BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD

CHAPTER 7-LATENCY

DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV
when the scent of her lingers
and temptation's strong

It was a mistake from the very beginning. And you knew it, but you told yourself at the time that it was harmless. Sitting in your posh office in New York City analyzing patients while they lay on your black leather couch underneath the mural you’d commissioned Justin to paint had somehow become some sick kind of torture.

It was a habit you’d adopted in your residency, a way to get through long days with barely-committed-to-the-therapeutic-proc

ess patients. Back then, your office never had a window, so you’d always choose a painting you liked to hang on the wall above your patient’s perch. It gave you a focal point while housewives droned on about their ungrateful children and their cheating husbands. Anytime a patient actually attempted to catch your eye, which, let’s face it, only the truly dedicated patients do, you could easily meet their glance before they ever realized you’d been a million miles away for the last fifteen minutes.

But this mural that Justin had painted, you found yourself unable to look away, sometimes even getting hard underneath your college-ruled white, never yellow, legal pad. When you engaged in psycho-analysis, you preferred a blank slate.

“Dr. Cartwright, are you all right today? You seem preoccupied.” The voice of your patient, one that was more astute than most.

You looked at your cleverly concealed timer: three minutes to go. This would ordinarily be the time when you’d begin summing up the session and laying the groundwork for the next one, but it was rather difficult to sum up what you hadn’t even heard. So you went with your old standby,

“You know, we’ve done some really important work today, but unfortunately, our time is up.” Then you’d smile your kind, benevolent doctor smile. The one you used to practice in the mirror during med school. “We’ll pick up here next time.”

Your patients always knew when their fifty minutes were up because you put the cap back on your pen and uncrossed your legs. And once Ms. Miller and her overly applied eye shadow left your office, you found yourself staring at the mural again. You were glad you’d cleared your afternoon.

You had problems of your own.

*******************
DR. JONATHON MASSEY’S POV
your eyes have died but you see more than I,
Daniel you're a star in the face of the sky

Anytime you got a call from Daniel saying that he was at Mickey’s at a booth in the back, you knew it would mean the loss of at least three billable hours. You’d known him since your second year of residency, and now, almost thirteen years later, he was still exactly the same: an overly intelligent, handsome (but not more than you), masochistic man with a penchant to gravitate toward the troubled masses. You figured it was because he found them eerily familiar.

And today was no exception.

Daniel always ended up at Mickey’s when he was “spiraling” because it was essentially a straight man’s bar. And straight men were usually the last ones to visit a shrink, and therefore, the least likely to recognize one of New York’s prominent psychiatrists holding court with a harem of Bloody Marys—the only women he could truly ever love. It was against your policy to drink anything you couldn’t see through.

You had to walk through the saturating cigarette smoke of the pub’s patrons in order to get inside, and once you did, you saw him immediately. He always sat facing the door, another in his list of neuroses, stirring his drink with his celery stick, and staring at it like it was going to tell him the meaning of life any second.

You wished.

You looked at your watch when you sat down, shrink’s habit.

He greeted you with a forced smile on his face, “Thanks for coming.”

“You’re welcome. But before you begin to lament, do you think I should buy those tassled loafers we saw last weekend when we were shopping?”

“Oh right, let’s get the important stuff out of the way first. Why are you wearing your evening cologne in the daytime?” Daniel was frighteningly attuned to all aromas and odors.

“I ran out of my day cologne.” Duh.

“Are you kidding me? I just got you that bottle for your birthday. What’re you doing, drinking it?” Masochistic and bitchy. Joy. You had your work cut out for you.

“Yes, I drank it—on the rocks no less.”

“You should buy those loafers.”

“You think so? You really like them?”

“No, I hate them, but you won’t shut up about it until you buy them, so just buy them. Who cares if you never wear them?”

“I think I have ‘shoe guilt,’ or something. Makes me feel like Sarah Jessica Parker on Sex and the City.”

“No, that’s me, unlucky in love. Hell, unlucky in life. My day has sucked.” The waitress arrived and you ordered a gin and tonic. Daniel asked for his third Bloody Mary. You shook your head at the waitress and told her to bring him Juan Valdez. Daniel never had the stomach to handle the ladies for very long.

“All right, start the clock. I’m listening,” you announced as his coffee arrived.

He stirred a shit load of cream into it and began his discourse with a sigh, “Have you ever felt like you loved someone so much, and they weren’t rejecting your love, but they really weren’t accepting it either? Like there’s all this love between the two of you but it just doesn’t mesh?”

“You mean like your love is ‘A positive’ and his is ‘O negative,’ or something?”

He nodded, “Yes, exactly.”

“Nope, never have. Maybe you need a love transfusion.”

“Fuck you.”

“Christ, what’s the problem? I thought you were spending your afternoon at the brownstone supervising the arrival of the easels, computers, and milk crates.”

“I’m not having milk crates in my home. I bought him a chair. A Herman Miller.”

“Whoa. This is serious.”

“You’re not helping.”

“Why are you here and not there?”

“I’m waiting for him to call me back. I took the afternoon off to help them.”

“Well, it’s only after two.”

“It’s not even that really—"

“Wait, them? Did you really give in to him?”

Daniel huffed, “It was the only way he’d accept my offer. He said she comes with him or forget it.”

“Why? Because of her crazy brother?”

“More or less. It’s complicated. He wouldn’t let her stay there by herself, and my second floor is twice as big as what they have now. And her brother’s not crazy, he’s sick. Schizophrenic.”

“He needs to be medicated.”

“Right Jon, you try telling that to a homeless guy. I told Harper I’d get him free meds, but she says he won’t take them. Anytime he has money or pills or liquor or anything on him, it just makes him a target.”

“Okay, so now you have Justin and Harper and occasionally her homeless brother moving into your second floor?”

“Harper’s there now with that muscular guy. He’s probably slamming furniture into my perfect walls as we speak.”

You finished your drink. “So why are you so fucking miserable?” You took the paper umbrella they should never have given him in a Bloody Mary and studied it, opening and closing it until it broke. “You wanted him underfoot and you got him.”

“Be careful what you wish for…” The waitress refilled his coffee.

“Let’s just cut through the shit, Daniel. Do you love him? Is that it?”

“I adore your bedside manner.”

“Answer me.”

Daniel stared at the dark wood paneling above your booth, “I’m trying not to love him because I can just tell he doesn’t love me.”

“Well, sometimes love takes time.”

“That’s not it. Not for him. He’s one of those people, Jon, one of those with an unbelievably pure heart.”

You rolled your eyes, “Not to mention a deep ass.”

“That wasn’t necessary.”

“And a mouth that sucks cock like a Hoover.”

“Cut it out………..Besides, I do most of the sucking.” There was a silence between the two of you as you surveyed your friend. If he was spending more time on his knees than his lover-of-late, he was a goner. Hook. Line. And sinker.

……

……

You shook your head, “You know, Daniel, you always do this, every single fucking time.”

“Do what?”

You’d lost count of how many times you’d had this conversation with him, “Superglue your heart to a young, conflicted soul like a goddamn barnacle.” Daniel leaned on his arm. “You ‘fall in love’ with some artistic, beautiful, young guy who is always upfront with you about what he wants, and then expend every ounce of your energy trying to turn the relationship into something it’s not.”

The sculptor from last summer who gave incredible hand jobs. The ‘performance artist’ who wooed him with his monologue from Nuts. God bless Barbra Streisand, but come on. And then the ‘extreme artist’ who poured paint on his ‘canvas’ (otherwise known as the sidewalk or the street) and then painted by running over it with his skateboard. That guy got on your fucking nerves.

“I can’t help it, Jon.”

You ignored his comment, “And you’re not in love, you’re fucking infatuated because he’s probably said your name once while you were fucking. Right?”

Daniel looked away from you, his jaw setting firm, “He’s never once said my name.”

“Well, there you go.” You felt a hole in your stomach because you knew you’d just hurt his feelings. Daniel could take such good care of everyone but himself. “You don’t think you deserve to be happy, so you do this on purpose.”

He fought with you, “It’s not like that. It’s different this time. I really care about him, Jonathon.”

“I know you do, but I don’t think he cares as much about you. The scales of Lady Love are not evenly balanced. And you overlook that, every time, because he’s young. You won’t ever admit that just maybe he does know—"

“Look, I’m not in denial. Don’t insult me. I know what this is. I know he doesn’t love me. It just doesn’t mean that I don’t love him.”
……

……

“Of course you do. It’s painful. That’s what you love, Daniel. You’re in love with pain, not him.” You waited for some sign of acceptance on his face. He usually always came around by the time you got to his masochistic need to be hurt. But you got nothing. The waitress refilled his coffee and offered to bring you another drink. You asked for water. He waited for her to walk away. You wondered why he bothered, the two of you had had this identical conversation at least ten times in here over the years. You were sure she knew it by heart.

You decided to try a different approach, taking a deep breath, “Let’s look at this a different way.” He looked hopeful for a brief second so you pressed on, “You are not Gepetto and he’s not Pinocchio. He doesn’t need you to make him a real boy—"

“You’re such an ass sometimes.”

“Sometimes an ass is what you need. He’s already a living, breathing person, not a puppet that exists for your amusement and affection, or even guidance. If he wants to remain just like he is—"

“Would you shut the fuck up with your metaphors?”

You hit a nerve.

“Got a better one? Got a way to keep this from happening every time you see what you think is an unfinished product? Because I’d love to hear it.”

…..

…..


He executed a perfect psychotherapeutic-change-of-subject, “That’s not even the worst of it.”

“Oh Christ, it gets worse?”

“I lost out on that painting of his that I’d put a deposit on. The one over at Frequency.”

“Lost out? Why’d your check bounce?” You laughed. Daniel’s checks hadn’t bounced since the day he was born.

“She gave me some bullshit excuse, but some asshole basically came in and bought it out from under me.”

“So, now we’ve even got Stromboli in the picture. This is priceless.”

“Give the goddamn fairy tale thing a rest.”

It was all becoming clear to you now, “That’s why you’re a fucking mess today. You’ve lost the artist and his art, your window into his damaged soul. You can’t win.”

“Thank you for pointing out the obvious, doctor. Will you take a check?”

“It’s so tragically poetic really, he won’t give you what you want, so you steal it by buying his paintings or commissioning him to let his soul bleed all over the wall of your office. So tell me, Dr. Freud, what deep truth did the strokes of this artist’s paintbrush reveal to you?”

“It’s not just that he doesn’t love me. I’m pretty sure……he’s in love with someone else.”

You looked at your watch. Whoa. You got it out of him with five minutes to spare.

*******************
JUSTIN’S POV
I'm not the kind of girl
who gives up just like that

You met Harper at your usual place, the coffee shop a couple of blocks away from what was about to be your former studio. The cinnamon piece of hard candy she had in her mouth clanked between her teeth as she took the key to Daniel’s place from you.

“Tell Zeek to be careful. Daniel’s afraid he’ll bump into his egg-shell white walls.”

“Oh, god, tell Daniel to chill. It’ll be fine.”

“Could you stop making that clanking noise? It drives me crazy, and you do it all the time.” She crunched the candy hard and the smell of cinnamon filled the small space between the two of you at your booth.

“Ever notice how you and I are always on the rag at the same time, Justin?”

“Make two copies of the key so I can give the original back to him.”

“God, you’re all business today. What’s your damage?”

“I’ve got a lot of little things to do today so I can get back and help you guys. And please tell Zeek that I want to be the one to move my own computer. We shouldn’t have waited until the last day of our lease to do this.”

“Why? Did you want to pick up and relocate when we were both in the middle of gigantic pieces? Break our flow?” The waitress came and offered you coffee. You took it. Harper refused, saying it was way too fucking hot for coffee. She wanted lemonade.

“Did you go by Daniel’s office and look at the mural? It’s finished.”

“Yes, I did. I went yesterday.”

“Well?”

“Well, to be perfectly honest, the piece spoke to me.”

Your eyes lit up, “It did?”

“Yes, it said, ‘Justin painted me because a very rich doctor is paying him butt loads of cash to exorcise his demons and subsequently let him in his ass.’” You flicked the balled up wrapper from her straw at her face.

“Would you please stop fucking around and tell me what you really think of the painting?”

Harper got a serious look on her face as she crossed her arms over her chest, “All right. I think it has a rather ‘quiet violence’ about it. Whatever that means.”

“I’m sorry I asked.”

“Aw, Eggo, they can’t all be winners.”

“Go to hell.”

“You know, right before I went in, I saw Daniel’s last patient. He was hot, but probably too old for Daniel. He was at least twenty-five. Suppose he’ll fuck him, too?”

“Whaddya mean, ‘fuck him, too?’ I’m not his patient.”

“That’s what you think.”

“Whatever.”

“Oh, now, don’t get pissy with me or we’ll have to put you back in that straight jacket you love so much.” It wouldn’t surprise you at all if Harper had a straight jacket. It seemed like a natural part of her wardrobe.

“You know, I don’t see why you have to make fun of me. It’s an unhealthy compulsion with you, really.”

Her eyes opened wide as she laughed at you, “Oh, look who’s diagnosing people now, and just because he’s fucking a shrink.”

You shook your head at her, “You are so dead. Don’t ever ask me to critique anymore of your work—"

“Oh, take your Midol. You know, I can’t wait to get in that new space. We have a skylight! Can you believe it? Natural light.”

“You mean Daniel has a skylight.”

“Fine.”

……

……

Harper always made you nervous when she’d lean forward and stare at you with a twinkle in her eye, “So, did you top Daniel last night?”

“That’s none of your business.”

She took the rubber band from around her wrist and put her hair up, “None of my business? Since when? I can’t even count how many times you’ve watched Zeek fuck me…..and vice versa.”

“Six.”

“Aren’t you quite the statistician?”

“I try.”

“That’s fine. Don’t tell me. You’ll get trashed one night and it’ll all come pouring out of you. I’ll just wait. I’m very patient.” She rested her chin on her hands and batted her eyelashes at you, “So, think I should let Zeek fuck me up the ass? He wants to.”

You put your menu down. You’d lost your appetite. “I think that would fall into the category of a personal decision.”

“I know, but I want your advice. You love it.”

“Wow, that’s news: Homosexual Likes It Up the Ass.”

She smiled her biggest, most egregious smile at you, “I just figured if I wanted advice about it, I’d ask the expert. And by the way, your cell phone’s ringing.” You hadn’t even heard it. “It’s probably Daniel fretting because the mural is crooked.” Harper had this presumptuous habit of always identifying who she thought was on the phone. Course, she was usually right.

But not this time.

You looked down at the screen, 1 missed call. Brian.

Harper was starting to get up from the table, “I have to pee. If they come to take our order, I want a BLT on wheat, no mayo, with fruit instead of French fries.”

“Yes, your majesty.”

The table shifted as she got up, “And another lemonade.” You nodded. You were calling Brian back. When Harper returned from the bathroom, you told her you had to go. “That was Daniel?”

“Yeah, he wants me to meet him at his office…….and have lunch with him.”

“Fine. I’ll get mine to go then. But, you still have to help me decide about Zeek and the anal thing.”

“I hate to tell you this, but ‘Zeek and the Anal Thing’ sounds like the name of a dead punk rock band.”

“Oh my god, you’re right. Maybe that’s a sign that I shouldn’t do it.” Harper believed everything was a ‘sign.’

“Well, if you do decide to do it, don’t use my lube.”

Harper busted out laughing and told you, “Don’t worry, Eggo, I’m gonna get some that smells like strawberries.”

Now you’d never be able eat waffles or strawberries again.

Bitch.

***************
whatever Lola wants, Lola gets
and little man, little Lola wants you

After Harper paid for her sandwich, you walked outside with her and parted ways. Once you were sure she was far enough down the street, you ducked back inside the coffee shop and sat down to wait for Brian. You couldn’t believe he’d just called you out of the blue, especially considering you hadn’t seen him since you left, eighteen months ago. You couldn’t believe it’d been that long.

You felt something flip over inside you when you saw him get out of the cab; he looked better than you even remembered. You swallowed the lump in your throat when he strode into the coffee shop, took off his sunglasses, and looked right at you, a beautiful smile on his face. You smiled back.

He looked so fucking beautiful. For some reason, it was hard to imagine that he was there to see you, like you hadn’t been with him, fucked him, loved him for so many years. You instantly wished you’d dressed a little nicer as he sat down. The tips of your fingers tingled with an overwhelming urge to reach across the table and touch him.

But you didn’t.

The tone of his voice on the phone and when he’d greeted you, even the way he just seemed to gaze at you, was starting to make you hard. You tried to think about something else.

It didn’t work.

The familiar scent of his cologne drifted across the space between you, making the situation almost unbearable. You knew you were talking to him, making passable conversation, but the only thing he said that registered was, “I could stay somewhere for a while, if you want.”

He wanted you, after all this time. It felt so good, like such a relief. It felt like a dream.

It wasn’t until you stepped out in the hot summer sun that you were able to convince yourself that it wasn’t. He put his hand on the small of your back, guiding you through the faceless people on the sidewalk. You couldn’t feel the sun on your skin. You could only feel him, and then his hand was gone. He told you to lead and you walked in silence with him, praying that there was somewhere for the two of you to go on this street, this street that you walked down every day but suddenly couldn’t remember a damn thing about.

You were surprised when you found yourself standing in front of a hotel. You’d forgotten this, what it felt like to walk into a room with him, to be the one on his arm, how you used to take that for granted. His voice was soft, his hand on your shoulder, “I’ll be right back.”

Maybe you should have felt cheap or easy or just ridiculous to be perched on a lavish sofa in a beautiful hotel waiting for him to buy a few hours for the two of you. But if that’s what it felt like, it’d never felt so good.

The elevator ride was quiet and private, the air seeming to thicken between you as you passed each floor. You were grateful that he virtually steered you to the room. You couldn’t hear what he was saying, your heart was beating so loudly.

***************
always someone marches brave
here beneath my skin

He stood in front of you after you put your bag down, his eyes resting quietly on your face, and you felt your hands start to wander up his body all by themselves. Brian wrapped his fingers around your wrists as your hands parked themselves around his neck. The excitement began to gather in your body as he began to lean down, when you knew he was going to kiss you. His lips were so soft, so perfect. He tasted like the answer to every question you’d ever had.

And you had so many.

But you ignored them because you had to. The blood was rushing through your body too fast, making it impossible to hold onto them.

It was mostly the way he was looking at you that made you feel like you were floating, his body seeming to respond to your touch even more than you remembered, flooding you with an overwhelming urge to please him. You felt his breath in your hair as you unbuttoned his shirt. He gasped when your fingers finally found his chest. And then, before you knew it, there were words coming out of your mouth,

“I miss you.”

You pressed your lips against him, letting them trace the outline of his pecs, listening to him moan as you invited his nipple into your mouth. It was always like this between you, you thought, no matter where you were—a hotel room in New York City six and a half years ago, the loft, the house in front of the fire, or right this very moment. This grateful intensity churning between the two of you, determined to be nurtured, yet completely willing and able to sustain itself. It was more powerful than both of you. And you knew you’d never stop craving it.

Or him.

You opened his pants and slid your hand inside, his smooth cock dampening your palm.

“Justin.”

His hands tightened around your arms as he said your name, his voice reverberating through your entire body, overwhelming you as you realized how much you’d missed just hearing him say it. You answered him as he held onto you, pushing into your hand,

“I know.”

“Christ.”

He started to come in your hand, quickly raising your face to his to kiss you, to push into you before it was over. You finished undressing him, smiling when he yanked his tie over his head, cast it aside, and moved toward you as you fell back onto the bed. You tore your pants off like they were tissue paper, the anticipation of his body weighing on yours stampeding through you like a herd of wild animals. One look at his face and you knew it was barreling through him, too. You reached for him as he lowered himself on top of you, the warmth of his skin somehow soothing the burn inside you. How one fire could eclipse another you’d never understand.

And you didn’t care, you just knew that you wanted it, wanted to show him what it meant to you to touch him, to put your hands on him, to feel him so heavy and all-encompassing. He kissed you, and your hunger for him commandeered your body, sent your fingers through his hair, heard him almost growl as his hand skimmed down your torso, pushing between your legs. The latent intimacy that had hibernated between the two of you for a year and a half began to shed its skin, bit by bit, until it was totally unmasked and in control. You arched into his hand, letting it pry you wide open for him.

He moved down your body, freeing your fingers from his hair, spreading your legs as he settled between them, the sounds coming from both of you mixing together in the chilling room.

“Brian.”

You closed your eyes as his mouth started to move down your inner thigh, wanting so badly to hold him, to kiss him, as he ran his nose down your cock and over your balls, as you wrapped your legs around his shoulders, your feet softly rubbing his back. He drew your scent inside him with a deep breath right before covering you with a wet warmth that scurried through you like a bolt of electricity. He forced your legs up, and you held them for him, his mouth soaking your cock again before his fingers parted you, exposing you so completely, so willingly. The part of you that loved him and needed him started rushing to the surface, battling to overtake you.

Since the first night you met him, Brian had always had this way of listening to your body as he touched you, a way of knowing seconds before you did what you needed. You held your breath as he rimmed you, dying for the moment when he’d invade your body with his tongue. You knew the second it was going to happen because you felt the tips of his fingers gently circling your hole.

“Uh, god, yes,” you told him as the moist heat of his mouth pushed inside you. With every brush of his tongue, your ache for him began to choke you, making you beg for him like you wanted to, "Just fuck me. Please fuck me.”

The sight and the sound of him tearing the condom wrapper drenched you with an insatiable desire to have all of him all at once. He thrust inside of you in one smooth motion, as if he knew how loud the roaring was underneath your skin, as if he knew what had to be done.

He did.

“Oh god, Brian.”

He fought you as you tried to clamp your legs around his waist and you moaned as he spoke to you through his kiss,”Keep them spread. Just like that.”

Your feet slid on the bedspread as you wrapped your arms around him, as you did what he wanted. There was nothing more beautiful, more contagious than that raw, unrestrained fuck, than listening to Brian’s breathy grunts against your neck, than feeling him thick and warm inside you, all of him swarming over all of you with such determined intentions.

He fucked you with a quiet violence that made you want to scream.

You heard your voice pleading with him as you felt your orgasm racing for the exits, begged him to finish undressing you. You came watching your shirt fly over your head. He didn’t stop you when you grabbed him, squeezing him as your orgasm pulsed out of you; he held you, his arms tightening as he came never taking his eyes off your face. You were panting as he collapsed on top of you, the warmth of his body blanketing you as you tried to steel yourself to make the room stop spinning.

***************
I'd just allow a fragment of your life to wander free

Everything became quiet as you held him, your hands rubbing up and down his back. You listened to the sounds of satisfaction spreading through his body, kissing the perfect curve between his neck and his shoulder. He hummed in your ear, “Mmm.”

You thought that maybe he was going to fall asleep, but then he was pulling out. You pulled the covers down, lying on the cool, white sheets, watching him as he laid down beside you. He reached for you in silence, pulling you against him, your face pressed snuggly against his chest, his long fingers gently combing through your hair.

You felt his low voice drift through his body, “You doing okay?”

You wanted to tell him that you were okay if okay meant finding small parts of him in everybody you met, everybody you fucked, everything you painted, everything you tried to hang onto. You wanted to tell him that New York was amazing, that you’d never been so achingly happy in your life, that the things you were experiencing would stay with you forever, and that you hoped that maybe somehow, he would, too.

Only you didn’t know when, and you didn’t know how, and even though he wasn’t asking you for an answer, you felt like you should have one.

Your silence in his arms was enough for him to go by, “It’s okay, Justin. This is okay.” He pressed his lips against your forehead and held you tighter.

You didn’t know how this could be okay, how anything that felt this good and hurt so bad could be okay. But somewhere in the back of your mind, you figured you had to trust him.

“Thanks.”

You thought that nothing could surpass the intense feelings you had for Brian when he was fucking you, but this, just being in his arms, feeling his chest rise and fall and his patient hands on your body, made you want to dissolve right then and there. His hold on you for that hour was what it’d always been, a protective shelter with open doors.

You stared at your fingers as they traced random paths on his chest until you felt his hand tighten on the back of your head. He kissed you with a peaceful, needy aggression. When you opened your eyes, they landed on the clock radio by the bed. 3:37 p.m. You had less than an hour and half to get to your studio, pack your computer, and move out. You had to go.

“I have to be somewhere.”

You thought you felt relief in Brian’s body when you were the one to make the break. You didn’t want him to have to do it. He watched you get dressed, fanning his hand on your back when you sat back down on the bed beside him. You made your apologies for not being able to stay longer. You didn’t know why you bothered, he clearly didn’t need them.

You both knew there was nothing to be sorry for when you kissed him good-bye.

And when you stepped off the elevator and into the hotel lobby all alone, you felt the sensation that had flooded you when you’d walked in here with him, the sensation of being desired and chosen by him dissipating like cooling sweat on your skin. You fought the urge to run back upstairs and throw yourself in his arms, stepping out onto the hot sidewalk instead, the sun quickly burning the reluctant tears off of your face.


Lyrics taken from Elton John’s Sacrifice and Daniel, Blondie’s The Tide is High, Sarah Vaughn’s Whatever Lola Wants, k.d. lang’s Constant Craving, and Elton John’s Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me.