You (You #1)(40)

“That ladle is still in our house to this day, as if he’s coming,” you say. “Life is mean.”

I put my hands on your shoulders and you look at me, expectant.

I speak, “I’m getting this for you.”

“Joe.”

“No ifs, ands, or buts.”

The world stops and your eyes gloss over. The Benjis of the world don’t understand what you want, someone to make you pancakes. You don’t care about money. You don’t want to be spanked. You want love. Your father had a red ladle and now I have a red ladle and I will make you the pancakes you want so badly, the pancakes you haven’t tasted since he died. Your mouth waters and you submit, softly. “Okay, Joe.”

You pick up a silver ladle. “Fresh start,” you say and you are right.

I am your boyfriend.





15


I cross Seventh Avenue and smile at every single person who passes by. I am happy. I don’t even think I’m walking right now. It’s just a dream and if I started to sing and dance, I wouldn’t be surprised if all the strangers got in line and followed along. What a magical day with you and now to think of you in your place, showering and shaving those legs so they’re nice and smooth for me, brushing the meatball gristle out of your fine little teeth. I can’t wait to touch all of you and I am carefree as a guy in a beer commercial as I make my way down Bank Street.

It’s actually possible that we can have sex tonight and I really didn’t think we would get here this fast. But Benji is still out cold and I put a twenty-dollar salad and a bottle of Home Soda in the drawer for him, so he’ll be fine for hours. I am free and I am literally walking up the stairs to your stoop and pressing the buzzer and waiting for you to come jogging to the door, which you do.

“Entrez vous.” You giggle and I walk into your lobby and it’s happening, we’re going to fuck. Your hair is damp and your pores are gone and there’s no bra under that tank top and there are no panties under those low-slung, threadbare sweatpants and you’re not wearing any socks.

“I’m kind of a slob,” you say as you open the door and I want to tell you that I know but I don’t.

“This isn’t so bad,” I say and I’m not sure where to go. It’s an awkward space with you in it and it’s so small that it really is meant for one. You stand in front of me with your hands on your hips looking around at all the girl stuff strewn about, magazines and matchbooks, empty vitaminwater bottles, and coupons and receipts, brand-new books, unread, mixed with beloved books, torn and frayed. It’s a minefield of shit and maybe that’s why you’re just staring at all of it. There’s a galley kitchen ahead to the left and there’s a new toaster and the box from the new toaster on the floor and you really do like new things. The bathroom door is to the direct left and the light is on and the fan is blowing and I reach in and turn off the switch. It was a strange thing to do, and I know it and you are freaked out but thank God you like me so you make a joke of it and laugh.

“Well, yes, Joe, go ahead and make yourself at home,” you say and you make your way across the minefield, past the TV and into the bedroom.

I take off my jacket and hang it on the standing coatrack. You turn around and scrunch your pretty little nose at me.

“Get in here,” you say.

“Yes, miss,” I say and I step on a fucking hanger and it snaps but I just keep going.

Your room. There’s a bottle of vodka on the floor and two brand-new glasses (not IKEA), and a paper cup of ice that you pick up and show to me.

“Pretty ghetto, right?” You laugh.

“Nah, ghetto would be if it was in a paper towel.”

You giggle and pour ice and vodka into both cups and sit down on the floor by the box of bed. There is music on, the Bowie from our date, and you pat the floor and I sit down across from you.

“Someday I’ll be the kind of girl who always has mixers in the fridge,” you say.

“Good to have goals.”

You smile at me and get on your knees and move closer to me and I lean forward to meet you and when I take my glass I very deliberately feel your hand against mine.

“Thanks.”

“No problem,” you murmur and somehow, like a ballerina, like a pretzel, your legs relax and spread and you are sitting like a yogi with your bare feet pressed together. You sip your vodka and look up at the ceiling. “I hate all those marks.”

“No, Beck, this is an old building. Those marks are the history.”

“When I was a kid, I wanted glass box walls. You know those frosted glass boxes? Like from the eighties?”

“You like new things,” I say.

You are quick to come back. “You like old things, Joe.”

“I like it here,” I say and I look around the room. It’s smaller than I remember or maybe it’s just hot. I want you. “You think your new bed’s gonna fit in here?”

“I had a queen before.”

You’re wrong, because your old bed was a double and it barely fit but I can’t correct you. You lick your lips. “So, can I be your assistant?”

“No,” I say. “But you can be my apprentice.”

I always say the right thing to you and it was like that right off the bat. You like words and I know words and we toast for no reason and throw back our drinks and I stand first. I offer a hand to help you up and I’m holding one of your hands, and now both of your hands. This time you’re not letting go and I’m getting hard and you’ve got me with my back against your window and I can hear leaves rustle on trees. Cars swoosh up West Fourth, right through my gut. My senses, Beck, you turn me on, literally, and the wind nips at my back through the screen on the window. You take my hands and you slide them onto your hips, guiding. You maneuver my fingers one by one beneath the elastic waist of your threadbare sweatpants and anyone outside walking by could see us and you bring my hands lower and your butt is soft and yet hard and round and I’m cupping your ass and you let go of my hands and reach up and wrap them around my head and it’s on.