Real Life(15)

He felt empty when it was done. He blotted the vomit from his mouth, brushed his teeth, and went back into the living room. He sat at the edge of the couch and folded his legs under himself. Outside, the moon was a perfect white circle. The world was still and quiet. He could see into the building across the alley, into the lives of the people who lived there. One of their lights was on, and there was a man ironing at his kitchen table.

The sounds from the other apartments in the building gave a texture to the silence of Wallace’s apartment. He heard someone singing off-key to a song that was popular that summer. And then, farther off, a ringing sound, not like a phone, but like water hitting a pipe.

Wallace was nervous about his friends finding out about Miller, not because he was ashamed of it, but because he was afraid Miller would be and wouldn’t want to do it again.

One blow job in the dark. That was it.

“Where are you?” came a voice from the other room.

“I’m out here,” he said, his throat still hot.

Miller came dragging out of the bedroom with Wallace’s comforter wrapped around him. He sat next to Wallace. He smelled sour from sweat, but still very good, pleasant.

“What are you doing out here?”

“I didn’t want to wake you up.”

“You couldn’t sleep?”

“No,” Wallace said, smiling a little. “But that’s nothing new.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why can’t you sleep?”

“I don’t know. It’s been hard since my dad died.”

“I’m sorry,” Miller said. He nodded as he said this, and then he kissed Wallace’s bare shoulder.

“Thank you,” Wallace said.

“Were you two close?”

“No, not really—that’s the crazy thing, isn’t it? We didn’t even really know each other.”

“My mom died two years ago,” Miller said. “She had breast cancer for a long time, and then it was in her liver and then it was all over her body. She died at home.”

Wallace put his head on Miller’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“What I know is that it doesn’t matter if you didn’t know them or they didn’t know you. My mom was a real bitch. She was mean and hateful and a liar and spent my whole life tearing me down. But when she died, I really . . . I don’t know, your parents aren’t people until they’re suffering. They aren’t people until they’re gone.”

“Yeah,” Wallace said. “That’s it. Or some of it, anyway.”

“My mom died, and I thought, Oh shit, oh shit. Because I had spent so long hating her, resenting her, and then she was suddenly facing this thing she couldn’t beat, and I just, I really felt for her.”

“Did you say good-bye or anything?”

“I was there every day,” Miller said. “We played cards and argued over television and she made fun of the music I liked and I cooked for her and she told me she loved me.” Miller’s eyes had begun to darken, cloud with tears, but none fell. “And then she was gone.”

“I’m sorry,” Wallace said, stupidly, lacking anything more significant to say.

“I can’t tell you what to do about your dad. I can’t tell you what to feel, Wallace. But I’m here if you need me. I’m your friend if you need me. Okay?” He took Wallace’s hand and Wallace let him. They kissed again, tenderly, faintly, briefly. It seemed silly to them, and they laughed. But then Miller lay on top of him and drew the blanket over their bodies, and Wallace, for the first time in a long time, let someone inside him. It hurt at first, like it always did, but that pain and the joy of his body remembering its keenest pleasure was enough to get him hard again, and through it. Miller was easy on him, but he knew what he wanted, and he pursued it relentlessly. They were both breathing hard by the time it was over.



* * *



? ? ?

THEY WIPED THEMSELVES clean in the bathroom light. Wallace felt like a beaten egg, frothy and messy. There was a throbbing heat inside him, like a private little sun glowing. Miller looked at him with clear, sober eyes.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” he said. “I am very confused by all of this. I don’t know what to do about it.”

“That’s fair,” Wallace said, choking back hurt. “It’s fine.”

“No, let me finish. I don’t know what I’m doing. It’s all probably wrong. But I liked this. It was good. Don’t beat yourself up.”

“I’ll try not to take it personally.”

“Wallace.”

“Okay—thank you for your candor.”

“Forget it, forget it.”

“No, let me try again.”

But Miller was already leaving the bathroom and going into the kitchen. Wallace followed him.

“Hey, where are you going, come back, I’m sorry.”

“Can I have some water?”

“Sure,” Wallace said, but his cheeks and neck were hot because he remembered from before, the drinking and throwing up. He poured Miller a glass, the same one he had been using. He watched Miller drink, the flex of his throat, the swallowing action. He thought of his own mouth on the glass, the transference of his taste to Miller’s lips. Did he taste him there?