Once Burned

by Alexa Land

  I traced the life-size mask inked on his bicep and asked, “Who are you now?”

  “Someone who’s learned what it takes to survive.”

  He gathered up the canvases and returned them to the coat closet, and then he crossed the room and retrieved his jeans. As he pulled them on, he changed the subject by saying, “Are you hungry? There’s no food here, since I’m about to leave the country for a few weeks, but there’s a fantastic twenty-four-hour diner right around the corner.”

  “I’m starving, actually. I didn’t have time for dinner before the auction.”

  “Alright, then give me just a few minutes to look after my brushes and finish getting ready.”

  Ignacio gathered his art supplies and carried them to the kitchen. As the sharp smell of linseed oil drifted through the apartment, I used the bathroom and cleaned up a bit, and then I got dressed. It took me a few moments to remember I’d left my overcoat on the kitchen counter. When I went in there to get it, he smiled at me over his shoulder and said, “Almost done.”

  He washed his hands, then went into the master bedroom. It was empty except for two large, open suitcases, each heaped with clothes. They didn’t seem like the result of packing for his trip to Spain. It just looked like he lived that way.

  I stood in the doorway and watched him as Ignacio pulled on a charcoal gray Henley and some socks, followed by a beat-up black leather jacket and a pair of motorcycle boots. He slid the tie from his hair and handed it to me with a grin as he slipped past me. I stuck it in my pocket and followed him out the door.

  *****

  The diner was my kind of place. It was a real working class joint, homey and unpretentious. The smells coming from the kitchen were heavenly, and the specials on the board by the door probably hadn’t changed in a decade.

  The pre-dawn customers included a couple of cops I didn’t recognize, a trio of twenty-something club kids, and a weathered-looking man in coveralls, who sat at the chipped, linoleum counter sipping coffee. The skinny, Latino waiter behind the counter exclaimed, “Ignacio, my man! I’d already be placing your order for the usual, but you brought company this time. Want a menu for your friend?”

  We slid into a red vinyl booth that had been repaired with duct tape on more than one occasion, and Ignacio asked me, “Mind if I order for you?”

  “Go ahead. I’m not picky.”

  That seemed to make him happy, and he turned to the waiter and called, “Two of my usual, Juan Carlos, and two cups of coffee por favor.”

  The kid scribbled something on his order pad and stuck it in the pass-through to the kitchen before bringing over a pot of coffee. As he turned over the cups on the faded tabletop and filled them, he asked Ignacio, “Aren’t you supposed to be on a plane right about now, bro?”

  “Yeah, but I couldn’t go until I brought my new friend Cameron here and loaded him up with your world-famous breakfast pile.”

  “Well, that does sound delicious,” I joked. “Good thing I let you order for me.”

  “You’ll thank me later.”

  As the waiter went to refill the club kids’ mugs, I took a sip of coffee, then said, “You seem at home here.”

  “I am. I always make a point of becoming a regular at a local restaurant everyplace I live, even if I’m only there for a few weeks. It makes me feel…grounded, I suppose. It’s almost like having a family wherever I go.”

  “Where’s your real family?”

  “Don’t have one.”

  When it became clear he wasn’t going to elaborate, I changed the subject with, “Thank you for showing me your paintings. They were extraordinary.”

  “I’ll have to show you the work I produce for the public sometime. It’s not so somber.”

  “I’m a little surprised you shared them with me. They seem very personal.”

  He glanced at me from beneath his thick, dark lashes. After a moment, he said, “You shared a part of yourself tonight when you talked about the man who hurt you, and I wanted to give you something in return. I guess I also wanted someone to see them before they’re gone.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t going to sell them.”

  He took a sip of coffee and said, “I’m not. I’ll keep them as long as I remain in San Francisco, and when it’s time to move on, I’ll burn them.”

  “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

  “They’re basically my version of diary pages, since they let me express some of the things that are on my mind. The benefit is in painting them, not in keeping them.”

  “I get what you’re saying, but still.”

  He slowly spun the coffee cup between his long, graceful fingers as he said, “I’m glad someone saw this set. They’re actually the best work I’ve ever done.”

  “This set? Have you burned other paintings in the past?” When he nodded, I muttered, “I shouldn’t have asked. It’s depressing to think of something so exceptionally beautiful going up in flames.”

  “It’s freeing in a way to watch them burn. It lifts a burden, literally and figuratively.”

  I asked, “What are you going to do with the painting of me?”

  A little grin tugged at the corner of his full lips. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

  Our breakfast arrived a moment later, and I muttered, “Sweet Jesus, how many people are we feeding here?” An enormous platter was set before me, which held four fluffy pancakes that were easily ten inches in diameter. Mounds of fresh berries, chopped fruits, and nuts were heaped on top of them, and the whole thing was sprinkled with powdered sugar and crowned with a mighty dollop of whipped cream.

  Juan Carlos smiled at me as he put a bottle of syrup on the table. “If you can’t eat it all, I bet Iggy will finish it for you.”

  Ignacio smiled at me as he cheerfully doused his food with the syrup. I cut off a little triangle with the side of my fork and popped it in my mouth. The pancake was laced with blueberries and pecans, and it was delicious.

  I had to ask. “How can you eat like this and still look like you do?”

  “I often forget to eat, especially when I’m painting. I just become really focused on what I’m doing, and time gets away from me. So, when I find myself with food in front of me, I tend to eat like a bear.”

  I frowned and asked, “Is anyone going with you to Barcelona? Someone who’ll remind you to eat?”

  He shook his head and said, “I’m on my own,” before folding a big piece of pancake into his mouth.

  I pulled a pen and a business card from my suit jacket and wrote my cell number on the back before sliding the card across the table. “Check in with me when you’re in Spain, so I know you’re alright.”

  “I’m not your responsibility.”

  “I was going to ask you to stay in touch anyway.”

  He stuck the card in the pocket of his leather jacket. “I was going to ask you to do the same thing. It’ll be nice to have someone to talk to while I’m there.”

  “Don’t you have friends in Barcelona? I thought that was your home town.”

  “No, but now I have you to make sure I don’t fall behind on my daily pancake intake.” There was amusement in his brown eyes.

  “Did you already reschedule your flight?”

  He nodded. “It’s a little before noon.” I almost asked him if he could push it back further because I was really enjoying his company, but I’d already been enough of a disruption.

  *****

  After breakfast, we stood in front of the diner, stalling for time. The sky was pale gray with the approaching dawn. I knew I should say good night, but instead, I found myself trying to make conversation and postpone the inevitable. I asked him, “Did you sleep at all last night? That painting must have taken a lot of time.”

  “I dozed off for about two hours. That’s pretty good for me, actually. Insomnia and I are well-acquainted.”

  “I should probably let you go. Maybe you can get a little rest before your flight.”

  Ignacio grasped my
hand and said, “Or you could take a walk with me. I love this time of day, when almost everyone’s still asleep and the city is quiet.”

  We picked a direction at random and walked for over an hour, as San Francisco gradually came to life around us. I bought us coffee along the way, and we sipped it as we wandered up and down the hills, then all along the waterfront. Eventually, we found a place to sit at the edge of Crissy Field. To our left, the Golden Gate Bridge stretched gracefully over the water, vividly orange against the overcast sky.

  Ignacio laced his fingers with mine as he looked out over the bay and said, “As soon as I return from Barcelona, we’ll have our bachelor auction date.”

  “Isn’t that what we did last night?”

  He turned to look at me and smiled. “That was just the appetizer. Remember what I said when I bought you? I intend to make good on my promise to rock your world.” As if he hadn’t done that already.

  After a pause, I told him, “I hate to say it, but you should probably get going soon. You’re supposed to check in early for international flights.”

  “You’re right.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and requested a Lyft, and then he said, “At least packing will be easy. I just need to get my suitcases to close.”

  “If you’ve been in that apartment for a year, why haven’t you unpacked?”

  Ignacio shrugged. “It’s an old habit. I guess it’s for times like this, when I have to leave in a hurry.”

  A few minutes later, his phone beeped. He glanced at the screen and said, “My ride’s here. Can I drop you back at your apartment?”

  “I think I’ll keep walking. Thanks, though.”

  We both stood up, and Ignacio pulled me close and kissed me. I sank into it. When we finally broke apart, he said, “I’ll text you. Probably more than you want me to.”

  “Please do.”

  He touched my cheek and lingered for another moment. Then he took a couple of steps backwards and grinned at me before turning and jogging to the white sedan waiting at the curb. I buttoned my coat against the cold wind, which I hadn’t really noticed until that moment, and reluctantly headed home.

  *****

  When I reached my drab apartment, I hung my overcoat and suit jacket on the row of hooks beside the front door and tossed my keys on the little side table, which featured a dead plant I hadn’t bothered to throw out yet. To my right was an unmade bed and the door to the cramped bathroom. A little kitchenette was stuck in the corner to my left, and directly in front of me were a beige couch, two chairs, and a coffee table, all of which were pointless since I never invited anyone over.

  I went straight to the worn, brown recliner at the very back of the studio. It faced the only window, which looked out over a weedy yard and the back of another nondescript apartment building. The chair was surrounded by stacks of books, a pair of running shoes, and a little TV that had broken months ago. A small table beside the recliner held a reading lamp and was heaped with unopened mail, a dirty plate, a couple of coffee mugs, and my electric razor. It was all pretty pathetic, and I knew it.

  I dropped into the chair and put my feet up, then pushed off my shoes and let them fall to the floor. The sky outside my window was overcast. I turned on the lamp beside me, but it didn’t do much to dispel the gloom.

  I thought about the painting Ignacio had made of me and all the color he’d added. He’d been exactly right. When I was with him, the world had seemed vibrant. Now it was all just gray.

  It was going to be a long two months.

  Chapter Three

  Halloween

  I glanced at my phone for at least the tenth time in as many minutes, and the guy sitting next to me on the bus shot me a look. Since he was dressed as the Grim Reaper, it was a little disconcerting. When I glanced at it again maybe fifteen seconds later, he said, “Checking the time constantly won’t make this thing go any faster.” Turned out, the Grim Reaper had a voice like Kermit the Frog.

  “I’m expecting a call from a friend in a few minutes and thought I’d be home by now, so…wait, why am I explaining this to you? Mind your own business!”

  He said, “Now, is that any way to talk to death?”

  “When his scythe is made of plastic, damn right it is.” He frowned at me from beneath his black and white makeup and got off at the next stop.

  When I finally reached my destination, three little brothers in costume as the Avengers got off the bus ahead of me. I tried to circle around them, but they took up the whole sidewalk. When they stopped in front of my building, I said, “Excuse me,” and tried again to get around them.

  But the youngest boy, who was dressed like the world’s smallest Incredible Hulk, held up a plastic jack-o-lantern and yelled, “Trick-or-treat!”

  “That’s not how it works, kiddo,” I told him. “You trick-or-treat at houses, not at people.”

  He held the grinning jack-o-lantern higher and emphatically repeated his, “Trick-or-treat!”

  The oldest brother, Skinny Iron Man, asked, “Don’t you have something you can give him?”

  “I’m not exactly walking down the street with my pockets stuffed with Snickers bars. In fact, if a stranger ever offers you candy, tell me, what should you do?”

  “Kick him in the nuts and run like hell.” That was from the middle brother, who was dressed like Black Widow with a cheap, lopsided red wig. Okay, that kid was awesome.

  I plucked a trio of five dollar bills from my wallet and tossed one in each jack-o-lantern. “Right answer. Go on now, go find some houses with candy. I suggest hitting up those rich bastards in the row of Victorians beside the park.” They looked happy as they hurried down the sidewalk.

  When I reached my third floor apartment, I checked the time again and muttered, “Damn it.”

  I jammed my trench coat onto its hook and looked around for my shaver. It turned out to be in the bathroom for a change. I flipped the switch and started mowing a circle onto my right cheek while I searched for my laptop. After rummaging through the entire apartment, I finally found it under the bed. When I set it up on the coffee table, I found it was out of charge. What a surprise.

  My shaver ground to a halt a moment later, and I swore vividly and tossed it aside. The PC’s power cord wouldn’t quite reach the wall outlet from the seating area, so I had to go in search of an extension cord. The one I found was so old that it only accommodated a two-prong plug. I swore some more and shoved the couch right in front of the door, then dragged the coffee table over and ran the cord up and over the back of the sofa. It just barely reached the outlet.

  My phone beeped in my pocket, and I pulled it out and read Ignacio’s message, which said: Hi Cam. Ready for our first video chat?

  I muttered, “God no, not even a little,” as I dropped onto the couch, but I replied with: I’m about to log on, give me just a minute.

  While the chat program loaded, I quickly finger-combed my hair and straightened my tie. Then I decided it was weird that I was wearing one and tossed it and my suit jacket off to the side. I also took a few deep breaths to try to calm my nerves, which didn’t help at all.

  We’d been texting every day during the month that Ignacio had been in Spain, and we’d finally decided to give virtual sex by way of video chatting a try. I’d obviously been thinking with my dick when we made a date for that evening. We hadn’t even started yet, and I already felt stupid and self-conscious.

  I unbuttoned the cuffs of my white dress shirt and rolled them back, and then I unfastened my top three buttons. Did that look sleazy? Even though this was meant to be about sex, I didn’t want to come off looking like a 1970s porn star, so I fastened two of the buttons again.

  Wait, maybe he was expecting me to be naked. Was he going to be naked? How did the whole ‘virtual sex’ thing even work? Were we supposed to talk dirty to each other, then jerk off while the other person watched? Did we take turns, or have a wank simultaneously?

  Okay, the thought of seeing him naked was fantastic. But there
ended the appeal of this particular exercise. I typed in my password, then looked down at myself. My shirt was wrinkled, and there was a coffee stain on the placket. Of course there was. My only hope was that my cheap computer had a very low-resolution camera.

  As the start screen popped up, I realized I should’ve manscaped. Speaking of 1970s porn stars, Christ almighty. No camera was low-res enough to disguise the ginger mess I had going on downstairs.

  Alright, enough overthinking it. I typed in the screen name he’d given me, and when his profile appeared, I clicked the chat button. While a little circle spun in the center of the screen, I took a few more deep breaths, which still didn’t help at all.

  A light came on at the top of my computer. A moment later, I appeared in a small box in the bottom right corner of the interface. Well hey, if I appeared just three inches high to him too, this might be okay.

  Then Ignacio filled my screen, and all my worries were forgotten. I murmured, “Hey,” and ran a fingertip over the curve of his cheekbone.

  He smiled and said, “Hi Cam. Dios, it’s good to see your face.”

  There was something in his dark eyes that made me ask, “Are you okay?”

  He looked away and muttered, “Shit, I’d hoped the resolution would be so bad that you couldn’t tell I was upset. I should have postponed, but I was really looking forward to seeing you.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Want to try again tomorrow night? I promise to be more fun then.”

  “I don’t need you to entertain me, Ignacio. I just need you to tell me if you’re alright.”

  “I’m fine. It’s not even worth talking about.”

  “Sure it is.”

  He tucked a lock of hair behind his ear and said, “But that’s not what you signed on for. I promised you a sexy video chat, and instead you got this. It’s like a bait-and-switch.” He was wearing a black dress shirt unbuttoned over a pristine white tank, and when he sat back, the shirt slid off one shoulder. It was sexy, but it also made him seem surprisingly vulnerable.