Memorial(4)

Just for a second.

But then it disappeared.

You see these situations in the movies and shit, and you say it could never be you. Of course you’d be proactive. You’d throw the whole thing away.

When Mike knocked on the door, looking for his cell, I pointed silently toward the sink.

Wait, he said, what’s wrong?

Nothing, I said.

Tell me, said Mike.

It’s cool, I said. I’m just tired.

You’re not drinking enough water, said Mike, and he actually sat down to pour me some.



* * *





I never said shit about that photo. But I guess you could say it nagged me.



* * *




? ? ?

Mike figures we’ll make a bed for his mother on the pull-out.

Tomorrow you’ll get the bedroom, he says to her, looking at me.

His mother doesn’t say shit, but by now she’s stopped crying. She sets her bag on the counter, crosses her arms. We lift the mattress from the sofa, layering it with blankets that Lydia gave us, and when I slip into my room for some pillows I decide not to come back out.

The thing about our place is that there isn’t much to clean. Most of what I make goes toward half the rent, and Mike spends all of his checks on food. Which, when you think about it, leaves plenty for a ticket. That’s plenty of cash left over to fly halfway across the world.



* * *





They’re still shouting in the living room when I settle into bed. Something heavy falls out there. I don’t jump up to look. And once Mike finally comes in and shuts the door, I hear his mother sobbing behind him.

She’s taking it well, says Mike.

You hardly gave her any warning, I say. She flies in to catch you and you’re fucking flying out.

That’s unfair. You know exactly why.

It’s not fair to her either.

It’s fine. She’ll be fine.

You’re easy to love.

Ma’s low-maintenance, he says. You won’t have to do anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. After a few days, you won’t even know she’s around.

I start to say, Does she even speak English?

And then I swallow it.

And then I ask.

You’re joking, says Mike, throwing off his shirt.

I’m not, I say.

I’m not gonna call that racist, says Mike. But it’s fucked up. For a second there, I thought you actually gave a shit.

He kicks off his pants, toes them into his duffel. He’s gained more weight, but that’s nothing new. It’s never been an issue, never been something I look down on, but for the first time I sort of gag.

Mike catches me. He keeps quiet.

You can teach her, he says. If you care that much. Word by word.

You’re joking, I say.

I’m packing, says Mike.



* * *




? ? ?

My sister met him accidentally. It happened during Halloween, at a bar off Westheimer. I’d wandered away from him to take a piss, and when I made it back to the table, Lydia was stirring her Coke beside him. She wore some witchy getup, a costume with too many straps. Mike had on a toga. I’d gone as myself.

I was just talking to Mark, said Lydia.

You didn’t say you had a little sister, said Mike.

They went on like that, back and forth. Lydia ordered more drinks. When I asked if she didn’t have a date to get back to, she smiled and told me she’d just have to reschedule it. This, she said, was special. She’d never meet her baby brother’s boyfriend for the first time again.

Lydia was Mike’s age. A few years older than me. She wrote copy for the Buffalo Soldier Museum downtown, and if you told her you didn’t know Houston had one of those, she’d say that’s because it’s for niggas.

But that evening, she played it cool. Laughed at our jokes. Paid for more beer.

Just before last call, Lydia gave Mike her number.

Wow, said Mike. This is a first.

Life is long, said Lydia.

Cheers, said Mike.



* * *





Later that night, Lydia texted me.

He’s funny, she said.

Too funny for you, she added.



* * *




? ? ?

Between the four of us, my father and Lydia are the darkest. Whenever we ate out as kids, she and I always sat on the same end of the table. If we didn’t, we ran the risk of waiters splitting the check, the sort of thing our father bitched about for months. We never ate at those restaurants again.



* * *




? ? ?

It’s late when Mike touches me, and I’m not thinking about it until we’ve started—then we’re mashing our chests together, jumbling legs and elbows.

His tongue touches mine. My nose strafes his belly button. There’s a point when you’re with someone, and it’s all just reaction. You’ve done everything there is to do.

But once in a blue moon, they’ll feel like a stranger, like this visitor in your hands.

So it’s the first time we’ve kissed in weeks, and then I’m sucking Mike off when he lifts up his knees.

I point toward the living room.