Page 49 of Rhymes with Metaphor
Joel ran his hand over his hair, a hint of a smile on his face.He handed the mirror back.“Thanks.”
“My pleasure.”
That evening, Reg and Joel sat on the lawn.They had finished a meal of Bethan’s braised short ribs, and Reg could still taste the wine sauce.It made him want an actual drink.
He went into the house and made up a pitcher of Pimm’s.With Bethan’s sharpest knife, he cut lemon and lime and orange and cucumber into diaphanous, translucent slices, adding a handful of fresh mint and lime leaves as a final touch.He put the pitcher and two pint mugs on a silver serving tray and brought them to the patio table.
“This calls for a drink,” said Reg.“An alcoholic drink.”
“I can’t.”
“The legal drinking age in England is eighteen,” said Reg.“And I don’t feel like drinking alone.”
“Have you considered not drinking?”
“Yes.I rejected it as a silly idea.”Reg filled the pint mugs from the pitcher.“Try this.If you don’t like it, I won’t insist.”
Joel took a sip and winced.“It’s bitter.”
“That’s the gin.”
Reg placed his chair beside Joel’s so that they were both facing west and could watch the sunset.Reg drank his Pimm’s and smoked, feeling mellow.They sat together in companionable silence, the ugly events of the afternoon smoothed over, like the orange and white of the sunset sky.Despite his objection to the flavour, Joel continued to sip his drink.
“Why did he call you Smithy?”said Joel.
“My last name is Smith.”
“I thought it was Fieldfare,” said Joel.
“Fieldfare was my mother’s maiden name.Reginald Fieldfare is my nom de plume.”
“Your real name is Reginald Smith?”
“Reginald isn’t my real name.Two other boys in my year at school had the same first name as I do, so people started calling me Reginald, and it stuck.”
“What’s your real first name?”said Joel.
“John.”
Joel looked at him appraisingly.“You don’t look like a John Smith.”
“No, I never thought so.”
Joel finished his pint mug, and Reg refilled it for him.Joel drained the next mug considerably faster.
“How do you feel?”said Reg.
“Light-headed,” said Joel.“And I want to club a gnome.”
“That’s the alcohol.I’ll get you some coffee.”
“I think,” said Joel slowly, “that polypharmacy is contraindicated.”
“Who’s she?”said Reg.
Joel snorted a laugh.He settled back in his chair and closed his eyes.His right arm lay beside Reg’s along the arm of the lawn chair, relaxed.He had a pale and graceful hand, like an orchestra conductor’s.Reg touched Joel’s hand briefly, and when Joel didn’t react, other than to partially open his eyes, Reg gently turned his palm to face the pale orange sky.He traced soft circles on Joel’s palm with his index finger while Joel watched, eyelids heavy.Flip’s hands and fingers were calloused and hard and often blistered and taped.Joel’s hand was smooth and supple.Reg gently tugged each of Joel’s fingertips, then he placed his palm over Joel’s and left it there.Joel stirred, slipped his fingers between Reg’s, and clasped his hand.They neither spoke nor looked at one another.Reg lay back and listened to Joel breathing softly, Joel’s hand in his, feeling exultant.
Later, after Reg had seen Joel to bed, wobbly, but otherwise fine, Reg looked out through the dormer window of his own bedroom, enclosed in thick, green foliage.He felt both sad and guilty.How many summer days had he and Flip spent playing tennis and nights in Reg’s bed?He recalled the sound of Flip’s ball striking Joel’s body.Flip had always been cutthroat competitive, but when he had turned his killer instinct on Joel, he had killed something in Reg instead.That aspect of Flip that had helped him excel at tennis was an inextricable part of him, and until today, Reg had always felt proud of being with Flip.Now, he felt ashamed.
