Page 150 of Rhymes with Metaphor
“Which is?”
“I want you to help me choose an engagement ring.”
“I barely know Juliet.How should I know what she’d like?”
“You’ve always had impeccable taste.”
“I’d hardly say that,” said Reg.“I’m friends with you.”
But the truth was, Reg had nothing better to do that afternoon but go back to his empty loft and ruminate, so he agreed to come.Though he didn’t dare ask directly, part of him was hoping Martin would let slip further news about Joel.
If he’d been hoping he and Martin would re-establish their old rapport, Reg was disappointed.After spending hours looking at various rings, having multiple protracted discussions of cut, colour, and clarity with jewellers, during which Martin made it clear that he and Reg were not, despite their convivial bickering, a couple, Reg wondered if Martin’s defensiveness was solely a result of their errand.Had Martin ever been this emphatically performative in his heterosexuality when they were with other people?Maybe Reg felt paranoid and self-conscious due to recent events, but it seemed Martin was protesting a little too much in that regard.
After several hours, Martin called a halt to the proceedings.Not because he had “found Juliet’s ring,” as he put it, but because he was tired of looking.Martin, strangely, did not seem frustrated, and he even asked Reg to join him for dinner, offering to pay, perhaps as an apology for wasting the better part of Reg’s afternoon.
They went to one of their old haunts on the third floor of the University Centre, and after their soup arrived, Martin sighed and said, “It has to be good enough for her, you know?”
“So book a jeweller and commission a piece.”
“I want a ring with some history attached,” said Martin.
“Go to an estate sale, then.”
“Those can be hit or miss, and it could take months to find something suitable.I don’t want to leave it to chance.Whatever I give her, it has to be really special.”Martin put a spoonful of soup in his mouth, swallowed, and casually said, “Like your family ring.”
Something furled tightly in Reg’s chest like a fiddlehead.He put his spoon down.
“Of course,” said Martin, “it would have to be resized to fit Juliet, but—”
“No,” said Reg.
His mother’s ring had never been resized.It had not been altered in any way since it had been made.If it didn’t fit the hand of the person who inherited it, they wore it on a chain, as Reg did.That Martin could even suggest Reg give it to him, like it was some small token, a trivial favour, made Reg feel physically ill.
Martin went on, unperturbed.“Come on, Reg.She’ll practically be your sister-in-law when I marry her.And it’s not like you’ll ever have anyone to give it to.”
“And you called Joel a gold-digger?”said Reg.“Howdareyou?!”he shouted.He tossed his napkin onto the table and stormed out of the restaurant before Martin could say another word.
Martin hadn’t just let their friendship die.He’d taken it out into the yard and shot it through the heart.
Reg had no recollection of how he got home; his vision was a seething white haze of fury merging with the falling snow.By the time he arrived at the loft, his shirt was soaked through, as were his shoes.He must have left his coat at the restaurant.
Once home, he went straight to his old office and pawed through his files and papers until he found the letter he’d sent Martin nine years ago.He snatched it up.He had, of course, jettisoned the last of his cigarettes, and Joel must have disposed of his lighters, but he found an old matchbox at the back of a kitchen drawer along with a set of candles he couldn’t remember buying.He was pressing so furiously hard against the box that he broke three matchsticks in his attempt to light one.He lit the letter on fire over the kitchen sink, watching it curl and flare.
He ought to have done that months—no, years—ago.He wanted to destroy everything Martin had ever given him.But Martin had been a part of his life for...all of his life.Nearly everything that belonged to Reg bore some trace of him.It would be easier to sell all his belongings and move or set the entire loft on fire than attempt to remove all of Martin from his life.
He got another text notification on his phone.Thinking it was Martin, he readied a sarcastic retort.But it wasn’t Martin.It was an autogenerated text from a wine subscription service he’d joined years ago, wishing him a happy twenty-fifth birthday.
It was Reg’s birthday.He’d completely forgotten.And so had Martin.
He tossed the phone on the settee.“What pairs with misery?”he asked it.
He noticed the sketch he’d made of Joel in England, looking at Reg with such sweet affection and innocence.How could he have lived through that happy summer assuming it was a feeling that must inevitably pass?Why had he let Joel go?And why hadn’t he fought to keep him?
What terrible thing did Reg think would have happened to Joel if he had loved him fully and as an equal, for as long as Joel wanted?
He went to his office and found one of his notebooks, flipped to a blank page, grabbed the nearest thing to hand to write with—a pencil, as it happened—and started writing.Nothing lyrical or lovely.Just ordinary words, very much of the moment, but not lacking in introspection.Even the chair would find nothing to condemn here.
Dear Joel,
