Memorial(38)

He watched my hands when I spoke. His posture mimicked mine. He’d stare at my mouth, reading my lips, like he was looking for the meaning underlying my words. Then he’d sit in silence, nodding along.

Whenever he actually disagreed with something, he’d just smile. Whenever he agreed, he’d nod once, vigorously.

He was stupefyingly shy.

He was the fucking worst to figure out.

But I wanted to figure him out.

Mary watched us from her porch. I waved. She waved back.

You know her? said Ben.

She’s a friend, I said. She’s my neighbor.

It’d taken three dates to get him back to my place. Ben lived in Katy with his father. He’d drive right back after we closed our tabs. I’d told him that the trip wasn’t worth it, that I really didn’t mind if he slept over, but Ben wasn’t hearing that: he was a guy, I learned early on, who considered shit five times before he committed, before he made a move. And, even then, he was shaky.

We sat on my sofa. I made us both sencha. I slipped a little bourbon in mine, and when I waved the bottle his way, he winced.

So, I said, who are you?

I should be asking you that, said Ben. I clearly don’t know.

How so?

I mean, you live in this neighborhood. The Third Ward.

Not what you expected.

I don’t think anyone would’ve expected it.

Because I’m Asian, I said, and Ben smiled.

Because you aren’t Black, he said.

So I’m not allowed to live here?

I didn’t say that.

But, said Ben, this isn’t a part of town that historically takes well to outsiders.

History changes, I said. It adapts.

In the best-case scenarios, said Ben. And this isn’t a best-case country.

We sipped at our mugs. Benson took the silence to consider the living room. It was mostly bare, expect for the kitchen—I owned a TV and a rug and a table with a photo of Ma. I kept a tatami mat around the corner. There were a few candles, but I’d burnt down their wicks.

So what brought you here? said Ben.

I stopped fucking the guy I was fucking and I needed a place to live. This one was cheap.

Sounds thorough and well-thought-out.

I thought it was romantic.

I didn’t say it wasn’t.

The Third Ward’s as nice a neighborhood as any, I said. But it’s changing.

You say that like it’s a bad thing, said Ben.

You think it’s a good thing?

I think it’s complicated.

The neighbors beside us turned their music a little louder. The chattering Spanish gelled into a ballad. Selena’s croon settled over the neighborhood’s cacophony, flattening all of that shit, swallowing every other sound entirely.

So what do you think is going to happen here, said Ben.

Are we still talking about the neighborhood?

That’s up to you.

Then it’s anybody’s guess, I said, and I set a hand on his knee.

Ben watched my fingers. We both inhaled. And before I could take my hand back, he laced his hand over my knuckles. When I looked up, he’d started toward my face, so I let him kiss me, and then I was on my back. He slipped his hands under my shirt, squeezing, while mine slipped under his. When we were both topless, suddenly, he sat up to consider me.

This always happened. There was the person I was with my clothes on, and then the other guy. I never worried about my weight until I was just about to fuck someone, and then it hit me in the face, all of a sudden and out of nowhere. One time, I’d made it back to a guy’s place, and in the middle of kissing the motherfucker he looked up and laughed. Another time, some guy grabbed my belly, squeezing my waist, until I put my hands on his shoulders and asked if we had a fucking problem.

But Benson just stared. He wasn’t an athlete or anything, but we weren’t the same.

We can hit the lights if you want, I said.

Why the hell would I do that, he said.

I’m just admiring you, he said, and for the first time, I think, I reconsidered him.

Ben straddled my waist, laying his body on mine, and then he just stayed there, grinding, and I wrapped my arms around him. I felt underneath his jeans, grabbing at his ass, and Benson slipped his hands inside my boxers, squeezing, and I settled under his grip. Eventually he worked a few fingers inside me, and I maneuvered to let him do that, with my legs on his shoulders, until I was looking right up at him.

I took longer than I would’ve liked. Hit my head on the sofa’s shoulder.

When I reached for the zipper of his jeans, Ben blocked me with his palms.

You don’t want to? I said.

I’m good, said Ben.

Sure. But I want to make you feel great.

I’m poz, Mike, said Ben.

He turned his face away when he said it. Ben’s entire body stiffened, flattening against me. Wouldn’t even meet my eyes.

Okay, I said.

I should’ve told you earlier. I’m sorry.

Don’t be sorry.

I should’ve said something.

Maybe.

No, I should’ve.

Whatever. I get it. But listen. I want to make you feel good.

At that, Ben looked up. He met my eyes, with his chin on my stomach. The expression on his face looked a little like a grin, and a little like a smirk, and a little like he’d just been stumped.