Real Life(77)

The hot water feels good on Wallace’s face and shoulders. He collects it in his palms and splashes it over his eyes and mouth. The water in this city is hard, so it is treated aggressively with chemicals. It tastes alkaline and smells strongly of something like chlorine, though Wallace isn’t sure of the exact chemistry. Miller puts his arms around Wallace’s shoulders again, sinks against his back. Their wet skin sticks together a bit. The light from the vanity is gauzy yellow as it spills over the shower curtain. Wallace can feel, through the wall of water and steam, the press of Miller’s lips against his neck again, tracing the place where the bruises are growing as if he could push them back down forever with an act of tenderness.

The alcohol is still in Miller, coming out of his skin, especially now that they’re sweating in the shower. Wallace turns to him. The water is soaking into his hair and striking Miller’s throat, turning it red on impact. Miller laughs and looks down at him. He has to bend his knees a little. He’s too tall.

“This is not as easy as I thought it would be,” he says.

“It never is.”

“I guess that’s true,” Miller says. Wallace puts his fingers flat to Miller’s stomach. Miller shakes his head, and water flies everywhere, striking the curtain. They are as clean as they are going to get this way, so Wallace shuts off the water and they get out. There’s only one bath towel, so Wallace dries himself first and then hands it to Miller. Wallace sits on the counter watching Miller pass the towel over his long limbs, his body somehow more impressive now in this room that seems too small to contain him. Now that Miller has washed off the grime and blood, Wallace can more appreciate the dark purpling where his fist landed earlier, and also the gash that is already healing along Miller’s cheek where the guy at the bar must have punched him. He’s got a split and swollen lip. And there’s an oblong-shaped bruise along his spine. It’s ugly, Wallace thinks, and like the photo negative of something else, the imprint of the thing still unsaid between them. Miller is looking at him, wrapping the towel around his waist, and there’s something like a smile on his lips, but it loses its shape almost immediately, turning sadder, or at least more inward, darker.

The bathroom is humid. Miller sets his weight against the counter, bracing his fingers on either side of the sink basin. His reflection is occluded by the mist on the mirror. Wallace lets his bare skin stick to the glass.

It’s cold and wet, despite the warm air in the room.





9





At some slim dark hour, one of the last of night, Miller and Wallace wake in his bed again.

“I’m hungry,” Miller says.

“All right. Let’s feed the wolf,” Wallace says. Miller growls, though there’s no threat left in it.

In the kitchen, they take familiar postures. Miller sits on one of the high chairs, his elbows on the counter. Wallace stands behind the counter, surveying the ingredients in his refrigerator. The food he rejected on Saturday now holds new potential, because he is not cooking for many people and does not have to chart the landscape of their preferences. It is late, so he has only the topology of hunger to consider, the abatement of emptiness. Miller was likely raised up on the same kinds of food as Wallace—meat and vegetables, starch, lots of oil and grease, the kind of food their friends look down upon because it lacks elegance or restraint. But here in the cool darkness of his kitchen, he can make whatever he wants for the two of them, does not have to consider how others’ palates might diverge. Wallace props his knuckles on his hip and taps his toes against the floor, thinking, looking into the cold, bright interior of his fridge.

“You know, the other night,” he begins. “Friday, I mean, I thought about making dinner for you.”

“You did? Why?” Miller asks, and though Wallace is not looking at him, he can tell that there is a smile growing.

“Because you said you were hungry. And Yngve was giving you such a hard time. You looked so pitiful. I thought, I could make him something. But then I thought better of it.” Wallace takes some fish from the freezer. He takes eggs from the fridge and flour from the shelf in the cupboard. He crouches and removes from the low pantry some vegetable oil, its container slippery and filmy with grease.

“Why didn’t you offer?” Miller asks, and Wallace shrugs as he rises from the floor and puts the oil next to the other ingredients on the counter.

“I don’t know—I guess I was afraid of you finding out how much I liked you. It seemed kind of . . .” Wallace’s voice tapers into silence, and he takes a large, deep skillet from beneath the stove. He runs his finger around it, finding its surface dry and smooth, no trace of oil. Good. He did a good job cleaning it earlier. He nods to himself. What he was about to say was that such a display would have felt vulgar in a way, that to make so gross a statement about his feelings, or his attitude, seemed too direct, too intrusive. Affection always feels this way for him, like an undue burden, like putting weight and expectation onto someone else. As if affection were a kind of cruelty too.

“But now you’re cooking for me.”

“So I am,” Wallace says, pushing the carton of eggs and a blue mixing bowl over to Miller. “Please break three or four eggs into this. And beat them, not too hard, just mix them up good, please.”

Miller nods, accepts the task. Wallace rinses his fingers in a quick spurt of water and opens the flour bag. He tilts it over so that a clump of flour dislodges itself from the bulk and tumbles into a wooden bowl with a soft splat. Flour shoots up into the air, curls as if slowly gesticulating. Wallace considers putting the fish fillets in warm water, though he knows you aren’t supposed to do this. You are supposed to warm meat up slowly in the fridge, letting the temperature rise gradually and evenly without the risk of bacterial contamination.