Impatience Is a Virtue

by Francis Gideon

  Soon, their hips were working together. Jack leaned into the sudden thrusting from Marshall and allowed his body to be pliable. He rolled his hips and held onto Marshall’s shoulder, whispering moans and encouragements in his ears. Marshall’s hands moved over Jack’s ass, holding him in place, before he slipped his palm over Jack’s cock and began to pump him. There were a couple more sudden movements of thrusting and grunting, before Jack knew they were not going to last much longer. Sex always seemed like a sprawling epic in his mind, something that they could do for hours, but he knew it was only three more quick pumps with Marshall’s hands before he came onto his chest.

  “Fuck,” Jack let out through clenched teeth. He shuddered as he still felt Marshall inside of him, his pace picking up.

  “Oh, God,” Marshall said. He thrust another time, on another expletive, and then the tone of his breathing change, and Jack knew it was over. Marshall and Jack both leaned into one another, heads on shoulders, as they caught their breaths. When Marshall got up again to clean up, he kissed Jack on the crown of his head.

  “I’m glad I came over,” he whispered.

  “I’m glad you did too.”

  They lay down on the bed again, still naked, and laughed at stupid ER and customer service stories they exchanged. Eventually, Marshall got the plant from the front hallway and placed it on Jack’s bedside table. He watered it, and marveled at it a little longer, telling Jack a few more stories about the medicinal purposes of primroses back in ancient times. Jack nodded along easily, already used to the way Marshall went on and on about certain stories and facts, especially this close to exams.

  “Are you staying the night?” Jack had asked. They were both wearing boxers now, but not much else. The bed was haphazard from lying down in it, and Jack had no inclination to get up from it again.

  Marshall nodded with a smile. “I’ll need to leave early, though.”

  “That’s okay. As long as you’re here.”

  Marshall kissed him again and crawled next to him under the covers. Jack had felt a thousand times lighter that night as he slept. And the high of being so loved and so valued had lasted up until they got the letter, and were sent to live in different parts of the stated.

  Jack still has the flower. It’s looking a bit worse for wear, but he keeps it to remind himself that Marshall is a caring man, who once bared all to him. Jack wonders now, as he wanders the aisles of Target, if it’s possible to see that man again, someday soon, or if distance has ruined it forever.

  * * * *

  “Almost through the worst of it,” Greta says. She claps Jack on the back. “How are you doing?”

  “Good. Tired and hungry.”

  “That’s the spirit of Christmas, my love. Do you have any plans?”

  Jack shakes his head. He and Marshall had talked about planning December holidays tonight or the night after over Skype. Whenever Marshall could actually sit down long enough to have a full conversation. But the women he works with don’t need to hear the intimate working details of his relationship. Most of the women on staff are good, but sometimes, they do lapse into old stereotypes and hope that Jack will be their gay best friend and style guide, who will help them find just the right outfit for an occasion. Jack is the farthest thing from a style guru, as his torn jeans and plaid shirt underneath the smock should indicate.

  “I saw you online, you know,” Greta adds.

  “Did my sex tape go viral?”

  “No, but your cute face did.” Greta smiles. “Relax, Tony didn’t see anything and if I remember correctly, you’re almost a free man.”

  Jack smiles and looks back towards the clock. He swears it stops as soon as his eyes lay on it.

  “This too shall pass, my dear,” Greta says, again pulling up all the platitudes she can find. For the Christmas season, where Hallmark thrives, this seems almost appropriate. Better platitudes than the horrible Rudolph song that Jack has heard on repeat for the past ten hours.

  “How much longer do you have, anyway?” Greta asks.

  “Three, two, one,” Jack watches as the clock goes. And then—it hits eight o’clock and he is done. He smacks his hands together in a devilish show of pride and then smiles at Greta.

  “Don’t you even start to brag. I’m here till closing.”

  “Well, I send my love,” Jack says. He waves to her in a grand fashion as he grabs a handful of confetti from an open craft pack. He throws it up in the air to signal his leaving and to add a bit of fun for the cleaning crew. He laughs, as does Greta, just as he almost bumps into Maura.

  “You dirty little menace,” she shrieks when she sees the confetti all over the tile floor. “I’m going to get you.”

  But Jack runs through the aisles, skipping over carts and around the rest of the workers and right past Tony. Jack makes his way to his locker and begins to take off his Target uniform and swap it for his jacket. For a moment, as he looks outside through the back window, he remembers why sometimes the work he does isn’t so bad. Freedom actually begins to feel good after being deprived of it for so long.

  “Don’t forget to sign out,” Patrice calls to him. She holds her purse to the side of her body and eyes him from the back door. “If you hurry, I’ll even give you a ride home.”

  Jack doesn’t have to hear anything else to be convinced.

  As the two of them find her car under a thin layer of snow, he watches as more people file in and out of the shops. Target closes in four hours, but it will be a lot longer before any employees can feasibly leave.

  “Don’t look back,” Patrice warns as she gets in. “Never look back.”

  Just as he puts his seatbelt on, another text comes in from Marshall.

  Happy early Christmas, he says. You deserve it. I’ll call you soon.

  Chapter 7

  Back at his apartment, Jack eats a quick dinner called ‘whatever is in the fridge that does not have mold.’ Living alone can sometimes have its drawbacks, including the hard task of making meals for one. Jack’s been so used to throwing things into a pot and hoping for the best that he’s usually left with a lot of leftovers. Grocery shopping can also be a little difficult when by himself, as his fridge without milk reminds him. So, no mac and cheese from a box tonight. Dishes, too, are the final problem. Jack has to work his way around a red stained pot of spaghetti sauce from maybe two days ago before he can start cooking anything else. He decides on the same spaghetti leftovers, slips them in the microwave, and starts to clean as he waits.

  Jack knows that he should give up his place and just make the final step: live with Marshall. But he kind of likes living alone, for all its drawbacks. He can also count on both hands just how many times he had to move with his mom and older brothers in tow across the country. It’s been kind of nice to stay in one place, even if it means being devoid of Marshall for a little while. During all of those moves, Jack watched his mother go through men like candy wrappers. They would move in, get settled, and then the bank notices and bills would start coming. The guy would leave, usually taking some money or food or something else in his wake, and he and his brothers would be moving yet again. Jack doesn’t want to rush things with Marshall, especially since he does love him more than anyone so far.

  What did his mother say? Jack wonders and then remembers. Familiarity breeds contempt. That was why she said so many men left her so quickly. Yeah, Jack thinks. Familiarity definitely turns into contempt if you’re living in a bunk bed with messy siblings, but it shouldn’t if you love the people around you. But still—like one of those annoying Christmas songs he’s heard all day, the phrase gets stuck in Jack’s head and refuses to leave.

  Jack spots the phone from the other side of the room. An actual phone, a landline, and not his cell. Jack has always liked calling Marshall on the landline, because it makes him feel like he’s back in high school. It adds that new spark to their relationship, which is what both of them need to keep things interesting through the months and distance. Naturally, the large bl
ack phone also reminds Jack of that wrong number phone call that brought them together.

  Jack moves towards the receiver and dials Marshall’s number.

  “Pick up, pick up,” he says under his breath.

  “Hey, hey,” he answers a moment later, voice distant. Marshall has probably just stepped in the door, Jack deduces, or he’s still going over medical charts and trying to figure out a diagnostic thing. Jack knows he should be relieved he’s even at his small apartment.

  “Hi,” Jack says. “How are you?”

  “Jack,” Marshall greets, extending the vowels in Jack’s name in surprise. Jack hears shuffling in the background and knows Marshall is getting up and moving away from his computer. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing much.”

  “Well, you’ve survived your harrowing day of savings,” Marshall comments. “Did you get me anything while you were there?”

  “Don’t even start with me,” Jack laughs.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re relatively unharmed and back at home. That’s got to count for something, right?”

  “Yeah, I suppose it does.”

  Marshall laughs slightly. “Thank God for small favors, huh?”

  “Or my work schedule,” Jack counters. He shakes his head to get yet another stock quotation from his head. “I’m going to have to go in on Monday, anyway.”

  “Aw, really?”

  “Cyber Monday deals now!” he says with feigned enthusiasm. “I think I’m in the back this time, so I won’t have to deal with humanity.”

  “Oh, I wish,” Marshall adds. “I’m on call then, too. Looking forward to sleeping in rickety beds and eating bad food from the hospital cafeteria. And most likely the patients’ unfinished food.”

  “I hear you,” Jack says. His voice trembles. He wishes he could be there. That he could sneak into the tiny on-call room and maybe live in the utility closet, just to have some face time with Marshall again, beyond the phone calls and Buzzfeed viral images.

  “I showed some people at work your picture online today,” Marshall says. “Their hearts go out to you for working so much.”

  “Well, it’s what I do.” Jack pauses, waiting on the other end. He eyes his small clock from the kitchen and waits, holding his breath on the other end of the phone.

  “What’s going on?” Marshall asks. “You’re kind of quiet.”

  “Just two seconds,” Jack says. He watches as the hands on the kitchen clock slides past midnight.

  “Two seconds for…?”

  “It is now,” Jack enunciates slowly, drawing it out like a game show host. “Three weeks and six days. It’s past midnight, so it’s no longer a month until I get to see you again. It’s only three weeks and six days.”

  Marshall laughs a little. “You’re a very good observer, Jack. You would make a good doctor.”

  “Or nurse,” Jack says. “Since they’re usually the ones who do most of the legwork.”

  Marshall scoffs a bit, but Jack can tell he’s smiling and most likely running his hand through his tangled hair. The first few days on-call the nurses did Marshall’s IVs and cat scans for him since everyone in the summer was dehydrated and it was nearly impossible to find a vein. It’s a common thing, Marshall explained and Jack could believe it. Usually, the nurses don’t do the favors out of niceness. They just want to end their shift and go home. The first few weeks while Marshall was gone and learning how to be a doctor, he had called Jack religiously and gave him graphic frame-by-frame of what happened to him that day. Jack would always sit on the edge of his seat, waiting for the next detail and next plot twist. Everything was still new and exciting then, and Marshall was still learning to miss Jack as much as he was tempering his own excitement about his job.

  Now on the other end of the phone, Marshall still seems busy though he is no longer at the hospital. He doesn’t offer up any play-by-play, even with working his first Black Friday and Thanksgiving weekend.

  “What was it like?” Jack asks.

  “What?”

  “Today at work, you know. How did things go? Funny injuries?”

  “Not as bad as I thought,” he states. “It was much worse on Halloween.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, one of the nurses then was convinced that the hospital was haunted.”

  “I suppose it makes sense,” Jack says, considering the statement. “A lot of people die there now rather than at home. So their ghosts would linger.”

  “Sure, something like that. Anyone die in your store?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Jack states with a grave laugh. “But there have been at least three for this holiday season. Patrice and I heard it on the radio on the way back.”

  “My God,” Marshall says.

  “Yeah, super fun for the holidays.” The line goes quiet again. “So what are we going to do when I see you again? Any plans for Christmas?”

  “Oh, right,” Marshall says. “We were supposed to talk about that today.”

  “Yes, we were. It’s really close now.”

  “Still Thanksgiving technically.”

  “Yeah, but, I heard Christmas music all day so it’s kind of on my mind. Can you humor me for a bit?”

  Marshall is quiet. Jack hopes he’s typing an email to his folks or trying to reach them on his cell phone, but the late hour suggests otherwise. Jack’s mother and brothers are still mobile, and scattered all over the US. Jack has gotten pretty used to not seeing them for Christmas the past five years or so. He’s usually been alone—or working somewhere. Before Marshall was in his life, Jack was always the first person to volunteer to work holidays and vacation days. He’s still convinced the best Christmases he had were when he worked at a movie theater. He’d get to hang out with some of the really cute Jewish boys from the synagogue down the street as they came in with their families to watch a movie and then go get Chinese take-out afterwards. Jack was even able to tag-along for a few of those dim-sum meals. Those three years of denying Christmas existed had been a nice life, for a time. Now Jack has found himself wanting something more substantial, something that he hoped Marshall could provide for him in the form of a family.

  “I requested some time off today,” Jack adds. He’s pretty sure Target closes on Christmas (he can’t tell anymore) but he asked for Christmas Eve and following twenty-sixth off. “I may not get it all, but Maura owes me one.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Marshall,” Jack says somewhat irritated. “Are you even listening?”

  “Jack, Christmas is so far away. I can’t even think that far ahead and I’m still just juggling when I get called in. I can’t put in requests like that. You have it lucky, you know.”

  Jack scoffs. “Yeah, cleaning up someone’s puke in the bathroom is lucky.”

  “I get puked on, too, you know.”

  “So we have the puking thing in common,” Jack remarks holding his hand in the air. “But you get paid better for it.”

  Marshall doesn’t respond. Jack twists himself in the phone cord, wrapping the cord around him again. “I’m sorry. I just get really anxious sometimes and the only thing that gets me through it is thinking about you. Counting the days.”

  “I know,” Marshall says. He doesn’t add “me too,” and that missing reciprocation makes Jack feel as if he’s been struck. “But you know that watching the days only makes them go slower, Jack.”

  Jack tries not to be offended by his off the cuff remark, especially since Marshall does, at times, seem as genuinely upset by their time apart as he is. If this comment had been made through email, Jack’s frail ego might have been crushed. Or at least, he would have over analyzed every last detail from the way Marshall capitalizes and leaves out commas.

  “Time is finite, Marshall. It passes and it does not care if it is watched,” Jack counters.

  “Yes, but didn’t your mom ever tell you that a watched pot never boils? A watched clock would be the same. And good things come to those who wait, let’s not forget
that.”

  Jack rolls his eyes. “Greta tells me stuff like that all the time.”

  “See? You should listen to her. She seems to know what she’s talking about.”

  “She’s a middle aged woman who was screwed out of her retirement fund. She’s bitter and needs to make sense of the world. So small quotations like that help.” Jack pauses. “You really can’t believe that, Marshall. That I’m making the time worse by watching it?”

  Marshall sighs. Jack can see him on the other end pinching his temples and contemplating the proper thing to say, as if he were diagnosing him and figuring out a way to tell him about his cancer.

  “I don’t know. I figure it’s never good to count your chickens before they hatch.”

  “More platitudes, great,” Jack says. “I’m getting so sick of them.”

  “Sorry. Hospitals do that.”

  “Retail does that, too,” Jack counters. “But at least I know how many days are going to pass just as slowly. Come on, you knew you were going to start counting eventually.”

  Just then, an alarm on Marshall’s cell phone goes off and gives him away. He scrambles to shut off his Lady Gaga “Christmas Tree” ringtone before it gets to the chorus.

  “See, I knew it,” Jack laughs. “You’re counting down to Christmas just as much as I am. Probably more and for a lot longer.”

  “Shut up,” Marshall laughs into the phone. He presses something again to allow Gaga to finish her ode to her delicious Christmas tree. “That was just reminding me to do something.”

  “What? Lick my Christmas tree? Because you should totally do that.”

  “I have my secrets I need to keep,” Marshall says in a cool and teasing tone.

  “You know…” Jack begins, a smirk on his face. He has a feeling that Marshall is looking for his Christmas presents online—and that’s why he’s been so quiet. Jack begins to feel like a kid at Christmas, shaking the boxes and guessing what’s inside. Luckily for him, there were never too many to guess and most of the time, he got it right because he knew the price range of what to guess.