Memorial(44)

I thought bartenders don’t drink on the clock, said Tan.

A drunk bartender probably told you that, I said.

He asked if the bar was mine, and I told him that it wasn’t.

You’re young, he said.

You aren’t exactly a grandfather.

But it turned out he was older than me, by a couple of months.

Fair enough, I said, and no wife?

No wife.

And no kids?

I could ask the same of you, said Tan.

And the two of us sat with that silence. It wasn’t particularly uncomfortable.



* * *





When I made it back to the apartment, Eiju was awake and smoking. Once he spotted me from the balcony, he gave a single wave.

He asked how the night had gone. I asked how he was feeling.

Oh, he said, you know.

But Eiju didn’t say anything else. So I left him on the railing to his cigarettes and the stinking fucking sunrise.



* * *




? ? ?

Ben moved in a few months after we started fucking. I offered to help him bring all his shit over, but he told me he didn’t need that.

And anyways, there isn’t much, said Ben. It’s just me.

You run a tight ship, I said.

Aye-aye, said Ben.



* * *





We’d probed each other about our sexual pasts a few weeks before that. That happened at this bar on Richmond, drinking Modelos on their patio. When Ben asked the bartender for the menu, he told us they didn’t have one, and when I asked if he could tell us what they served, the whiteboy said he’d be back in a minute. Then he disappeared. The next time we saw him, he was serving these two whitechicks by the entrance.

Was that racist? said Ben.

Depends on how you look at it, I said.

On one hand, it was. And on the other hand, it was.

Then there you go.

In the end, we lifted two bottles from the cooler. Left some cash on the bar.

I wasn’t telling Ben about my first, so I started with the phone operator I’d fucked for about a year. Told him about the sneaker store clerk. Told him about the prep cook. And the cell phone guy. And the Apple store guy. And the gas station clerk. And the whiteboys. I told him about the accidental orgy at Numbers, and the grocery store clerk I’d fucked in an H-E-B parking lot.

How does that even happen, said Ben.

The guy was ringing me up. I asked him what time he was getting off.

And then you literally got him off.

Your words.

Perpetuating the stereotype about gays as sex addicts.

Anyone who says that just wishes they were fucking more.

But I think that’s it, I said. I think that’s everything.

The two of us crossed our legs under the steel table. I drained the rest of my beer, and Ben fiddled with his.

We don’t have to do this, I said. I really don’t care about this stuff.

If you didn’t care you wouldn’t have asked, said Ben.

I asked because I wanna know you better.

I don’t mind. It’s nothing.

I just don’t want you to think I’m pressed over it.

Don’t lose sleep over what I think.

Ben took a sip from his beer. We watched our not-waiter scramble off the patio and into the building.

Sorry, said Ben.

Don’t be, I said. You haven’t said anything yet.

There’s nothing to say. And definitely nothing as exciting as your shit.

It’s your life though. That’d be hard for you to judge.

Sure, said Ben, but I couldn’t even tell you how many guys I’ve fucked. One too many, obviously. And then I stopped. And then I met you.

But I’m the best, right?

Sure.

Good. That was the correct answer.

We watched the parking lot’s crowd congest and unspool.

After a while, I said, Why’d you stop?

Stop what, said Ben.

Fucking around.

Oh. You know why.

Nah. But I could guess?

Once I tested positive, it just seemed, like, whatever, said Ben. Like, why even do it anymore? It felt like I’d lost something.

I think you’re very hard on yourself.

Yeah, said Ben. Well. You’re the best.

At that point, the bartender came out. He stopped in front of us, looking like he had something to say. Then, all of a sudden, he slapped the cash we’d left him in front of us.

He said we’d paid too much. Five more dollars than we’d needed to.

I started to tell him that it was a tip, but Ben pocketed the money. He thanked him for his honesty.



* * *





The first night after Ben moved in was the first time we actually slept in my bed, the first night he actually let himself do that.

Once we’d settled in, he reached over to touch me. We started to kiss. And then nothing worked after that. At least not for me.

It’s fine if you don’t want to, he said.

I do.

It’s okay, said Ben, but he kept persisting, touching me, and then himself, and then he groaned, and then he was finished.

When he stood to clean up, I watched his silhouette wander across the room.

Here was a new situation.

A new body in my bed.