Words

Words By Paul Alan Fahey My condition started some time ago. It could have been weeks, months, or even years. I have no idea. At least, that’s what I think on a good day; I don’t have too many of those anymore. So I rely on the present, what I experience in the here and now, and do my best to live in the moment. Because once it’s gone, I forget. I’m sitting now in the orchestra section of a theater, waiting for the overture to a huge critical and audience success—just read this in the program, so it’s still fresh in my mind. The handsome, elderly man sitting next to me must have arrived late; at least, I didn’t notice him when the usher led me to my seat. He took a while settling himself in, then started flipping through the Playbill. We are so close. Our arms brush against each other. I have the feeling I know him. He lightly jabs me in the elbow. “A lot of musical numbers for a two hour show.” Then he glances at his watch. “Three minutes to curtain.” I nod. The lights go down and the overture begins. Words. I want to tell this stranger my problem, share a confidence. Tell him how I’d be home at the window staring out into the garden, or sitting in a comfortable chair reading by the fire, and wonder how the hell I got there. So much is locked inside me. I suppose it could have been a stroke, but I don’t recall being in a hospital for any length of time. It seems I turned over in bed one day and woke up like this. Meanwhile, the show begins. The nice-looking elderly man turns to me and says, “I can’t wait to see what happens next.” Next? I laugh and he takes my hand in his. He raises an eyebrow. His eyes crinkle around the edges, and they tell me he’s concerned, worried. Is it for me? There’s something in his touch, the papery roughness of his hand, a communicated security in the way he gently weaves his fingers through mine. “What do you think, Stanley?” Stanley. He does know me. I’m Stanley. “Play…good.” He’s still holding my hand. I like it. Don’t let go, I want to say. I reach up and touch his cheek. He doesn’t seem to mind. “What…happened?” “Shush. Later,” he tells me. I hope I remember to ask him. After. * * * * They met in 1978, though neither could remember exactly where. People often asked, “Was it one of those summer parties at friends of friends?” In truth, it was more likely a popular cruising spot along the waterfront. That first night, Stanley—or Stan, as he preferred being called then—was too looped to do much of anything other than concentrate on navigating from the car to the front porch. “The key’s somewhere in my pocket.” Blake’s hand went immediately to Stan’s crotch. “Nope. Don’t think you’ll find it there.” Stan inched a bit closer to the tall man, who was equally inebriated. He stuck out his hip. “In this pocket. Dive in.” Then, “Right. You’ve got it. I can feel it.” “Sure it’s the key you feel?” Blake’s erection brushed against Stan’s hip. “Later. For now, open the damn door. I gotta pee.” Once inside, Blake found an accommodating wall and leaned against it while Stan set off down the unlit hallway. Blake’s hand found a light switch and the living room came to life. Bookshelves lined four walls; an occasional easy chair, window, a small desk with typewriter, and a sofa interrupted the literary flow. “What are you, a serious bookworm?” “Writer,” a voice answered from somewhere down the hall. “Written anything I might have read?” “Doubt it. Unless you read obscure lit mags.” “What’s that?” “Nothing to worry about tonight. What’s your name?” “Blake, last time I checked.” The sound of footsteps echoed on hardwood, then disappeared. A hand wrapped around Blake’s waist and a warm body spooned into him. “Where’d you come from?” Stan put a hand behind Blake’s head and ran it down Blake’s neck to his shoulder. “The kitchen. Took the short cut. I’m Stan, by the way. Follow me to the bedroom, and I’ll show you plenty.” Blake took his hand and, for a moment, they were both aware of a spark, a flash, a connection between them. Neither could describe it later, but on some almost telepathic level, they knew they were about to experience something extraordinary—a feeling that went lightyears beyond momentary s****l gratification. The two shed their clothes and, once in bed, nestled comfortably in each other’s arms with lots of slow kissing. “What do you like to do?” Blake asked breathlessly. “I hate that. Can’t you be more original?” “I’m not a writer like you, but I can be direct?” “Yes, that works.” Blake whispered what he wanted in Stan’s ear. Then he went back to kissing and tugging on one of Stan’s earlobes with his teeth. “Oh, God, no. I never do that. Haven’t done it and won’t do it. Ever.” “Really? Never?” Blake propped himself up on his elbows, his ardor apparently cooled by the softening of his erection. “Come here.” Stan reached out and pulled him back. “But I’ll definitely do this.” He slid down and rested his head on Blake’s groin. “Prepare to be thrilled.” Then, unfortunately for both of them, he fell into a deep sleep. * * * * The morning sun filtered its rays through the Venetian blinds. Stan woke to an empty bed. He slipped on his robe and padded down the hall and into the kitchen. Blake was cooking breakfast. “I thought you’d be long gone by now.” “Why?” “It wasn’t the best it could be. Last night. I mean I wasn’t the best—” “It was great. Slept like a baby.” “Thanks, I deserve that.” “I mean it. I was exhausted and waking up next to you is…well, the nicest thing that’s happened to me in a very long while. I mean it.” “Really?” “Mmm.” Blake put down the spatula to rush over and peck Stan on the cheek. “Don’t be silly. I’m not one of those guys who has to have s*x on the first date.” “That was a date?” “Yep. Besides, I’m thirty-four, for Christ’s sake. I’ve outgrown all of that stuff…mostly. Trust me.” “Uh-huh. Right.” Blake’s hand went south and he squeezed Stan’s crotch, then he drifted back to the stove. “Let’s see. We have eggs. Hope you like them scrambled.” Stan nodded and headed for the fresh pot of coffee. He poured out two cups. “No bacon, but I found some tomatoes almost on the way out and fried those up, and also a potato from the pantry that’s seen better days but works fine for a scramble. Hungry?” “You bet.” “Good. Because after we eat, we’re going to have a nice talk. I have a lot to say.” “After one night together?” “You know what they say about falling in love at first sight.” Blake hummed as he dished up their breakfast and set out the plates on the small dinette set. “Are you always this damn cheery in the morning?” “Yep, it’s a family trait. We’re all like this.” “All?” “Mmm. I hail from a rather large tribe. You’ll meet them. You won’t like them but you’ll meet them.” “Wait a minute. You just said love at first sight.” “I did,” Blake said. “But how is that possible?” “Another thing you’ll have to trust me on.” “What if I say no?” “No?” “To everything.” “You won’t.” Blake hesitated, then walked over to Stan and pulled him into a warm embrace, followed by a long lingering kiss. “We’ve got a lot of exploring to do, Stanley.” “Not funny. I’ve heard that all my life. Why I shortened it to Stan.” Blake laughed. He kissed the back of Stan’s neck, then slid his tongue upward until he reached Stan’s ear lobe. “Yummy.” “What was that for?” “Just testing,” Blake said. “Wanted to make sure I remembered everything correctly.” “Did you? Remember everything correctly?” “And then some.” Blake kissed him again. And then again, longer and deeper. “I do love you. Who wouldn’t?” “About ninety percent of this entire town.” Stan drew in a breath and, trembling, let it out. S-l-o-w-l-y. “It’s not possible after only one night. We didn’t even have—” “Mmm. But we will. And soon.” “We’d better stop. This could—” “It definitely could.” “Should we let it? The food will get cold. You went to so much trouble and—” “We should,” Blake said. “Yes.” Stan brought his arms around Blake’s waist. Tight. Tighter. He felt that same spark flicker and glow inside him, and there was no stopping the fire it promised. “Most definitely we should.”