Page 45 of Rhymes with Metaphor
“My wrist.”
“How is it?”
“Totally crocked,” said Flip.“No Wimbledon this year.I have to take a break.”
“For how long?”
“Three months.And I’m not allowed to jerk off for the next six weeks.”
“You don’t have anyone on the tour who can do that for you?Caroline, for instance?”
“I may retire,” said Flip.“Depending.”
The subject of Flip’s retirement had been bandied between them for years, specifically what it would mean for their relationship.Flip had pointed out that even if he retired, he couldn’t safely come out, as he’d lose any potential job opportunities, particularly coaching young boys.
“You could go back to school,” said Reg.
“That’s your solution to everything, Smithy.How’s that working out for you?”
“Spiffingly, thanks,” said Reg.
Reg showed him to the attic bedroom across from his.
“You’re in here,” said Reg, opening the door.
“Not in front of the kid, huh?Where’s he sleeping?”
“Downstairs,” said Reg.
“How long is he staying?”said Flip.
“For the duration,” said Reg.
Flip’s eyebrows twitched, but that was his only reaction.
They had dinner al fresco courtesy of Bethan, who was so happy to see Flip back again.
Reg, for his part, watched Joel, now he was awake, curious to see how he would react to Flip.That Joel didn’t impress easily was something that had often gotten under Reg’s skin.Tonight, it didn’t get under his skin because it was getting under Flip’s instead.Flip was used to people being impressed with him.He was successful and confident.At six foot four, he was imposing and athletic and six inches taller than Joel.He’d made several “Top Ten Sexiest Men” lists at home and abroad.But if Joel was attracted to Flip, he was hiding it perfectly.He projected an air of being too polite to divulge how unimpressed he was.He wasn’t rude, but he wasn’t effusive, which, in Fip’s books, was no different to disrespect.
There had always been an initial uneasiness when Flip and Reg reunited after a long separation.Where have you been?What or who have you been doing?But until now, the wondering had mostly been on Reg’s part.Maybe it was Flip’s way of punishing Reg for this, but he didn’t come to Reg’s bedroom that night.But nor did Reg go to his.
––––––––
At five o’clock inthe morning, a knock sounded on Reg’s door, and Reg opened it to find Flip standing there in shorts and a T-shirt.
“Come for a run,” said Flip.
In his teens and early twenties, Reg had been a fitness fanatic, up at five every morning running for a couple of hours and then hitting the tennis court to practice.When it became clear he wasn’t good enough to play professionally, he’d replaced running with writing and taken up smoking and drinking in a serious way.This summer in particular, he’d taken loafing to extremes.Reg retained some natural athleticism, but this morning, it petered out around ten blocks from the house, in a quiet lane where he had to stop to retch against someone’s garden wall.Flip stood and watched.
In the bushes, a mourning dove trilled.Reg wiped his mouth and straightened.
“What are you doing with that kid, Smithy?”
“I’m not doing anything.And he’s not a kid.He’s eighteen.”
“Eighteen-year-olds know nothing.Do you remember being eighteen?”
“I knew what I wanted.”
