Memorial(39)

And, the thing is, I really didn’t care about his status. I didn’t not care, but it just wasn’t a thing that I could’ve possibly minded. This was just another thing about him.

What, I said.

Nothing, said Ben. You’re just interesting.

It’s nice of you to say so. With my cum on your palm.

And, at that, Ben looked at his hand. He ran his tongue across his wrist, sloping toward his fingertips.

There, he said. Gone.

Now I’ll tell you what’d feel nice, he said.

At that, Ben laid down and maneuvered himself into the sofa’s corner, pulling my elbow around him. We were, I think, in an impossible angle. My knees jutted from the cushion’s edge. Ben lay pressed into the crevice. I didn’t think it would work, there wasn’t any way we’d fall asleep like that, but then I woke up the next morning with Ben snoring in my arms, and I realized I hadn’t slept so comfortably in months.



* * *





So our days slipped into a familiar pattern: Ben took the 10 to his dad’s place in the mornings. We’d meet at some bar in the evening, wherever we could spend less than fifteen bucks. He’d pay for his shit, and I’d pay for my shit, and we’d take the sloping drive up Scott Street toward Wheeler.

Ben wouldn’t say much until we’d made it indoors. After that, we were on our backs, against the wall, loud as fuck.

I was already on PrEP, but we were good about condoms.

Ben always came last. I never knew why that was.

Afterward, we’d lay on the sofa or the wood or the mattress, a whole mess. He’d knock out first, or I’d knock out first, and when I jolted awake in the middle of the night, I’d find the blanket he’d settled over us, tucked just underneath our toes.



* * *





One night after I’d fucked him, Ben asked me to tell him a story.

Jesus, I said. That wasn’t enough for you?

I’m serious, he said.

How about you go first.

I don’t have any.

Everyone’s got a fucking story.

I don’t have any good ones, said Ben. And everyone doesn’t want theirs told.

We were naked under this quilt. It’d belonged to my mother’s mother. She’d knit the thing in Kanazawa, before her family moved east to Tokyo. Ben’s feet slumped between mine, and the TV was on in the corner. But it was only white noise. A stack of commercials. All you could hear was our breathing.

Come on, I said, that’s not what you tell the kids you work with.

Calm down, said Ben.

I was born in Katy, he said. Grew up gay in Katy. Stayed at home and fucked around and got sick and got kicked out and dropped out and got a job and then I met you at this party and now here we are.

Your folks kicked you out?

They did.

Because you’re gay?

Because they couldn’t ignore it once I tested positive, said Ben. That made my gayness something they had to deal with. And they didn’t want to. They didn’t want to deal.

That’s heavy, I said.

It’s whatever, said Ben.

It isn’t whatever.

It’s whatever. It’s my fault.

You can’t honestly think that.

I was being dumb, said Ben. I was fucking whoever. Whoever wanted to fuck, I’d fuck them, and that’s just what happens. I couldn’t even tell you who gave it to me. I couldn’t even reach out to tell them they have it, too.

Ben’s entire body loosened at that. I got a little closer, and when he didn’t pull away, I squeezed, just a bit. He squeezed back.

Sorry, he said.

For what, I said. What the fuck?

You probably weren’t trying to hear all of that. I made it weird.

Bullshit, I said. You let it out. You didn’t have to tell me, but you did. Wasn’t it invigorating?

You’re being mean.

I’m being serious.

That doesn’t make a story worth hearing, said Ben.

But you can’t just keep it holed up, I said. You can’t fucking beat yourself up.

Whatever you say, said Ben.

He leaned over to chew on my neck. The remote clattered onto the hardwood behind us. He stooped for it, nearly taking the quilt with him, and I fell on top of him, and he was under me. And then we were hard, again. But nothing actually came of it. It just was, and we lay beside each other, breathing and feeling and being.



* * *




? ? ?

A few of Eiju’s favorite things, scribbled in blue ink: smoked eel, tattered sweaters, the weather in late January. Sex before breakfast. Grapes. Leftover rice. The first steps taken after walking off a train. The first steps taken after walking off a plane.



* * *




? ? ?

One night, Eiju asked if I’d like a drink.

Before I could answer, he nodded at Kunihiko. The kid cheesed at the both of us. It was the end of the evening and we’d been cleaning up the bar; he’d already brought most of the glasses to the back. He’d wiped down the counters and swept the floors and started taking inventory.

Eiju swiped two Sapporo cans from the fridge beneath the bar. He waved me into the kitchen, hunching through the door by the window. A tiny deck stood behind the building, overlooking the alley beside it, and Eiju kept some sandals and a gaggle of plants back there, a tiny garden, but mostly it looked like no one had fucked with it in months.