by Wade Lake
Chase slides his own glass forward. "It's not awkward," he insists. "No reason to bring her up. I wouldn't remember her at all if Mack hadn't been snooping my phone."
Mack tops off Chase, filling the glass until it nearly spills over. "You said she broke your heart."
Jim's eyes widen comically. "Is that true? Did she break your heart?"
Chase leans his head side-to-side as if debating internally. "Maybe. A little. See, that's the trouble with feeling things so deeply. It was serious for me. Everything's serious for me. It wasn't serious for her."
Jim appears fascinated. "I barely remember what she looked like. You say Mack found a picture? May I see it?"
Chase sets his phone on the table, unlocks it, and pushes it toward Jim. "Help yourself."
The archives are already open. Mack points to the folder. It only takes a moment for Jim's finger to find the photo of Chase and Angel standing in front of the house. Jim enlarges the picture to focus on her smile. "Did you love her?" he asks.
Chase forces a chuckle. "I was gonna go straight for her.”
“Shut the front door!”
“Gonna give it a try at least."
"What happened?"
Chase empties his whole glass with three loud gulps. "What always happens to guys who fall in love too fast?"
Despite the record player, the window fan, Mack uncorking a new bottle, the room goes eerily quiet.
Everyone's waiting for Chase to say more.
He clearly doesn't want to say more.
But.
After a few seconds.
He gives in:
"I got cucked. Got my heart broke. She was a whore. End of story."
"I'm sorry that happened to you," he says, his voice gentle and consoling. Jim appears genuinely sympathetic.
"Not as sorry as I am," Chase says softly.
"May I … may I give you a hug?" Jim asks, opening his arms.
Chase nods. He looks like he's about to cry. He leans out of his chair into Jim's chest and rests his chin on Jim's shoulder.
Mack pops the cork on a new bottle of wine.
Jim closes his arms around Chase and squeezes.
Mack swallows hard to keep from vomiting. It catches him off guard when Jeremy leans out of his chair and nuzzles his head against Mack's shoulder. It's a request for a hug of his own.
Mack obliges, and … after a few awkward seconds, steers Jeremy back into his own chair.
"Oink, oink," Jeremy says, grinning sadly.
Mack remembers the first time he saw Chase grinning sadly like that: a painful-to-watch, hopeless grin, or what passed for it at the time. It happened that New Year's Eve when Chase had just lost his job and nearly everyone on Frenchmen Street was dressed in giant shoes and a round red nose. Chase had lost his wallet. So he said. Mack remembers Chase on his hands and knees searching the crowded bar floor. He remembers Chase finally giving up and the pitiful look on his face when he sat down on the dance floor, knees up, head between his legs, the crowd stepping over and around him. Mack remembers Chase sobbing, then grinning sadly, then sobbing harder. Mack remembers wanting, more than anything in the world, to comfort Chase. He remembers how, when they made love that night, the whole city seemed to hold its breath. But now Mack wonders. Was it really holding its breath? Or was it just holding back an inappropriate laugh?
Chase's chin is still on Jim’s shoulder.
Reaching across the table, Mack refills Chase’s glass—once again, all the way to the top.
Jim is still stroking Chase’s back, rubbing little circles between his shoulder blades.
And now Jim’s eyes peer over Chase’s shoulder and down at Chase’s phone on the table.
It's still face up.
Still displaying the picture of Chase and Angel with a shabby rental house—this house—behind them.
For some unknown reason, Jim's attention is pulled deeper into the image. His brow furrows. He's noticed the wind chime in the picture hanging over the stoop—
Reaching around Chase's back, he touches the screen with his thumb and forefinger, and slides them apart, expanding the image. Now he looks up, confirming that, yes, the wind chime in the picture is, indeed, the same one now hanging over the dining room table. His eyes drop back to the screen. He swipes to advance to the next picture—
Mack knows from his own snooping that the next picture will be one he hasn't already seen. Mack had stopped snooping once he'd seen Chase and Angel looking like a real couple in front of the little house with the big wind chime. After that photo, there was only one more album archived from that year. Mack wasn’t curious to know more at the time. Now he is. Mack sets down the wine bottle and leans forward to get a better view of the upside-down screen.
Everyone except Chase is looking now.
A circle spins on the screen. Beneath it, the words Opening Album …
An image appears on the screen.
It's a low-light shot. The image is dark and grainy.
Must have been taken at night.
It's a picture of a window.
Mack and Chase's bedroom window.
Years before Mack and Chase lived here.
The lights are on inside the bedroom.
The curtains are only half drawn.
There's someone inside the room.
Maybe more than one someone?
Chase—intuitively uncomfortable with the extended absence of voices other than Elton's—lifts his head from Jim's shoulder and glances around the room. He notices everyone looking down. At the table. At his phone. Now he recognizes the window in the picture on his screen. He quickly grabs for the phone—
Just as quickly, Mack reaches across the table and knocks over Chase's wineglass.
Merlot slides across the polished tabletop and onto Chase's lap.
Chase immediately scoots his chair back.
Mack grabs Chase's phone and slips it beneath his own paper towel napkin, away from the spill. "Sorry!" Mack says. "Sorry, I was gonna top off your glass."
"Weeell, shit!" Chase says, looking confused and flabbergasted. "It clearly didn't need it." He leans forward and sets the wineglass upright. "Course … now it does."
Jim grabs his own paper towel and begins dabbing at Chase's lap. "Oh, dear," he says. "Let's try to soak this up."
Jeremy is giggling.
Mack refills Chase's glass.
"Can I get more paper towels?" Jim shouts.
Jeremy hands his paper towel to Jim.
Chase stands up.
Jim drops to his knees and uses his whole hand to press the paper towels to Chase's crotch.
Chase kicks off his shoes then fights with his leather belt, pulling it in all directions until he gets it unbuckled.
"Good idea," Jim says, unzipping Chase's trousers for him.
Chase pushes his pants down to his ankles and, with an awkward dance, steps out of them. His bulging white briefs are stained pink in the front.
"Better take these off, too," Jim says, tugging at the elastic.
"I ain't worried about my underwear," Chase snaps, pulling away. "These come three pairs for ten bucks. It's the pants I'm pissed about—just bought these two days ago, and they weren't cheap. Shit!"
"I'm sorry," Mack repeats, but it's not even a good attempt at sounding sincere.
"You should be," Chase says, his voice growing louder. "You've fucking ruined this dinner start to finish."
"I can see his penis," Jeremy giggles.
"We're going to need more paper towels," Jim says.
"I should have been more careful," Mack says.
"What you should have done is maybe taken this whole evening more seriously!" Chase's booming voice causes the wind chime to vibrate with a thin hum. "This was an important evening to me, and you've done everything you can to embarrass us." He gestures wildly with both arms. "You decorate the dining room like a trailer park! You serve some half-ass, ugly dinner that nearly chokes me to death! You're rude to our friends! You make
me drink too much! You sit there looking all fucking smug while I'm trying my best not to—" He reaches across the table and swings violently as if to strike Mack—
He misses by a mile, obviously on purpose, but his hip bumps the table hard—his wineglass falls over once again, Merlot splashes his white thighs, and his elbow accidentally strikes the longest, lowest pipe of the wind chime. The steel pipe strikes the brass pipe, the brass pipe strikes the copper pipe ... a cacophony of jarring tones causes the wineglasses to hum.
"I'm trying my best not to," Chase repeats.
"Trying your best not to what?" Mack asks.
Chase shakes his head, "trying not to do something I can't take back," he mumbles, "somethin' I'd regret."
"Would you regret it?" Mack asks.
"You would," Chase says.
Jim has found more paper towels, and he's back on his knees, bowing to Chase's wet bulge. "Oh dear, this is going to take a whole roll."
"Forget it," Chase says, stepping back from Jim's touch and scooping up his trousers. "I'm gonna change clothes."
Jim stands up. "I can help."
"Don't need any fuckin' help," Chase says, "I've fuckin' done it before." He's looking at Mack as he says that, and Mack isn’t quite sure what he means.
"But—" A look of panic crosses Jim's face. "I want to see the color."
Chase glances back at Jim. "What?" He’s genuinely confused and clearly struggling to keep his balance.
"The color we picked for your bedroom. You promised to show me."
"Oh," Chase seems to sort of remember painting the bedroom. Seems more concerned with remembering how to walk. "Shhure," he slurs. "Come on."
Jim follows Chase out of the dining room.
A few seconds pass.
Mack hears the bedroom door open.
Hears it close.
Jeremy throws Mack a wooden stare.
Feels like being stared at by a doll.
Slowly, as if on a stiff hinge, Mack turns his head and returns the stare.
Jeremy's lips curl into a grin. "Oink, oink," he says.
"Oink, Oink," Mack whispers.
Jeremy pushes his chair away from the table and hurries out of the room.
A few seconds pass.
Mack hears the bedroom door open.
Hears it close.
Hears it lock.
His heart is pounding.
He gulps a deep breath.
Holds it … slowly exhales.
He expects to hear himself cry out in pain.
He listens for it, ready for his whole body to begin shaking …
Tears should roll down his cheeks any second now. Big, fat, manly tears that sound like soft fruit when they smack the tabletop. It would be the only natural response. He wouldn't be ashamed if that happened. And yet … that's not happening.
No tears, no convulsions.
His eyes are dry as the foam mattress in his bedroom.
In fact, his eyes are the only part of him that is dry.
The rest of him is drenched. An oily, slippery kind of wet. He can feel the sweat oozing from his pores. Feels like melted butter moving down the back of his neck, down his chest, down his thighs, puddling around his heavy balls and soaking through to the upholstery on the chair. His hands feel like gloves. The bottoms of his feet are tickling.
He runs his fingers through his hair.
Under the table, he kicks off his shoes.
He gazes over the empty wine bottles, the uneaten food, the mismatched plates.
He didn't want the evening to go like this.
Or maybe he did.
He pulls his feet up into his chair, peels off his damp socks, and tosses them haphazardly onto the table—one lands in the green beans, the other in the mashed potatoes. He hadn't intended that to happen either. Or maybe he had. Either way, it matches the theme of tonight's dinner party: grotesque pairings and irreconcilable differences. He chuckles to himself, and something tickles the inside corner of his eye.
Could it be?
It takes a moment to be sure.
Definitely a teardrop.
Relief pours over his body.
Feels like a cold shower.
The weight on his shoulders seems to lessen. His bones and muscles seem to soften. Suddenly Mack feels lighter than air—like the breeze pulling toward the box fan might lift him off of his chair. He purses his lips and sucks a deep breath; at the same moment, over his entire body, the pores of his skin seem to pucker, widen, and gulp.
His whole body shivers.
The teardrop slides along the side of his nose.
Another drop follows. They connect and slip around the corner of his mouth.
They're rolling out of his eyes now.
A fat one hangs from his chin whiskers before it loses its grip and smacks the table.
Sounds like soft fruit flattening.
He's alive.
He can do this.
He slips his hand beneath the paper towel beside his plate and pulls out Chase's phone.
The screen has gone to sleep.
Mack swipes it. Enters the passcode.
Chase had been proud to share all his pics from the "old days" until the archive reached this folder—the last album from the year before he met Mack.
Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, Mack brings the phone close to his face in order to better view the picture on the screen. Chase had clearly not wanted this picture to be seen. When he noticed everyone looking at it, he tried to grab back his phone. Mack had stopped that with a distraction. But why did this particular snapshot make Chase so uncomfortable?
It's a snapshot of the outside of this house.
It's a grainy shot. It was taken at night, without a flash, from several yards away.
It’s a picture of Mack and Chase's bedroom window.
Of course, it was taken six years before Mack and Chase lived here.
There's a light on inside the bedroom. The curtains are only half drawn. There's obviously someone inside the room … actually two someones.
They're locked in an embrace.
Chase said Angel had cheated on him. Is this his evidence?
Mack expands the photo as far as the small screen will allow.
Mack has only ever seen Angel in pictures … but he's pretty sure that neither blurry figure framed by the bedroom window is her.
As he leans in closer, he becomes certain of this.
Because both figures are men.
One is wearing a dark suit … could be a uniform of some type. Their faces are twisted in a blur. But the other figure is definitely Chase.
Mack wasn't expecting that. His mind begins racing.
Chase is in the photo. That means Chase couldn't have been the photographer. It looks like he wasn't even aware his picture was being taken. So who took the photo?
The record player reaches the end of the disc. As the needle lifts off the vinyl, it makes a dusty pop, and the arm automatically returns to the first track.
A gust of wind blows in through the box fan.
It slows down the blades and briefly reverses them.
The gust stirs the wind chime above the table.
The metal pipes to sway side-to-side and almost touch.
Mack swipes to the next picture in the album.
In this snapshot, the men in the window are better centered, but the lighting is still poor. They appear to be kissing—a hurried, lustful kiss, too quick for the camera to capture: their faces are motion-blurred and featureless like two balls of clay pressed together.
Another gust blows through the box fan.
The wind chime sways, making a wider arc this time.
Once again, the longest pipe almost touches its neighbor … stops a millimeter before ringing, and pulls away.
Mack swipes to the next shot.
Chase and his lover are finally somewhat in focus. Their eyes are closed. Their mouths are open. It looks savage and wet. It's the kind of kiss that smears yo
ur whole face and turns your lips inside out.
Another gust blows through the box fan.
The wind chime sways with a jerky dance.
Mack swipes to the next shot.
More savage kissing.
Mack swipes to the next shot.
More kissing.
The lovemaking unfolds like a stop-frame animation: faces combining, pulling apart, combining once again. Chase and his lover pause only to pull off each other's shirt. Now they rejoin for more kisses. In each frame, the camera is a little closer to the bedroom window. It seems the photographer is walking toward the window while snapping pictures.
Another gust blows through the box fan.
This gust is a big one.
It pulls Mack's attention from the screen. He glances at the box fan, now at the wind chime above the table: The pipes sway and spread apart—just a little—like a hand opening and spreading its fingers. The gust whirls about for a second then passes through. As the pipes swing back together, the longest pipe softly taps its closest neighbor, and a low-toned, metallic vibration wiggles downward.
Mack swipes to the next shot.
As the bedroom window fills the phone screen, the lovers come into sharper focus. There's enough light entering the aperture now to reveal details in brilliant color: the hairs on Chase's chest; the tattoo on his lover's right arm—an American flag with a blue line replacing one of the stripes; the curl of Chase's upper lip; the hunger on his young face; the shape of his mouth releasing a moan; his wide-open hand on the window as if to steady himself; smudges on the thin glass—
Once again, above the table, the longest pipe taps its closest neighbor. But harder this time.
Mack swipes to the next shot.
Something has changed. Between shots. Whatever it was, it must have happened quickly. There's now a startled look on Chase's face. Confusion on his lover's smile.
Mack keeps swiping.
Both men turn to face the window.
But it's dark outside.
They can't see past their own reflection.
Chase's forehead touches the window.
His nose flattens against the glass, eyes squinting, peering into the darkness on the other side.
Panic lengthens his face.
His lips look elastic.
His mouth is wide open, stretched with a silent scream, and paused in the moment of surprise.
Above the table, the pipes crash as if swiped by an invisible arm.