Memorial(27)

That makes sense.

Of course it makes sense. I’m fucking paying for it.

But does it always work? I ask.

Ask me in an hour, says my father.

The two of us sit with our legs kicked out. We haven’t done anything like that since I was a child. Every few seconds, my father wiggles his toes, and they waggle in intervals, like a fountain.



* * *





After not very much time at all, there’s a knock on the door.

Shift’s over, says Lydia, to me, holding a greasy sack of food. You can go back to prom now.

Prom’s over, I say.

Then try the after-party, says Lydia. Unless you weren’t invited.

Our father lights up at the sight of her. My sister kneels across from him.

They unwrap their cheeseburgers on the coffee table, spilling all the fries.



* * *





I open the ride-share app once I’m out on the sidewalk. The block’s quiet in that way suburban neighborhoods get.

Then, I have a thought.

I make another call instead.

It isn’t five minutes later before Omar pulls around. A Whataburger sack sits on the passenger seat.

I got hungry, he says, through a mouthful of sandwich.



* * *





He takes the long way into the city. We never pull off Westheimer. Omar just cruises beside the highway, cutting through back alleys and suburbs. When we emerge from the other side, it’s already midnight, on a weekday, which means the streets are mostly empty, except for the people waiting for buses and all the folks with nowhere to go.

Omar’s a steady driver. There’s no jolt when we hit our stoplights. He just slides into them, until we ease our way out.

Eventually, finally, soon enough, I am home.

I owe you one, I say.

You really don’t, says Omar.

I ask about Ahmad, and Omar says he’s with their parents.

Just for the night, says Omar. He didn’t want to go. But I wasn’t bringing him to Ximena’s thing to act out.

You probably could’ve, I say.

Definitely not, says Omar.

Definitely not, I agree.

Omar’s car is tiny, but not in an obnoxious way. It fits the two of us snugly. The interior doesn’t smell like much of anything at all.

I’m not the most experienced man in the world, but a beat passes when I know that something should happen.

I also know that if I let it pass, then I can leave, and nothing will have happened.

And nothing will have gone wrong.

And we could both just move on.

So the moment passes.

We sit looking out the window.

A raccoon darts across the road.

Okay, I say, and then I set my hand on Omar’s thigh.

His leg stiffens, immediately, and it doesn’t relax. His pants won’t unzip, until he finally maneuvers the seat belt—and he’s hard when I grab his cock, jerking him off with one hand and squeezing his chest with the other, and then we are kissing, and then he comes. It happens in spurts, and he jolts, rocking the seat. Looking entirely bewildered.

And then he looks at me. Like something has opened that he hadn’t intended. I tell Omar it’s fine, that I really have to leave, but he reaches for me, and of course I am hard.

Omar unbuckles my seat belt, collapsing a little onto my lap.

Wait, I say, we can’t do that.

What? says Omar.

I need a condom. We need condoms.

It’s fine.

No. I’m poz.

Omar looks me in the eyes.

That’s why, I say. So we can’t. I’m sorry. We just can’t.

Okay, says Omar.

Then he says, I get it.

I’m sorry.

Don’t be, says Omar. But you’re on medication?

Of course I’m on fucking medication.

Good. Then hold on a second.

He unbuttons my shirt, drops his slacks, and slips me between the crease of him. Just enough to create some friction. And then we’re rocking, at his pace, and it can’t be comfortable for Omar, and there’s hardly enough room for our rhythm. But I tell him I’m almost there, does he want to shift his weight so I don’t ruin his suit. And Omar declines, he says that it’s fine, he’ll survive, just keep going, so I do, until I don’t, and then we’re both moaning, and then we’re done.



* * *





Afterward we’re just two guys in a car, performing an impossible yoga.

Despite everything, I smile at Omar, because I can’t do anything else.

Omar smiles back.

We clean up with the wrappers from the food he’d been eating.

I tell him I’m leaving, right now, for real, and Omar says goodbye, good night, for real.



* * *





I watch him drive away.

And now I’m at my door.

And now I’m in my living room.

I don’t see Mitsuko, she isn’t in the kitchen, and I chalk that up to luck. But then, as if on cue, I hear wheezes coming from my bedroom.

Mitsuko’s on my mattress. Gasping. Wiping her face on the sheets.

Shit, I say, fuck. What is it?

Nothing, says Mitsuko.

What’s wrong?