Page 55 of Rhymes with Metaphor
“So they are.”
“You put them in my Pimm’s that night.”
“So I did.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”said Joel.“Why didn’t you say something before?”
“I wasn’t sure how you felt,” said Reg.“I can usually tell with other people, but you’re so very hard to read.”
“I liked when you cut my hair.”
“I liked cutting your hair.”
“You never touched me, apart from my hair that time,” said Joel.
“And when we held hands by the pool.”
“That was nice,” said Joel.
“Yes, it was.”
“But you didn’t try to do anything else then.”
“I was tempted, but I didn’t want to do anything without your consent.”
“Why today?”
“I was near you,” said Reg.“I could see you were aroused, and I thought it was because of me.But I should have talked to you first, made sure.I won’t touch you again without your consent.”
They stared at each other for a long moment in the near dark.Joel was sitting hunched over on the bed.Whether it was to conceal an erection, Reg couldn’t tell, but he had to make an effort to stop his gaze stealing to Joel’s lap.He wondered if Joel was thinking of what had happened that afternoon, and if he wanted Reg right then.
Instead, Joel heaved a deep sigh.“I should get some sleep.”
Reg got up, and this time, Joel didn’t stop him.He turned at the door to watch Joel climb under the bed covers, and a surge of longing pulsed through him, mixed with a sudden, sweet feeling.
“Sleep well, Joel.”
“Night,” Joel whispered, and he turned onto his side and pulled up the covers.
Reg had a great deal of trouble falling asleep afterwards, so he stopped trying.He sat at his desk, opened his sketchbook, and gazed at his drawing of Joel, perfect in its detail of his lap and his hands—but the face was blank.He kept remembering the feel of Joel’s body, was haunted by the sound of Joel’s sudden, tender gasp, like a thumbnail piercing a plastic seal.
The thought of Joel sleeping in the bedroom below his was distracting and kept him awake, along with an intense curiosity about what would happen between them tomorrow and in the coming days.
He felt pleased.And guilty.And accomplished.He wanted to run in three directions at once: Down to Joel, up to heaven, and here in his room, in ever-decreasing circles.
He wasn’t aware of what he was doing until he found himself, pencil in hand, writing in his sketchbook about what had happened that afternoon.Before, and for the past few weeks, inspiration had come in brief spurts.But this was a full on torrent.Nothing could stop it, not his exhaustion nor the guilt that this wasn’t his story to tell.Nothing.He wrote a long poem that night, continually stopping to lie down, only to be rousted from sleep by words that wouldn’t stop until the last line was written down, and he fell asleep at his desk.
