BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD

CHAPTER 25-SEMANTICS

BRIAN’S POV

It may sound absurd
but don’t be naïve

They say that every journey begins with a single step, but that’s problematic when you’d rather not wear shoes and can’t pack anything since you don’t know where or when you’re going. The best you can do is throw caution to the wind and hope that, in the end, you were able to pick up a few souvenirs. And if one of them was hindsight it would be worth every penny. And then, of course, there’s the fundamental problem with all journeys: you never know you’re on one until it’s over.  And so looking back, you can take a helicopter ride over marriage and see it for what it really is: an amusement park that entices you during the fly over—the fun, the excitement, cotton candy, games of chance, but once you’re eye-level with it, you realize that the upside-down roller coaster that looked like a piece of cake from high in the sky is actually pretty fucking scary.  And then you see someone you love, someone who shares your house, your bed, your shower, already in line and waving madly for you to join him in the very first car. So you break a few rules, jump the guard rails, and join him, and the ride is exhilarating and he’s smiling at you during the tick, tick, tick up the hill and then you stop right at the top of a nine-story drop and teeter back and forth, the adrenaline pushing your stomach into your toes...

He wasn’t buckled in?

To the best of your recollection…

The first descent you acknowledged in your marriage came weeks after you’d presented Justin with his bone of contention (unsure if he’d bite or bury it), weeks after you and Zeek managed to converse with one another without impersonating conjoined peacocks. It came in mid-March when Justin started working at PIFA. He’d been given office space in advance of the seminar he was to teach that summer, and, at first, it felt like exactly what he needed—to get out of the house.

You’d hoped that the two of you would drive to work together on the days he went in, but that left him without a car and at the mercy of your schedule. So, the two of you typically left at the same time each morning, and he’d follow you to Pittsburgh, waving good-bye when he approached his exit. It wasn’t uncommon for the two of you to be on the phone up until the moment you went your separate ways, and it never failed that, at the moment of departure, you’d begun thinking about how you wanted to fuck him that night or maybe just kiss him, tease him—really slowly—for a really long time. Consequently, you were always hard while you were being instructed to have a productive day.

On the mornings he didn’t go in, the drive seemed to take forever.

But on the mornings that he did, the early-morning fuck morphed into the lunch fuck, the two of you meeting at the loft to consummate the day. It became a routine that although comfortable was never boring. You were addicted to it, knowing that the aggravation of your morning was going to be mercilessly fondled until it melted away. But it was more than that, too, because you weren’t fucking him in a six a.m. fog, you were wide awake—watching him undress—making love to him, soaking in his smile, showering away the carnal evidence. Conversation out of the way during the morning commute, it was the ultimate guilty pleasure—knowing that you had an hour to please him and that when time was up, the endorphins coursing through your body would last you the rest of the day. Everyone on your management team knew when you were having a ‘nooner,’ and not a one of them minded. In fact, Cynthia told you that the more you were in Justin’s ass, the less you behaved like one. You took her word for it.

On the days he didn’t go in, you found yourself skipping lunch so you wouldn’t miss it so badly.

He was spending less and less time in his studio at the house, but you didn’t give it much thought because he had work space at PIFA; you always assumed he was working there instead. But when you saw it, you knew that wasn’t the case. His office, which wasn’t just his, was a room on the third floor no bigger than a janitor’s closet. He shared the space with a girl named Andrea who was apparently the PIFA-appointed assistant to all guest faculty. There was no room for an easel of any type, and it was clearly built as an afterthought with poorly constructed bookshelves and a four-paneled window of cloudy glass covered with vertical blinds. That seemed odd to you, but, then again, the whole place was odd. You were convinced that the whole building was full of asbestos and that PIFA should’ve had civil engineers in there doing an official study. One day, in bed at the loft, Justin made it clear that he didn’t share your concern,

“I really wish you’d shut up about that, Brian.”

“Every time you come home from work, there’s a bunch of white stuff in your hair.”

“That’s from the ceiling tiles, Brian. They’re really old.”

“And probably full of asbestos.”

“Maybe you should have them come and check out Kinnetik. That place is older than PIFA. It should’ve been condemned; the only thing holding it up is fossilized jizz.”

You told yourself never to say a word about all the white shit in his hair again.

*******************
how can you catch the sparrow?

You were the third car back at a busy intersection in Pittsburgh one day when you saw Justin crossing in front of you in the ‘vette. He hadn’t ridden in with you that morning; you’d assumed he was at home. So you dialed his cell, but he didn’t answer. You looked at the clock on your dashboard: 12:42 p.m. Maybe he was in town having lunch with Jennifer. You tried him again, and he answered this time, his speech hurried,

“Hey.”

“Hey. What are you doing? You just drove right past me.”

“I did?”

“I didn’t think you were working today.”

“Last minute thing.”

……

A silence followed; you listened to him breathe for a few seconds and then asked, “Want to meet me at the loft?”

……

He didn’t answer right away, but then, “You have time? It’s almost one.”

“I have time.”

……

You beat him there and poured yourself a drink in the kitchen while you waited. He arrived about five minutes later, dressed in his work clothes. You poured him a drink and watched him lay his wallet and keys on the table next to the bed. And then you were right beside him, handing him his glass, unbuttoning his shirt for him.

“I’m going to fist you tonight,” you told him as he finished his drink, reaching behind him to sit the glass down. You kissed him when his face turned back to yours.

“You are?”

“I am.”

His shirt wasn’t even completely unbuttoned when your hands changed directions and unfastened his pants. He never took his eyes off of yours once they were gone, a smile on his face as he lay back on the bed, waiting for you to join him. You lowered yourself, pushing his shirt up and out of the way as you kissed his chest, his stomach, lubing your hand and slipping it between his legs. His leg was propped on your shoulder as you fingered him, your lips brushing the inside of his thigh.

……

“I want you,” he moaned, urging your face toward his cock.

“I know.”

He was fucking your hand hard, “Inside me, Brian, please.” The way your name came out so desperate and breathy…made you want to fuck him senseless.

“You want me to fuck you?”

“Brian, please… I’m gonna come.”

“Not until I tell you to.”

“Oh god…” And you were inside him.

You fucked him as if you had something to prove, and he held on tightly, kissing you hard as both of you came. It wasn’t until you were in the shower washing his hair that you realized there was no white shit in it, not one single fleck. He left before you; you lingered for a guilty minute, checking his pillowcase. Nothing there either.

……

You hated his office, but he loved yours. He’d come there often when he got done at PIFA and hang out on your sofa waiting for you to finish working. He usually arrived around four thirty, and once you showed him how, would darken the doors immediately upon his arrival. (It was the only aspect of your techno-life that he didn’t seem to hate.) The Kinnetik staff hated your ‘after-nooner,’ until they realized that once Justin came in and the doors went dark, they could pretty much leave and you wouldn’t know the difference. The one time you approached Cynthia about the mass exodus, she made it perfectly clear that if you were going to fuck your afternoon away, she was leaving early, too.

Most of the time Justin spent in your office was you doing your thing and him doing his thing. If your day wasn’t booked or he wasn’t preoccupied in something he was researching, the two of you would do ‘your’ thing, which usually meant that…

He was sitting on your couch, pants off, legs spread, and you were kneeling between them. His hand was lodged in the book he was reading, an instant bookmark when you took him in your mouth.

“Are you fucking crazy, Brian? What are you doing?”

You probably were, but you didn’t care. It was your office, your company, and nobody walks into your office unannounced.

“Sucking your cock is my god-given right. It’s my privilege,” you told him, pushing his resisting thighs back apart.

“You’ve lost your mind.”

“Shh.”

Somehow, he’d rationalized in his blond, little head that someone walking in and seeing him sucking you off wasn’t a big deal, but the other way around was a completely different story. Not to you. Sucking cock is sucking cock. You weren’t ashamed of it—at all.

The only problem you ran into is that he moans a little too loudly. So you sucked him off the next few times he came by in the afternoon so he could practice being quieter. Eventually, he had it down to barely a whisper.

“I’m impressed; I barely heard you,” you told him.

He was panting, “That…was…great.”

“Get up on your knees and turn around.”

His ass is always tighter when he’s trying not to moan.

*******************
and as we seek,
so shall we find

The second descent in your marriage felt less perilous than a roller coaster and more like being the only kid on a Ferris wheel, stuck at the very top of the rotation—the view was spectacular, the ability to be a part of it, less so.

You’d taken your Mercedes in for a tune up. It wasn’t sick, you just felt like pampering it. The gentleman who sold it to you was still working there, and he handled your request personally, allowing you anything on the lot for a loaner. If Justin had gone in that day, he could’ve picked you up and taken you to work, but, again, it wasn’t his day to be in the city.

But he was. If his plan was to be incognito, he was failing miserably. You’d be hard pressed to find anyone in or around Liberty Ave. that didn’t recognize your Corvette, especially you.

There’s more sleuth in you than you’d care to admit, (probably why you were usually half of Miami Vice for Halloween), and despite a voice inside your head telling you not to, you followed the ‘vette that day in your black 2011 Mercedes loaner. It was an eerily quiet ride, no voice prompting to fill the void. Justin drove to St. James Academy, parked in front of the school, only a few feet from where you dropped him off that first morning, got out and went in the front door. You killed your engine from your vantage point across the street and waited.

The longer you sat there, the stupider you felt. You looked at your watch; it was just after ten a.m. At ten fifteen, you’d talked yourself into leaving and were about to start your car when your cell phone rang. It was him.

“Justin?”

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Your heart was pounding so loudly, you feared he might hear it.

……

“What’s up?”

……

“Can you meet me at the loft for lunch today?”

You looked all around you to see if you could find him, but you couldn’t. “I thought you were going paint today.”

“I have to run a couple of errands. I’ll be in the area…if you want, if you’re not busy.”

You started the car as you were answering him, and then cursed yourself for giving yourself away. He didn’t seem to notice. “Sure. Same bat time?”

“Same bat channel.”

“Okay. You want the usual?” (Ostensibly, you meant the meal, not the fuck.)

“Sure, whatever you want. I’ll see you then.”

You took that as proof that he hadn’t seen you yet, started your car, and drove back to the office. You got nothing done between ten thirty and noon. The morning had been a total waste.

*******************
but the restlessness was handed down

The only viable fuel for life is desire, and a shortage of it is always the main cause of engine trouble. Alternative fuels…obligation, fear, responsibility, seem to have promise, but they’ll always leave you stranded on the side of road. Desire’s the currency of the advertising business and when it lines your pockets, your pants hang perfectly.

And you knew too well that there’s more to it than bedroom Olympics, but you conveniently forgot that when it was high noon and your bedroom at the loft was darker than usual—the sun reluctant to participate that day—and his hands felt warmer than usual when they were resting on your waist as you kissed him. It was the sensation of your shirt bunched in his fingers and sliding out of your pants that excited you, the urgency existing only in your mind. He was taking his time.

Wanted to be taken?

……

You let him undress you because his mouth was following every scrap of fabric he took away, and when he finished, he looked up at you, his vulnerability always a steel trap, “How do you want me?”

You laughed a little because there was no way you could narrow it down. “Up to you.”

……

The decision was tabled, unnecessary as your body lowered on top of his, his discarded clothing intermingled with yours on the far corner of the bed. The fuck was happening and yet the mechanics of it were furthest thing from your mind. Instead, you focused on maintaining the tenuous connection strung between the two of you—so focused that you were slow to notice that he was doing the same. That he was reaching for you.

……

You lost track of yourself in all of it, tuned into nothing but the restlessness in his body asking for some sort of reprieve, the expression on his face a buried memory. You offered consolation to a ghost, “It’s okay.” The words seemed hollow but necessary.

His hands became heavy on your lower back, anchors slowing you down. Your body fought it, a reflex almost, until you realized that he wanted you to stop, his hands on your shoulder blades, pulling you down. You covered him, your eyes closing as your face rested on his pillow. The rush down that hill--the roar of the wind against your face--seemed to even out in the silence. The ride was over?

……

Pit stop.

*******************
so what you feel becomes mine as well

Years ago, after knowing Ruben for about six months, you invited him to be the entertainment at Gus’s birthday party. He was a walking bag of tricks that Gus still talks about to this day. That night, after the two of you cleaned up the yard and the den and the basement (in retrospect, a really bad location for a piñata; candy’s still randomly appearing every few months), you convinced Rube to teach you once and for all how to walk on your hands. He was a master at it, able to cover the entire width of your yard while carrying on a conversation with you at the same time.

The lessons came in stages—Rube insisting that you perfect your handstand first before becoming mobile on it. Gus had watched you from his bedroom window that night, bathed, birthday-ed, and too excited to sleep. Eventually, you were able to make it halfway across your yard, side by side with Ruben until you’d invariably tip over, and he would continue towards the finish line while Gus clapped from his window. He was a loyal son, never cheering for Rube until you were definitely out of the running.

In your relationship with Justin over the years, you often felt like you were walking on your hands. With practice, you knew it was something you could do and do well, but the moments when it went smoothly were a balancing act and often had the life span of a mosquito.

But one that you’d been bitten by, none the less.

……

You’d never finish the midday fuck at the loft that day; he wanted something else from you.

Quiet contact.

*******************
someone to watch over me

6:11 p.m. that same evening…

The third descent in your marriage would feel like the last one for a while, and it happened when you got home from work that night to find the house dark, save the lights over the front porch and the kitchen sink. You called Justin’s cell, and he answered, telling you that he’d gone for a walk, that he was down at the other end of the street almost at the stop sign. You changed into track pants and a sweatshirt and jogged down the black, winding road until you found him. He heard you coming and asked,

“Why are you running?”

“I don’t want you out here by yourself at night.”

He laughed a little at that, “I can take care of myself.”

“I know that.”

He’d changed his clothes since he’d gotten home, and he looked like the Justin you were used to—jeans that were a little too long, the sleeves of his red, hooded sweatshirt covering half of his hands. He pulled his sleeve up a little when you held his hand, the two of you turning around and walking back toward the house.

“One of these days they’ll put more streetlights out here like they’ve been promising,” you told him.

“Or you could just run for governor of West Virginia and do it yourself,” he teased you.

“Nah. Don’t think so.”

“You know, when I was in New York, Zeek would do the same thing that you do.”

“I thought that was none of my business.”

He socked you in the stomach, laughing, “No, stupid. Not fucking. Walking me home and shit.”

“He walked you home?”

“Well, my friend and I would get completely trashed, and Zeek always made sure we got home safe or back to our studio, wherever we were going. We never had to worry about anything when he was around.”

“I’m glad.”

“You are?”

“Of course. There was someone looking out for you.”

He squeezed your hand, and you stopped walking and kissed him as a car drove by, lighting his face. “I made you a salad,” he told you, “It’s in the fridge.”

“You already ate?” you asked him.

“No. Apparently my muse is on a hunger strike.”

……

So he was serious when he said his batteries were dying.

*******************
reach out

There’s a nightlight in your master bathroom that’s been there for years now, ever since Gus insisted on gender segregation of the facilities. It was his only opportunity to shun the women in his life, and you obliged him, respecting his need to control his own destiny. That night about eight thirty p.m., the tiny, fluorescent light was the only one on when you walked into your bathroom. You heard water running; Justin was in the shower.

“Showering in the dark? This is a new thing,” you told him as you opened the glass door. He moved backward into the spray to let you in.

“Helps me focus.”

You let the hot water soak into your skin, and then stepped forward, standing in front of him as he leaned against the far wall. You looked into his eyes and decided to come clean, “I need to tell you something.”

“You’re hard and you want to fuck me.”

“I didn’t think I really needed to tell you that.”

“Then what?” he asked, laughing and pulling you toward him. “Kiss me first.”

“Okay, excuse me, but I thought you were in here trying to focus.”

“Focus time is over.”

You kissed him; you had no choice. Resistance was futile. You’d never kissed him in the dark in the shower before, and it was nice and lasted until he complained that you were hogging the water, that he was starting to get cold.

“You started it,” you pointed out.

“What did you want to tell me?” he asked, turning off the water.

“Fuck if I remember.”

*******************
now that she’s back in the atmosphere

He got dressed and wandered down the hall to his studio, and you followed, joining him in the room while he was toying with the lighting. “Are you going to paint or hold a séance?” you asked him as he dimmed the track.

“Maybe a little of both.”

And then you remembered, “There really is something I want to tell you.”

He sat on the stool in front of his art table, which put the table between you, and fiddled with a skinny paintbrush, “What? Whatever it is, it’s making you nervous.” He was right.

“I’ll be right back.” You returned less than five minutes later with your arms full; the three objects under wrap. He asked what you were doing while you leaned each painting against the far wall of his studio. “I bought these,” you told him, motioning to the still-covered canvases. “They’re yours. They’re all untitled.”

He got up, walked over to the wall and pulled the coverings off each of them, one by one. You felt yourself bracing for a fight.

“So all these years I thought that people were dying to buy my work, and then I come home and find out that you own about a third of it.” His voice didn’t sound angry at all, which made you even more ill at ease for some reason. You were ready to tackle him if made a move to paint over them.

“I really like them. That first one, especially. I want to hang it in my office at work…if it’s okay with you.”

“How much did you pay for it?” he asked.

You couldn’t remember, so you looked at the back of the painting to find where you’d written it down, “One thousand eighty five.”

“Then I guess you can hang it wherever you want.”

……

He was handling it better than you thought, so you pressed on, “Gus wants the middle one.”

“He does?”

“He thinks it looks like a really angry fish with, and I quote, ‘Cool, spikey weapons.’”

“I guess it kind of does. It’s actually the negative of another painting I did.” He leaned against his art table, surveying his work. “He wants it in his room here or in Toronto?”

“Here.”

“Okay.”

……

Two down. One to go.

……

You took a deep breath that you hoped he didn’t notice before you addressed the last one, the one he was now sitting cross-legged in front of on the floor. “I was thinking about hanging that one—"

“This piece has always bothered me for some reason.”

“It’s disturbing on some level,” you agreed. You propped your elbows behind you on his futon, your legs stretched out in front of you on the floor.

“Does it bother you?” he asked, turning to face you.

“Bother me? No. It makes me think.”

……

“I don’t think I like it.”

……

“We can put it away if you want,” you offered.

“I want to think about it for a while.”

……

The flood lights shining on the backyard went off darkening his studio. They were on a timer; it was nine thirty. He stood as if he was going to brighten the lights, but you stopped him, gesturing for him to join you on the futon. He did, and your arm stretched along the back of it, your fingers playing with his hair. He seemed tired all of a sudden, closing his eyes as he let his face rest in your hand. “You’ve had a long day,” you told him.

“A long day in which I got nothing accomplished.”

“I can relate. I’m not exactly burning the midnight oil in my endeavors lately either.”

“Because of me?” he asked, as if the answer was a foregone conclusion.

“No, not because of you. Because I’d rather be with you than think up some brilliant idea for the brand-spanking-new-product-come-lately.”

“But you love your job.”

You smiled, “True, but it pales in comparison.”

*******************
don’t be surprised if I love you for all that you are

Tired, Justin rose from the futon and you followed him, allowing him to tug you down the hall to your bedroom, the lights finally extinguished in his studio. He undressed and slipped under the covers, watching you as you followed suit, pulling the sheets back for you when you were ready to join him. You were propped on your side on your elbow as he lay on his stomach, his face toward you resting on his crossed arms. The small bit of light from the bathroom was the only thing illuminating your bedroom. Your hand was smoothing down his back when he spoke, “You said you were going to fist me a couple of weeks ago, but you never did.”

“You’re too tense.”

……

“But I can fix that,” you added, lighting the thin, glass pipe on your nightstand. You handed it to him, and he didn’t hesitate to partake. He inhaled and let his head rest on his arms again, watching you as you took a hit. It was all you were going to do; you weren’t going to be anything but sober if your hand was going to disappear in his ass again.

……

“Have I really been that stressed out lately?” he asked you.

“Like a cat that saw itself in the mirror.”

“That’s pretty bad.” He turned his head the other direction, so you moved closer to him, wrapping your arm around him.

……

“Tell me what’s bothering you.”

“You’re going to think it’s stupid.”

“Are you afraid you’ve been abducted by aliens who’ve never heard of fisting?”

“I thought I was the one who was stoned.”

“Whoops.”

……

“You’re seriously fucked in the head, Brian.”

“Well, you married me.”

“God help me.”

……

He slapped at your hands when you started to tickle him, but you were relentless, and then he couldn’t stop laughing even after you’d set him free. He was still laughing when he blurted out, “I can’t paint, okay? I can’t fucking paint,” his hands airborne for emphasis.

You grabbed his right hand and pressed it to your face for closer inspection, “Did your hand stop working again?”

He pushed your face away and took it back, “I have no idea why I ever try to talk to you at all.”

“Presumably because I’m the only other person here.”

“I’m serious, Brian. My muse is dead.”

He turned away from you again, not laughing anymore, not even when you offered to give it mouth-to-cock. But he didn’t fight you when pulled him back into your arms. “Has it been this way since you came back?” you asked.

“Pretty much.” His body was stiffening; you could feel it preparing for the drop.

……

“I’m sorry, Brian; I don’t know what to do.”

*******************
JUSTIN’S POV

’cause I am barely breathing,
and I can’t find the air

You felt uncomfortable, like you were suffocating in your own skin, like relief would only come once you peeled every bit of it off and threw it on the floor. You’d been afraid to tell him, afraid to admit it to yourself. Your fear of hurting him had kept it at arm’s length for as long as possible. It was the first time you’d ever wanted to cry while you were stoned.

“It’s happened to me before, Justin.” His lighter clicked and flashed in the darkness, the sweet smell of weed reintroducing itself.

“It has?” You didn’t believe him.

“Sure. I’ve been sitting in high-powered meetings with high-powered clients, and they’re all staring at me, waiting for the next great idea to just come flying out of my mouth—"

“It usually does.”

You were mesmerized watching him blow smoke out of his nose, and then he turned his head and looked at you, “Not all the time. Trust me.”

“What do you do?”

He laughed, “Well, if someone else with any genius is in the room, I say something like, ‘I’d like to hear what so-and-so has to say before I weigh in.’” He grinned at you like it was the most amazing thing he’d ever said.

“Well, the only problem with that is that I’m the only one in my studio.”

“In New York, too?”

“No, in New York I ended up sharing a studio with a friend of mine, Harper.”

“To save money?”

You confessed, “Not exactly. We didn’t have to pay for the space.”

“The man in the window?”

“Huh?”

“When Chris died, and I came to get you at that quaint little Brownstone, there was a man in the window watching us.”

“That was Daniel, I guess. It was his place.”

“He was rich?”

“A doctor.”

“A doctor you fucked to get free studio space?”

You moved over a little, away from him, “No, Brian. I did not fuck him for studio space.”

“Because you felt sorry for him then?”

“Why do you just assume that I was fucking him?” you said, unable to hide the annoyance in your voice.

“I assume that he was fucking you; his stance in the window…he wasn’t a casual observer. There was something at stake for him.”

“He fell in love with me. And yes, we fucked, but that happened way before the crush.”

“He sucked in the sack so you gave it up?”

“What is this—twenty fucking questions?”

“Well, did he?”

“Yes. It was the most boring sex I’ve ever had. Are you happy now?”

“I’m happy when you’re happy.” And then he moved so that he was on top of you, and you rolled your eyes at what you thought was a territorial gesture, but he just wanted your attention, “Listen to me.”

“I’m listening.”

“Maybe you need to find some sort of communal work space; it would drive me fucking nuts to be alone in this house all day.”

“I’ve thought about that, but—"

“But I gave you this incredible studio and you feel guilty if you don’t use it.” (He didn’t have to finish your thoughts for you, even if he was right.)

“Yeah.”

“Well, don’t. Work wherever you want and you can have your studio here to do whatever you want. Make yourself happy.”

You wrapped your hands underneath and around his biceps and sighed, “Maybe I don’t know how.”

*******************
BRIAN’S POV

and that heaven is overrated

You pressed him further, and he let everything out—how everything was too perfect in your world, plenty of money, plenty of sex, more than enough of anything he could possibly want. It left him wanting nothing.

The urge inside him to create—he felt as if he left it in the city, not on purpose, but…

“It’s kind of like this, Brian: When you wake up in the morning and your feet hit the pavement and your brain’s all foggy while you walk to work, there are so many other things going on. I mean, by the time you get there, your mind is brimming with things that you want to either fix or explain or justify: the eighty-year-old man who drinks his coffee behind a garbage can because that’s the only place he feels safe, the woman who steps off the curb prematurely, breaks her heel, and ends up crying—not because her ankle is sprained, but because her briefcase popped open when she fell and her divorce papers are flung all over the intersection, guys who go to work every day wearing hard hats and steel-toed boots but read Emily Dickinson on their lunch hour—to each other.”

“Conflict,” you offered in summary.

“More like dissonance.” You hadn’t seen him so animated, so excited since he’d come back as he was while he spoke about the city. “And that’s what art is, I think. It’s the way you make sense of everything that won’t make sense.”

“And everything here makes too much sense?” you asked.

He rolled to his side, propping his head on his hand, “Sort of. Kind of.”

You couldn’t fault him for it because you knew exactly what he meant—his desire had vanished when it realized that it was being taken for granted. The happier you tried to make him, the more miserable he was. And again you struggled with the delicate balance—hand in front of hand--concentrating so you wouldn’t topple over and crush him.

It wasn’t as if you were supposed to know how to do this; you’d had few stellar examples of functioning relationships in your life, and, ironically, neither had he. You were both trapped--trying to troubleshoot the very thing that gave you strength. However, it bears repeating: you’re Brian Kinney and you love a challenge.

So, you took him at his word and set about recharging him.

“The trick, I think,” you told him, “Is to see more than just what's right in front of you, more than what you have to pass every day.” There’s dissonance inside you if you’re not afraid to look.

“You mean, I’m not paying attention to what I should be?”

“I mean that the external dissonance you see arose from something internal. It’s not just what appears on the surface. The guys that read Emily Dickinson on their lunch hour, are their hands clean?” His palm slid along the mattress to your chest, an idle gesture, but it felt good.

“No, they’re not. They’re black and grimy…and they share food. They pass sandwiches to each other. It’s actually pretty disgusting.”

“So what they enjoy doesn’t mesh with who they are?”

He seemed almost relieved, “No, it doesn’t. Not at all.”

“Your muse isn’t dead, Sunshine,” you told him right before you kissed him. “It just has a little jet lag.”


Lyrics taken from Five for Fighting’s Superman, Crosby, Stills, and Nash Suite Judy Blue Eyes, Blues Traveler’s Run Around, Billy Joel’s Allentown, Blues Traveler’s Run Around again, George & Ira Gershwin’s Someone to Watch Over Me, the Four Tops’s Reach Out, Train’s Drops of Jupiter, Alanis Morissette’s Head Over Feet, Duncan Sheik’s Barely Breathing, and Train’s Drops of Jupiter again.