Page 121 of Something Like Forever
Ben knew exactly what hecould do. He had experienced it more times than he could count, buthe never tired of it. Ever.
Twenty minutes later hewas beginning to regret those words, because Tim was making itcount. Ben was still on his stomach. Tim’s arms still gripped him,sliding occasionally to change positions: an arm tight around hisneck, the other beneath his waist. Both beneath his armpits, handsgripping his shoulders. Both coiled around his stomach, lifting himup for a better angle. Tim kept pumping and Ben continued moaning,wondering if he should have asked for three hours moreinstead.
“Are you close?” Timasked.
“Very,”Ben said. “Not like this though.”
“Huh?”
“Let me rollover.”
Tim slipped out, lettingBen roll onto his back. As Tim eased back inside, Ben raised a handto his face, pressing his palm against it and staring into hiseyes. Tim stared back, the love unmistakable, his motions gentlernow like he was determined to savor what time remained. That wastheir relationship. Too many false starts and years apart hadingrained this instinct in them both. They treated each touch, eachkiss, like it was their last.
Tim’s expression becameyearning. Ben nodded. The pace didn’t increase. Tim remaineddisciplined, each motion of his hips rocking them back and forth,but he no longer held back. Neither of them did. When Tim collapsedonto him, Ben clung tight, kissing his shoulder, smelling his skin,and sending out a silent prayer.
Please don’t let this kindof love be taken from him. Not again.
* * * * *
Tim was in the shower whenhe pulled his hands away from his head and saw clumps of hair mixedin with the shampoo suds. He wasn’t shocked. Not like he had beenyesterday. He knew that chemotherapy might make his hair fall out,but after two weeks of minimal negative side effects, he thought hehad lucked out. He rinsed for longer than usual. Better it go downthe drain than get stuck in the towel. His parents could deal withany clogged pipes, since that’s where he was, back in Houston andfacing yet another appointment.
He longed for the dayswhen he was able to wake up, go to the gallery, and deal withstarving artists and skittish customers. Normal days, like those hehad known before, and not this never-ending parade of physicians,medication, and waiting rooms. Dr. Staples wanted him to consultwith a specialist at MD Anderson. Tim supposed he was lucky to livewithin driving distance of one of the nation’s leading cancercenters. Unlucky to need to, but still fortunate to have thatoption. His appointment wasn’t until later today, but to avoid asix-hour roundtrip drive, he had decided to travel the day beforeand stay the night with his parents.
He looked at himself inthe mirror after drying off. So far so good. He had lost a littleweight, since his appetite wasn’t the same, and he looked tired. Heblamed anxiety more than the treatment. Thoughts of cancer tendedto keep him up late. Despite his hair starting to fall out, itmostly still looked okay, just not as thick. He didn’t think anyonecould tell he was sick by appearance alone.
After getting dressed, hewent downstairs and found his mother straightening the kitchen. “Ineed a haircut.”
“Do you?” Ella said,turning to consider him. “You look very handsome.”
“Thanks,” he grunted, “butit’s falling out.”
“Your hair?”
He nodded.
“Oh mypoor baby!” Ella pressed her hands to his cheeks, oblivious to thefact that it made his face look fat and pooched out his lips.“¡Mi pobreGordito!”
Okay, maybe she didrealize since she still insisted on calling him her little fatty.“Mom!” he said, pulling away, but he secretively loved theattention. She had taken the day off, and as always, he enjoyedbeing the center of her world.
“It’s all my fault,” shesaid. “I made you! I should have tried harder.”
“You didfine,” Tim said. “Actually, I wouldn’t have minded being a littletaller.”
“We’ll get you new shoestoday,” she said, patting his cheek and turning back to the kitchensink. “Ones that make you taller.”
“I waskidding!”
“So was I.”
“Notabout shopping though,” Tim said. They didn’t need to buy anything.He just liked going out with her.
“I neverjoke about shopping,” Ella said. “Put on your shoes. I’ll call mystylist.”
All he needed was abarber, but he knew she would insist on the very best for him. Onceat the salon, his mother sat in the waiting area and readmagazines, giving him privacy while his hair was cut. That wasgood, because it allowed him to pretend that genetics were catchingup with him instead of a disease.
“Might as well say goodbyeto my hair now,” he said. “My dad was bald as a cue ball by thetime he was forty.”
Not true. His father stillhad a head full of thick white hair, but Tim enjoyed taking thataway from him, if only in his own imagination. Instead of buzzinghis hair down to one uniform length, the stylist left the topslightly longer. This looked nicer, and he supposed when it didfall out, it wouldn’t make as much of a mess. Still… “Just a littleshorter on top,” he said.
