Memorial(70)

Mike blinks once, and then once again.

Seeing seeing? says Mike. Or are you two just fucking?

I don’t know, I say.

Okay, says Mike, and his body relaxes even further.

In that case, he says, I met someone, too.

He looks me in the eyes when he says it.

Despite everything, I don’t feel anything.

It isn’t serious, he says.

Right, I say.

We just met.

But it’s serious enough for you to bring it up.

Mike licks his lips at that. He weighs whatever he’s about to say next on his teeth.

His name’s Tan, says Mike. And what’s your guy’s name?

He’s not my guy.

Fine. Your person.

This conversation is insane, I say.

Maybe, says Mike. But tell me about him.

I’d rather not.

You were ready to dish earlier.

Stop it.

His name’s Omar, I say.

Omar, says Mike. That’s a nice name.

Don’t be a dick.

I meant it, says Mike. It’s a nice name.

Fine, I say.

Do you like him?

No.

And then I say, I might like him.

But I don’t know, I say. I don’t know what we’re doing.

I lie with my hands in Mike’s hair. He keeps letting me do that.

I guess we left our situation up in the air, says Mike.

No, I say. You left.

I left, says Mike.

Our heater strains above us, and we can hear its muscles flexing. A sneeze slips in from the living room. Neither of us brings it up.

I might be leaving again, says Mike.

You’re joking, I say.

No, says Mike. A surprise for a surprise. Now we’re even.

That’s not even remotely the same thing.

Ben, says Mike, my dad is dead.

He’s gone, says Mike. And that is what it is. But he left me something. And I think I should take it, at least for a little while.

Something, I say.

A business. It’s a little complicated.

A business, I say.

Yeah, says Mike.

The two of us flex our toes. They accidentally brush.

So it’s something you don’t even know if you’ll like, I say.

No, says Mike. I don’t. And, honestly, I could hate it. I might already hate it. But I think I’d like to find out.

Our neighbors slam the screen door, but neither of us jumps. A scattering of Spanish slips through the window, followed by laughter and clinking bottles.

Well, I say, I can’t possibly pay for this place on my own.

If you were making that kind of money, says Mike, this would be a very different conversation.

Stop fucking around, I say, and Mike settles his chin on my shoulder.

We’re silent for another five minutes.

It turns into ten.

So you’re not even gonna ask to come, says Mike.

I look at him.

To Japan? I say.

You know where, says Mike.

I look him in the face. He isn’t smiling anymore. I don’t see the joke.

I say, Are you asking me to come?

Mike says, Would that change your answer?

I say, What the fuck would I do in Japan?

You’d figure it out, says Mike. Same as people figure anything out. Other people have done it.

Not people like me.

Because you’re Black?

Because I have a life here, Michael.

You say that like I don’t. Like all my people aren’t here. Everyone I fucking care about. Like that isn’t my life, too.

You do, I say. But it’s different.

It’s the same fucking thing, says Mike.

No, I say. You’ll have your mother, this business thing. I wouldn’t have anyone.

I won’t have shit, says Mike. You’ve spent more time with her in the past few weeks than I have in the past few years.

If anything, he says, I’m losing two people. The two people that actually give a fuck about me and my fucking life. That’s my fucking situation.

It’s the tensest I’ve ever seen Mike. But he delivers everything in an even tone. He cracks his knuckles over his stomach, so I set my palms on his belly to stop him.

You won’t lose me, I say. Even if you leave. Either way.

Everyone says that, says Mike.

I’m not everyone, I say. You won’t lose me. Okay?

Right.

Do you believe me?

Okay, says Mike.

Okay then, I say.

I say, So.

I say, You think I just go with you? And then it’s happily ever after?

Mike rubs his palms on top of mine. He kneads them, slowly, like he’s smoothing out the wrinkles.

Eventually he says, There’s no such thing.

It could be, I say.

It could be, says Mike.

I squeeze his knuckles for him. They crackle like tiny fireworks.

But no, says Mike. I really don’t think so.

And just like that, the air whooshes right out of my body.

And I tell Mike I don’t think so either.

And once the words leave my mouth, they actually feel true.



* * *





So what are we doing, I say. You know. Until?

Until?

Until you’re gone.

I’m moving, says Mike. Not dying.