Unraveling

by Rick R. Reed

  I close my eyes and sit on the balcony’s concrete edge. I sniffle a little and allow a couple of tears to fall. They feel crawly, ticklish on my face. I tell myself I’m being stupid and unreasonable.

  Isn’t this what you wanted?

  I open my eyes to find the sky has grown an even paler shade of gray. A fishy-smelling breeze blows up, off the lake, and makes the leaves rustle.

  I sense it before it happens: a cab rolls up in front of our building, slows, and then stops.

  I wait breathlessly, knowing, knowing.

  After a couple of suspense-filled minutes, the back door opens, the interior light comes on and there’s Violet. She opens the door and steps out, clutching the raincoat she wore around her front.

  She looks up, and even in this wan light, even from this distance, our gazes lock.

  I will remember this moment forever. There’s a sadness to it, the sense of things that were hurtling toward an ending at last arriving there.

  My heart swells with a bittersweet kind of love, and I stand, continuing to look down at her. She makes no attempt to move, simply standing there near a parked Nissan Sentra, staring upward.

  What do I see in her gaze? Is it defiance? Sadness? Guilt?

  Am I projecting?

  I turn at last and head into the house. I move quickly to the bathroom and close and lock the door behind me. I run the bathtub water so it will cover the sound of my tears.

  I wait.

  When I come out at last, the light is brighter, and Violet has gone into her room. The door is closed. When I gently try the handle, I discover it’s locked.

  Chapter Twelve

  JOHN

  Randy waits for me at Ann Sather’s, a Swedish restaurant down the street from the Belmont L stop. He’s slouched inside the entrance, wearing black jeans, a black T-shirt, and a black baseball cap. The black makes a sharp contrast with his olive complexion.

  Rain pours down in sheets. Belmont Avenue is a parking lot of cars with their headlights turned on prematurely against the dark gray skies. Exhaust fumes, damp, and garbage rise up. Ah, summer in Chicago.

  I hurry along, getting drenched because I left my umbrella at home. The damn weatherman said cloudy, not rainy.

  Randy doesn’t see me, and once again, he looks scared. I sigh a bit inwardly. I thought we’d gotten past that. There’s a crowd clustered around him, waiting to be seated, yet Randy stands out, partly because of all the black he’s wearing and partly because he seems so ill at ease.

  I hurry inside, resisting the impulse to shake myself off like a dog. I sidle up to Randy, who seems startled by my appearance beside him.

  “Didn’t you get the memo?” I joke with him. “This is a Swedish restaurant now, not a funeral home.” Ann Sather is perhaps the only restaurant in Chicago housed in what used to be the final stop before the grave. The idea sometimes gives me the willies, especially about eating here, but the food’s too good to let it bother me that much.

  He smiles, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his dark eyes, which seem as clouded and troubled as the skies outside. “Hmm? Oh, all the black? Yeah, I put these on without thinking. Black makes that possible. The not thinking. I wasn’t in the mood for thought.”

  I nod, unsure what to say. I hope our first date will go better than this awkward start. If he wasn’t in the mood for thought, what else will he not be in the mood for? I had planned on hugging him, maybe even planting a kiss on those cute Cupid’s bow lips, but I am picking up on a signal that tells me to keep back.

  “I already put our name in for a table. We shouldn’t have much of a wait.” He eyes me up and down. “You want me to ask the hostess for a towel?”

  “That’s okay.” I reach out with my tongue to snag a heavy drop of rainwater heading south from my upper lip. I slip out of my denim jacket and already feel a little drier.

  A young guy with black hair, dark eyes, and a bewitching smile comes to seat us. He puts us at a table in the back, against the hand-painted wall, as though he knows this is a first date. And maybe he does.

  “Carly will be your server. And she’ll bring you the dinner-spoiling bread basket.” He winks at me.

  We laugh. If you’re from Chicago, you know what that basket contains—not only an assortment of homemade breads and rolls, including limpa, but also the restaurant’s famous cinnamon rolls, which are as huge as they are delicious.

  When the basket comes, we split a cinnamon roll and discuss what we’ll have. Randy’s going for the traditional Swedish meatballs, and I order the Tom Turkey dinner. I joke that neither of us will be able to walk out of here later, let alone be up for anything more romantic. “Loosening our belts will be to relieve the pressure, not for anything else.” I think my little joke, and hint, is pretty cute.

  Randy doesn’t, I guess. He stares down at his plate as if he hasn’t heard me.

  I touch the back of his hand. “Hey. Is everything okay?”

  When he meets my gaze, I can tell he’s waging an internal war. A good guess on my part would be that he’s trying to decide how much to share with me, especially on a first date and what may be, for him, a first gay date.

  His shoulders relax a bit. “I’m sorry, John. I wish I was, uh, more in the mood for tonight.” He shoves his half-eaten plate of food away, and then, to further make his point, takes his napkin off his lap and throws it over the meatballs and noodles.

  “Hey, don’t cover it up. I’ll eat that.” I pull his plate toward me and dig in. One of the blessings of being a big, beefy guy who works with the fire department is that I have an insane daily calorie count—or so I tell myself. It’s obvious that, even though the mood at the table is tense, it doesn’t affect my appetite, not when there are unwanted Swedish meatballs facing me.

  But my appetite doesn’t mean I’m not concerned about what Randy’s just said. “What’s the matter? You can share anything with me, man.” And I mean it.

  His gaze is faraway. A less astute observer might say he’s looking over the big crowd in the dining room, but I can tell he’s not seeing anything other than, perhaps, what’s in his mind’s eye.

  He gives me a wavering smile. “It’s nothing. Bad day at work. And maybe I’m just a little tired.”

  Normally, on a first date, I’d let it go at that, figuring the guy would tell me what’s going on when he’s ready. And maybe the truth would be I just wouldn’t care that much as long as it didn’t impede my getting in the dude’s pants later on. But Randy has already worked his way into my heart. I ache when he aches even if I don’t know the reason.

  “Really? I know we’re new to each other, but you can talk to me, Randy.”

  I can see the question on his face, wondering if he really can. And it makes me want to reach across the table and caress his face. It makes me want to call our waitress over, pay the check, and take him out of here to my place, so I can comfort him by holding him close, by whispering that everything will be all right even though I don’t have a clue at this point what’s bothering him.

  Everything is always all right again. Until it’s not. It’s the way of the world.

  His next words make me believe he’s reading my mind. “Can we get out of here?”

  I smile. “Sure. You want to see my place? It ain’t much, but I have a nice bottle of Jack Daniels in the cupboard and some Stella Artois in the fridge. I think we could both use a little meeting with Jack and Stella, don’t you?”

  He nods and the gratitude I read on his face makes me smile.

  “THIS IS NICE.” Randy takes in the living room of my tiny apartment.

  “You’re lying. But thank you.”

  I look around my place, trying to see it through his eyes. I’ve been told it’s a typical bachelor pad more than once. One guy even said my sad little home was a turn-on. “You didn’t get the interior decorating gene, and I’m so glad,” he’d said before unloosening my belt and yanking at the buttons on my Levi 501s.

  I don’t know about an interior
decorator gene, but my home does reflect me and I’m all about comfort. I couldn’t care less about pretense, Feng Shui, or the latest trends in decor. My red-and-gray striped couch is from Goodwill, but it’s in good shape and long enough for me to stretch out for a nap. The tables in the room, a mixture of glass, scratched wood, and what might be marble, are handy for putting drinks and pizza on, along with issues of Entertainment Weekly and The Advocate and the gay rags I never seem to get around to reading that I bring home weekly from the bars. The miniblinds shut out the light, even if they were less than twenty bucks at Home Depot.

  Functional.

  I move aside a stack of newspapers from the couch. “Have a seat.” I head toward my kitchen with its scarred maple breakfast set and laminate almond and oak-trim cabinets. I grab a couple Stellas from the fridge and then a couple chilled mugs from the freezer. I do have some class! I pour the beer and then grab a couple of juice glasses for our shots of Jack.

  I come back with everything on a tray and set it on the coffee table.

  Randy eyes it. “You trying to get me drunk?”

  “Will it help me get you into bed?”

  “Not if I’m praying to the porcelain god,” he answers.

  “Maybe I could make my move as you bend over the toilet.” I laugh, but he stares morosely forward.

  I stop chuckling and sit next to him. The feel of his body beside mine, despite the tension in the room, is electric. I lean against him as I take a sip of my beer. I drink a little of the Jack and let a warm breath escape my lips. At this point in bringing someone home, I’d normally be leaning in for the first kiss. Then I’d be pulling the guy onto my lap, having him straddle me.

  Smooth operator. Fast.

  But Randy still is troubled. I can see it from the tightness of his shoulders, raised up near his ears, and can feel it in the way he holds himself—taut, drawn inward. He apes my actions with the beer and the whiskey, downing half the beer and all of the shot, which amounts to a triple.

  He sets the bottle and the glass back on the table and eyes me. He blows out a breath before practically announcing, “My wife didn’t come home last night. She was out with another guy. She’s been seeing him behind my back for a while.”

  I’m not sure what to say because I don’t know what to feel about this pronouncement. Part of me wants to wonder why he’s bothered. After all, we’re sitting here, on a date, and I know Randy’s been out at the bars at least a couple of times. He’s told me his marriage is essentially over. They’re just sorting out where to take things and how to minimize how it will affect their little boy.

  “Does that bother you?” It doesn’t need asking, but Randy, I think, needs the nudge.

  He smiles, but sadness lingers in his eyes. It’s almost as though he’s read my mind when he responds. “It shouldn’t, should it? I mean, we’re splitting up. I don’t know if I need to be happy for her, but at least I shouldn’t be so bothered by it.”

  “And how bothered are you?”

  He takes another swig of beer. “It makes me sick to my stomach to think of her in bed with another guy.” He finishes the beer in a long swallow and holds the empty out. “Can I have one more?”

  I nod and get up to get it for him.

  When I sit back down, I ask him, “What did you expect?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know.” He gives me a rueful smile. “Well, that’s not quite true.” He drinks some more beer and lets out a long sigh. “You want the truth?”

  “Sure.” I’m not certain where this evening is going, but it’s not where I’d hoped when I was showering and shaving my balls.

  “I expected her to be there for me while I sorted things out. I thought she might wait, you know, until we were split up to start dating again, to start screwing again.” He hangs his head. “Selfish, I know, but it’s the truth.”

  I’m not sure what to think or how to feel. I mean, what he’s saying simply isn’t fair—the expectations aren’t right. Here’s a woman, someone I don’t even know, struggling to make sense of a marriage she thought, in good faith, was to a straight man. Is it wrong of her to seek comfort in the arms of, well, a straight man? I mean, hell, she’s shook up; she’s gotta be. And she’s probably doubting her own sex appeal—wondering why she was the one who ended up married to a queer. And maybe being in bed with a straight dude affirms she’s okay, that she’s desirable.

  I drink my beer, feeling like I can’t voice these thoughts. It seems cruel. Besides, Randy’s a smart guy. Deep down, I’m sure the same thoughts have run through his head a dozen times.

  So I stay quiet.

  Randy goes on. “I know. I’m being ridiculous. I was the one who set the end of our marriage in motion. I was the one who wanted to go out, meet other gay men for friendship and—” He eyes me. “—more.”

  “You’re not being ridiculous,” I say, even though I think he is. “You’re grieving.”

  “You’re wise.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” I’m about to tell him we don’t have to do anything tonight. He doesn’t need to get drunk, as he seems to be on the road to doing. But before I can say the words, he leans forward and makes a surprising suggestion.

  “Can we just go to bed? Shut this all out for a while?”

  Even though an erection immediately rises in my jeans, I have enough compassion and sense to question if this is the right route to take. I take his face in my hands and kiss him—just long enough and deep enough to let him know we can do whatever he wants, especially in my bedroom. But I temper the kiss, when we at last break apart, with “Yeah, of course we can. I’ve been fantasizing about just that since, oh, since I first laid eyes on you back at Sidetrack last winter.” I smile. “But I want you to know, we can just hold each other.” I sit back, hoping he gets that there’s no pressure. I know his experience with men has to be limited, and I don’t want to do anything that might scare him away.

  On the other hand, I’m a young, healthy, virile guy with what I suspect might be an overactive libido. I’m hungry for more than just a kiss on the lips, however nice that might be. Truth—I’d love to get down and dirty, to feel his seed spurting down my throat, to feel myself inside him and then, after a short rest, him inside me. I want to feel all the sweaty flesh pressed together.

  God help me.

  I stand and hold out my hand. He takes it and I lead him into my bedroom.

  I switch on the lamp on my dresser. Anticipating we might end up here, I did put on clean sheets before making up the bed. The clothes that were on the floor of the bedroom are now tucked away on the floor of my closet. Not much improvement, but hey, I made an effort. And the room’s at least presentable.

  He switches off the light as I pull back the comforter. The room goes from dim to pitch-black, but after a moment, my eyes adjust, and we’re in a murky darkness.

  Randy undresses in the corner, where there’s an old recliner I snagged from my parents’ place before they donated it to the parish rummage sale. He puts his clothes on it, piece by piece, folding each one with absurd care.

  I’m used to clothes being flung around the room in a blur. A contest to see who can get naked first.

  But there’s something about the slow and deliberate way he takes things off that moves me. In a sexual way, sure (my dick’s pointed, as it should be, heavenward). But it also touches my heart. His actions reveal a scared, hungry man, and while I’d love to see the end of that fear that’s become so familiar on his face, I also find it kind of poignant because so many gay guys of my generation are hyperfocused on sex and coming that they lose any possibility for true intimacy. You know, the stuff that goes beyond the physical.

  Lord help me. Am I falling in love with this man?

  I laugh inwardly, and a little voice sings out inside, “Too late! Too late!”

  At last, he stands, hovering near the chair, his naked body as silver as the Tin Man’s in the light of the moon spilling in through the window blinds. I don’t quite kno
w how to describe it, but it’s like he’s reluctant and seething with desire all at the same time.

  He startles me when he speaks. “Aren’t you gonna get undressed?”

  Wow. I was so busy watching him, thinking about him, and wanting him, it hadn’t even occurred to me to remove my own clothes. That’s a first! “Is that what you want?”

  He eyes me from across the room, making no effort to come near me, but he says in an almost strangled voice, “More than anything.”

  Although I don’t go to the lengths of folding each piece of clothing as he did, I do take my time getting undressed. When I’m at last down to my boxer shorts, I stoop and pull them off. My dick is so hard, it slaps against my belly.

  I know that, from here on out, I need to be the one making the moves. I suspect Randy would be paralyzed, his feet glued to the carpet, despite the desire I know he’s feeling.

  I crawl onto the bed and lie on my back. “Come on, it’s chilly.” I throw back the comforter a little more in a way I hope’s inviting and not pushy.

  After a moment, Randy moves toward the bed. He gingerly lies beside me, not close enough to touch.

  I feel the weight of him on the bed. I can smell him, a little Old Spice and something deeper, animal-like, and more primal beneath the cloying commercial scent. It makes me even harder, which I wouldn’t have thought possible.

  My dick twitches. Precome pools on my belly.

  Even though I can see his own erection in the dim light, I resist the urge to put hand or lips on it. For now.

  He’s lying so still. He begins talking, staring up at the ceiling. “She deserves a good man, one who finds her attractive, one who can’t resist her. I know in my head I should be happy for her. And I am. In my head.

  “My heart, though, is aching. With pain. With rejection.” He turns to me, but still keeps his hands at his sides. He reaches up with one of them and briefly touches his chest. “This poor old heart doesn’t know from gay or straight. It only knows from love. And I did love her, do love her. Just not in the way I know she deserves.”