Naturally, the more furiously I was trying to repel thoughts about Blake, the more persistently they were trying to invade my head. Besides that, I was engaged in two activities: work and sex. Brian became so much clearer to me in those days! I had a feeling that as soon as I would stop seeing to quite concrete, practical errands - be it carrier things or seduction things - I would get sucked into a quagmire. And also, unlike Brian, who certainly has no self-esteem problems, I was in constant need of confirmation of the fact that, firstly, there is no task I cannot carry out and, secondly, that I am still able to hook any guy I want.

         The first agenda was simple enough. Am I not god of accountants, king of auditors, financial prodigy Ted Schmidt? I'll spit in the eyes of anyone who will dare to question it. If the spit recipient shows intention to beat me, I can lie that it was just a little diction problem.

         I managed to restore Babylon in three weeks. I'd have done it quicker if Brian had not backpedaled deciding whether he needed that broken toy or was it easier to ditch it. Moreover, I contrived to shake up the insurers the way that not only spared Brian from any losses, but also gained some profit. Brian gave it all to me as bonus, and I paid for two semesters of Blake's tuition.

         And that was only one of my endeavors! Babylon was thriving, Kinnetic was awash with money, and I was sitting behind the scenes and putting together the gear of business, assembling a perfectly frictionless machine. But if for a single day I had no Lernaean Hydra to plait, I was starting to feel vain and to freak out.

         Concerning the ability to hook a guy, Blake had probably spoiled me. No, I managed to keep that feeling that if you had decided that a guy will put it out to you, he would have no other option. Too bad that idea sank in only after I had a lipo and had half of my muzzle revamped by a plastic surgeon. Otherwise I could have saved much money. Damn Rita, for example, is huge as a cliff, and her clothes sense is atrocious - early Emmett style, - but she comes and takes what she wants. For example, she sees somebody's boyfriend, shoves him a book of sci-fi stories - nd so much for the boyfriend.

         In those two years good old Blakie had spoiled me as follows: I was fucking those guys, was feeling good and pleased (at least, my ass was staying intact), but somewhere on the brim of my conscience there was that itching thought: "Ted, what are you doing? What for? Is it what you need?"

         At first I was successfully ignoring the itch. Moreover, initially I really needed to prove to myself that the world of big sex was still ready to receive me back into the fold. To make sure that nobody cared I was forty plus and had been dying my hair for a long time. Also, the process itself is not lacking in fervor. But then I had enough of senseless libertinage and started to want something more.

         Because I still slept strictly on my half of the bed. And because every night I dreamt of Blake.

***

         I had usual household dreams about our life together. There we are, buying groceries and cooking together. We are walking in a park. We are swimming and laughing. We are dancing. The most painful were erotic dreams, of course. As soon as we broke up, I banned myself from letting my ex-boyfriend to take part in my wet dreams, no matter how hard he was trying to squeeze in. But in sleep, the human brain is doing whatever it pleases, and there is no way to stop it. And then you wake up at night and do not know where to press a tissue — to your dick or to your eyes.

         And very often I dreamt of us fighting.

         For the last six months, it seemed to me that Blake's role in my life was twofold: to leave garbage everywhere and to always be late. Once he stayed too long with Rita and made us miss the beginning of an opera. We had to wait for the start of act two, and I kept on lecturing him, probably until the very end of the entr’acte. He was not listening. He shrank into himself completely. His eyes were unfocused; his ears were just adornments pasted to his head. And it was pissing me off even worse than the fact he'd come late. I was pissed off by Blake and his disrespect towards art, my time, my attempts to make him happy (via a saw and a shovel, of course). And I was pissed off by my own grumbling, because even when the fountain was playing, I was perfectly aware I was not making the situation any better and adding any punctuality, any peace and any calm to the space-time continuum. I was just sitting and multiplying entropy to no avail at all.

         And also, I was pissed off by cups. Blake used to drink tea or coffee while reading. Having drained his cup, he just put it under the couch and take another one. Sometimes he would buy some tea yummies (although I had a thousand times asked him not to bring home any sweets to tempt me), and dirty cups were joined by dirty plates, crumbles and cookie wraps. Probably, Blake never once bothered to put dishes into the dishwasher. And at first I did not care at all. The more so since it was almost always he who cooked - and deliciously!

But the farther we were drifting from each other, the bigger the pain in my ass was because of that constant mess. Cleaning lady was coming once a week, and it seemed to me that I was doing nothing but walking around the condo and raking up after Blake: his clothes, books, dishes, garbage and all that shit. And every time he came home I would start to nag him for that. At first I was talking soft, like, my love, I put the cuppies into the washie again, but you, sweetie, can do it yourself for a change. And a kiss, for not letting Blake think that I was vexed by him. And then, when his cooking mood was gone, I started to yell.

         All those household glitches are not worth a grinded down dildo until a couple enjoys rapport and hot sex. Emmett and I once managed to learn to live together, although it was not easy at all. After that hideous fight because of the mess he made at my kitchen, I promised myself to learn not to nit-pick at my loved ones. But when you are all alone, wandering between anger and guilt, you want to just take those damn cups and crash them to the floor. Not in the least because in Blake's character he would rather throw them off than wash them.

         Oh, Teddy, you fucking Alfredo. Look at you sitting here scratching your balls and looking for excuses for yourself! And Blake could not bear it and left. Probably he really thought that I would be better off that way. Or he might have been fleeing from a grumpy monster that was choking him. Fuck it matters now!

And I did not know when I would be able to go to opera again. I stopped listening Verdi. I stopped watching movies. I stopped cooking. Because all those things were associated with Blake for me - even those that appeared way earlier than him.

***

         I opened a messenger and started to thumb through the history of our messages.

         You left for work, and I decided to write you how much I love you. Google was right, the day could not be clearer. Look how air is sparkling! The light is piercing me as a bead. Music in the laptop gets mingled with the sunbeams. I made some coffee, but put too much of it in the filter - a habit. You are on the other side of the screen now, about half an hour from here. And I am thinking of you, and drinking this coffee, too strong with this stunning morning. And I am so glad to think that now I will put on my clothes and go to meet you at Kinnetic. And I will get you, and we will go eat tuna salad together. You will make me laugh, and than we will kiss. And probably something more!

         For what such happiness can be given? Just as present, I know. Thank you for that. And I thank heaven for you.

         I'll take this happiness and bring it to my group. I will give it out to everybody, piece by piece, like a cake. Because I have so much of it in me, enough to go around.

         It is impossible to love as much as <3 u. That's it, I am coming to you!

         Blake wrote that eons ago. I hope he really was that happy then. If Vonnegut is right and in reality time is not just a row of landscapes speeding past the train of our life, then all ends are coexisting with all beginnings. And probably they are equal. Then it is not that important how much we lost because it is balanced by everything we ever acquired. All that shit, all those endless fights are worth that.

         I wiped my eyes and got back to work. I was on for one of the coziest things in the world: seeing to concrete practical errands. Praise Brian and havens, I had plenty of them that day.