my burdens, my frustrations. That's why it would be foolish to deny that I'm practically in love.

Then, as if being honest with myself had summoned him, I see him approaching from the midst of the people moving in all directions. He raises his bushy eyebrows, smiling at me with his eyes, hiding his mouth behind the navy blue scarf.

"Hi, Bible."

"Hi, Mile."

"Have you waited long? Your cheeks are flushed."

"A while, I guess."

"Sorry." He frees his right hand, bringing the coffee can to his chest while holding it there with his left arm pressed against his own body, and slowly brings it closer to my face. The skin of his fingers is rough and warm, just as I imagined. "Better?"

“Better. Thanks.”

Only when I open my eyes and withdraw, returning the smile, does he pull away. He offers me the cappuccino he's holding in his left hand and keeps the black coffee. He prefers bitter coffee?

“Thank you.”

“You know, I heard a celestial curiosity on the radio this morning.”

“The northern lights thing?”

“Mn. That's right. They appear in places where they've never been seen before in the Modern Era. Isn't it impressive that they are multiplying?”

“Such as natural disasters.”

“A beautiful phenomenon for every misfortune? As if the Universe wanted to compensate its devastating power with Beauty.”

“Or, as if with that glimpse of Beauty, it wanted to fuel our delight only to destroy it with a solar storm.”

“It's really interesting how open intentions are to different interpretations.”

“You can understand them optimistically.”

“Or pessimistically. And anyone could be right.”

"Or no one."

We arrive at a bench in front of the children's playground. Mile lets go of his inseparable guitarcase and we sit down to enjoy the coffee.

I feel the sweetness dilate my pupils as I catch a glimpse of a little girl helping an even younger boy build sandcastles. Assailed by a residual feeling, I caress my right thigh almost without realizing it.

"My sister helped me build sandcastles."

I am speechless for a moment at the sudden confession in the form of an off-hand comment.

His sister.

His eyes shine brightly, watching the same children who have caught my attention. Since he doesn't say anything, I decide to talk.

“Mine used to stop me from building them. She would step on my sandcastles, step on the center of my open legs, hard. She would step here.”

Mile looks down at my right thigh which I caress again, this time deliberately. He frowns, as if he's understood the meaning of my words, and something warm spreads in my chest.

“Your older sister?”

“Yes.”

“Was she jealous?”

“Jealous of me? I don't think so. I was a strange child. My relatives didn't like me. Well, I rather think that, except for one of my aunts, none of them understood me. They saw me as a withdrawn, quiet child, constantly immersed in books, in the piece of sky that could be seen through the window. Sometimes my father called me retarded, especially when he showed me suggestive photos of models from adult magazines and I ran away. Seems that I was the reason that encouraged him to ask my mother for a divorce to disappear from the map. My sister began to be cruel to me because her weird brother fragmented the family unit where she was living comfortably.”

“If your family ties didn't tighten around someone as special as you, it can only mean that they were actually scattered from the start.”

Mile smiles twice as wide as my pleased expression reflects in his expressive dark irises. I shrug and sigh, enjoying his indirect compliment without knowing what to say. Then the layer of gray clouds thickens over us.

“The problems must have come from before. It takes a trigger, supported by a pile of disagreements, for a family that wants to give the impression of being traditional to allow the social uproar of a divorce. But I can understand that, for my sister, I was the cause. She was a 14-year-old teenager when my father left home, and she had heard my name a lot of times in the midst of arguments. Plus, her friends walked away from her when that happened. We were members of a little Christian community, you know? Hence my name, imagine the devotion.” A couple of strands escape from his ponytail as he nods at my clarification and I gather them behind his ears which, feeling my touch, turn red in a way that I find adorable. “She needed a catalyst, and on top of that I said at the table that God did not exist. I really infuriated her. And my mother. And if my father had heard me, he would have slapped me so hard my face would have been scarred for life. ”

“Religion was the cornerstone of your daily life.” I nod, taking the last sip from the crispy can. “Religion is a double-edged sword. It enlightens, but when it enlightens too much, it blinds.”

“Certainly.”

“So you have no Religion?”

“No. And you?”

“Me neither. Once I had it, though. My Religion was my family.”

What was your family like? I keep the question to myself as I watch him lower his gaze to the ground while unconsciously hugging himself.

“I see.”

A gust of wind, scented with street food, stirs the treetops. Is there a waffle stand nearby? Would he like waffles? He must be hungry, and it would be a good idea to get something to eat. I'd like to treat him.

“Does she blame you for something else?”

“Huh?”

“Your sister.”

Suddenly, I feel uneasy. Not because of Mile, but because of the memory of the insistent calls, of the impending visit. That I'll have to see her again, that I don't know how to face her, that I don't know if I'll have the strength to...

"Relax."

His hands hold my shoulders and his body, standing in front of me, shields me from prying eyes.

"Breathe and look at me. Bible, look at me."

I regain control of my ragged breathing by focusing on his face. He's recognized my anxiety attack before I could detect it.

He must know this feeling. He must know it terribly well.

Suddenly searching for myself in his eyes, I catch the shadow behind the shimmering glow.

I recognize Sadness in the still waters of the lake.

Mile blinks then; assaulted by the incipient rain, we both blink. We look at the guitar case and, as if some spiteful clouds could hear our fear, it pours.

He doesn't have to ask me to follow him. I get the message when he picks up the case and starts running towards the gazebo from where he likes to look out over the sleeping city. The sound of shoes hitting the puddles echoes, and my glasses get wet, and I'm almost unable to see what's in front of me. The water, driven by the wind, rushes up my nose, and I have to stop to get breath, unbuttoning my jacket with the intention of covering my head with it when I glimpse Mile abruptly changing direction, surprising me. I frantically wipe my glasses with my hands and see him slip and fall into the mud just before reaching a crying girl a few meters from the gazebo.

"Are you okay? Where are your parents?"

"I don't know... I don't know!"

“Don't worry, come under cover and we'll look for them as soon as the rain stops, okay?

The little girl takes Mile's hand, and as they start walking, a woman runs up and snatches her away with frightening fury.

"Where were you taking my daughter? Where were you taking her, you bastard?”

She pushes Mile, and I can't stay silent.

"Ma'am!" I run toward them, catching their attention. "Mile was just trying to help your lost daughter."

"What?" she asks, confused.

"Mile was going to take your daughter to the gazebo so she wouldn't get wet until it cleared up and they could go out and look for you, ma'am."

She looks at us with her eyes and mouth wide open, processing the information.

“I swear I had no bad intentions, I just...”

"I'm sorry," she says from the heart, cutting off his sentence. "I'm so sorry, and thank you."

The lady gives the bag she is carrying to Mile and runs off with her daughter after saying goodbye to us. We're stunned for a moment by the sudden encounter in the pouring rain, and finally, we enter the gazebo.

We look like a couple of chards rinsed under the tap.

“Is the guitar wet?” I ask when Mile puts the case on the cement floor to check. He breathes a sigh of relief at the dry lining.

“Luckily, we took shelter in time.”

“I see. I'm glad.”

The bag the lady gave us as a token of gratitude contains a clear plastic package with a nice blueberry pie inside.

“Mile.”

“Mn?”

“Do you like blueberry pie?”

“Mn.”

“Shall we eat it together at my house when it stops raining?”

Click, clack, the clasps resonate as they fit. He stands up and looks at me with curiosity. I wipe a smear of mud from his soaked face and give him a quick kiss above his right eyebrow. He kisses my left temple before responding with his signature mn, adding the words:

“Sounds good to me.”

Chapter Text

I wonder what the movie was about. I left the theater before it ended. I wouldn't have been able to pay attention to what was happening on the screen anyway. There were too many people, the amount corresponding to a non-working day. The heat was too high, the popcorn was too salty, the soda didn't quench my thirst...

... and the seat next to mine was empty.

Where did I put my foot in it? The date had started well. Apo emerged from the station with a radiant smile on his lips and an enviable demeanor. He told me he'd bought the tempting pair of black leather pants he was wearing with me in mind while he played with the cream on his bun and stole bites of mine. I inevitably shower him with praise when he tried on a stack of sunglasses that looked perfect on him, a stack he then wanted me to try on while he looked pleased. We took shelter from the rain in the cinema lobby and, inspired by the colorful poster for a children's movie, we started talking about our favorite cartoons as kids. Before going in to watch the movie, he said he was going to the bathroom and kissed me goodbye with a promise he'd be right back, so I happily went to wait for him in the row of seats we'd chosen, with a happy expression so big on my face that the corners of my mouth almost hurt. The trailer for another new superhero movie started when my phone vibrated.

“I have to go, sorry.”

My head went down from the clouds, my heart fell to the ground. At first, I didn't understand what had just happened. Then I deduced that Apo had stood me up with a text message, and my emotions churned in my stomach.

If I wonder why he did it, I'm even more intrigued by how he did it. I wish he had told me face to face, that he had explained the problem to me. Apo is usually sincere; I didn't imagine he could leave me with such uncertainty between my brows.

Because I believed, I truly believed, that we had connected.

Maybe it's that going on a date has felt like a step forward in our relationship only to me and not to Apo. Or maybe I've lost my charm outside of the coffee shop, where my hands are always busy working or paying attention to his body. Idle, my hands don't know what to do, and that reveals my clumsiness. Three years of being single have taken their toll on my romantic skills, so he's the one who's had to choose the pre-movie activities. Taking the initiative didn't seem to bother him, but how can I be sure?

I know very little about his origins, about what he's been through. I barely know Apo. One of the things that worries him and his greatest passion are the only details I'm able to understand. However, his very existence gives me hope.

Maybe I'm getting my hopes up too quickly. This isn't the first time that getting my hopes up has played tricks on me. I end up in a slump, the painful certainty that I've made a fool of myself hammering my mind. My pride swears I'll be emotionally cautious from now on, knowing full well that this isn't in my nature. Brooding over the disappointment, I search for the keys in the pockets of my gray coat after exiting the subway station, eager to drink half a bottle of brandy by myself. As I turn the corner, I spot a familiar silhouette in front of the door to my closed shop. All my thoughts pile up, and the racing heartbeat inside my chest blurs. Apo hands me a black sunglasses case, his right arm extended.

"I love how they look on you. Will you take them?" I nod, stumped. I don't know whether to say thank you. I don't know what this means. "Jeff, shall we go inside? I owe you an explanation."

There's no trace of his characteristic playful expression on this serious face.

Chapter Text

SEAN: (text message) "Apo, have you seen the routine modifications Sam posted in the group chat?"

APO: (text message) "I'll see them tomorrow, why?"

SEAN: (text message) "Tomorrow? What can you possibly be busy with on a Saturday afternoon?"

APO: (text message) "If you're not going to tell me anything relevant, this conversation ends here."

SEAN: (text message) "I need you to come home, Apo."

APO: (text message) "I'm going to block you. We'll only communicate through the group."

SEAN: (text message) "If you don't come, you'll make me do something crazy."

“Don't turn on the lights, please.” Jeff takes his hand off the switch and follows me silently to the first table. “We'd better sit down.”

We sit facing each other. Jeff slowly places the case I gave him on the polished surface. His silver earring gleams in his pretty ear in the light from the streetlights, which relentlessly follow us even though we've moved away from the long window.

Jeff, his face tilted, neither looks at me nor smiles. This afternoon he was full of excitement and now he expects the worst. Sensing that unwelcome feeling in this radiant person reminds me how unfair the world is, the world I include myself in despite hating having hurt him. The only way I can think of to make up for my unjust act is to tell him the truth. To tell him everything, so the uncertainty doesn't upset him. I must make it clear that the problem isn't, under any circumstances, him. I have to remove the needle pressing against my throat preventing words from coming out, and since I have to, I do.

"When I mentioned that my relationship with my coworker was bad, I didn't tell you why, did I?" I pause to gather the courage to be as direct as possible while he nods. "He's one of those people who reappear in your life much against your will. In my case, he's "the" person. It's my ex-husband.”

His shifty eyes jump out in surprise and lock onto me. As he finally looks at me, a bitter smile forms on my lips due to his situation, which is my situation, of raw emotions being exposed.

Therefore, I dare to remember out loud for Jeff.

I was crying after a disastrous performance. The pain of feeling useless overwhelmed the stabbing cramps in my calves, which I had pushed to the limit without achieving any better results. My sharp-tongued classmates would be sure to remind me that those legs, stiff with nervousness and insecurity, had been unable to nail the exits from the stunts. I was no good. I was no good at dancing, and yet, dancing was my reason for being. While I desperately wondered what the hell would become of me, the man with the blue eyes sat on the wooden stool in front of me, wiped my tears, and kindly offered to let me practice with him after class. He liked my style, he said; it moved him. I admitted that I had always been drawn to the elegance of his. We met at the studio the next day. That man's name was Sean.

Weeks passed, and the topics we touched on in our conversations began to take on a personal tone. He confessed that he was fed up with family pressure, as his parents insisted he take over the pharmacy his grandmother had founded in the city. I revealed to him that, although I enjoyed the unconditional support of my mom and dad, I experienced a primitive and unjustified unease; a feeling of incomplete belonging stemming from being a beloved, non-biological child, and, because I was loved, the rootlessness implicit deep within me made me feel guilty. As he listened attentively, as he caressed my face without judgment, I kissed him. Sean reciprocated my daring gesture without hesitation.

I truly fell in love for the first time because Sean was perfect. Dance united us, and our mutual understanding was integral. So I didn't hesitate to accept his marriage proposal a year later. I finally had a place where I felt I truly belonged. He was “my” husband, “my” family, in that full way in which the “my” is genuine and without a shadow of doubt. I felt capable of anything by his side. The feeling of being flawed was over, because he loved me and I loved him, because we admired each other and grew together day by day in every aspect of our lives.

Aren't you bored?

He asked me that question while we were having dinner on our first wedding anniversary. I didn't understand the weight of his question amidst the exquisite ceramic plates and the sparkling Bohemian crystal, so he added a more insightful one:

Don't you think our sex life has become a little dull? Don't get me wrong, I love you madly, but I think we need to rekindle the passion. Why don't we open up our relationship? Just for fun, to have a good time and discover new things together. Besides, I know what you like, honey, no one knows better than I do, and I have a couple of friends you'd love.

My guts churned, but how could I refuse? We had never experienced a disconnection. Now that it was here, all I could do was pretend. I decided to rely on the blind trust I had in Sean and gave in to my husband's desires.

A tangle of sweaty bodies, the taste of strange kisses, the plaintive desire conjured with a wide-awake imagination and closed eyes... The sum total derived from the fixed figure that constituted the suffering of watching him enjoy himself with someone else stirred in me a disgust and helplessness equivalent to being up to my mouth in mud.

I had to convey my discomfort to him. I did it at night, in the dark, fearing that the unease in my features would deepen the wall that had built between us. Sean played it down.

It’s all about letting go of inhibitions, darling. Sharing sexual experiences with multiple people is one of the most exciting things in life. If you love me, open your mind and enjoy it with me.

If you love me, accept that I’m not capable of enjoying it, I replied. He laughed and hugged me, and I wanted to believe he understood.

Maybe he understood, but that didn't change the fact that he invited his friends back to our house the following weekend. He asked me to fuck one of them so he could watch us, and I gave in again. Seeing the sick lust in his eyes, the invisible wall between us hardened and separated us irreconcilably.

I filed for divorce the same day I moved into the penthouse of the building where Bible lives.

You need time, I understand. You'll get over it, honey.

To avoid faltering, I changed my phone number and hid my new address from him. Far from what was no longer my home, I healed my heart by working with all my will, taking refuge in my parents, who felt my disappointment as if it ran through their very blood, and I learned to genuinely value all the good things around me. By honing my technical skills, I earned the respect of my dance company and regained my happiness, my self-esteem, and my sense of humor. Three years later, I was offered the lead role in an international performance that could give me the chance to dance around the world, conveying a precious and essential idea: the acceptance of the self, the process of integrating all parts of the human being into a functional Whole through complex, high-level choreography. I gladly accepted, and the director introduced me to my stage partner that same day.

There was Sean, with the same blue eyes, ready to embody the other half of my character.

Since rehearsals began, I've avoided him, and he haunts me, like the shadow I represent on stage stalks the light he represents in fiction. I hate him, I feel nothing but repulsion for him, and yet...

If you don't come, you'll make me do something crazy.

Arriving breathless at what used to be my home, entering the security code that still resides in my memory, feeling the stillness chill my blood, wondering if my leaving really affected him, if my rejection had hurt him enough to give up his own life if he had to live it without my attention... Seeing him in the living room offering me a glass of my favorite wine with a cheeky, satisfied smile.

I knew you'd come, baby. You still care about me. You still love me as much as I love you.

“He said he knew I'd go because he thinks I still love him as much as he claims to love me. He's probably unaware that threatening to take his own life would mobilize anyone with the slightest sense of duty. It's the last condescending gesture I give the jerk I dumped you for. As I walked back to the theater with my phone running out of battery, I called myself an idiot a million times for leaving you such a short, ambiguous message. When I didn't find you there, I made myself a promise I'd like to share with you. I'll never treat you with as little care as I did this afternoon, do you believe me?”

Jeff's dismayed look and furious frown confront me directly. He's silent for a moment, and I sense that both the sadness and the anger are empathic in nature as he rises from his chair and slowly hugs me from behind, wrapping his arm around my neck with a kind of affection that makes me feel relieved to the point of collapse. I squeeze his cold hand, feeling his deep sigh on my shoulder.

"If you're hurt, if I've hurt you... I'm sorry I hurt you, Jeff."

“I was confused. I thought I'd messed up, that I'd disappointed or inconvenienced you. But now I understand. I understand you, Apo, so you have no reason to feel bad about what happened at the theater. Thank you for explaining everything to me.”

He gives me a warm kiss on the cheek, and I let myself be swept away by his affection for a few moments, restoring my disordered calm. Part of me wishes this circumstance could last forever. But “forever” is a word that sound more treacherous than trustworthy to my mind.

“Jeff, I must warn you about something.” He nods, his head buried against my collarbone. “Commitment scares me. Knowing I'm in a relationship with a view to the future would make me obsess over its expiration date. Be honest with me, is it okay for us to live only in the present?”

He sighs again, tightening the hug and whispers, “I'm fine with being with you however you want, Apo.”