Shadows in the Night

Chapter 2

Chapter 2Steve asks me if I want another tea. “Sit,” I tell him. “Keep me company.”

He is in full costume, tight leather pants, and a tank top. He is wearing a headband, and I inquire politely about it. He tells me he was in the middle of costume changing and his boss Larry told him to leave early.

It is a little after two A.M., and I quell the urge to argue at this hour. It is nowhere near the time I’d hoped Steve would be here. I don’t have the energy or interest to fight. “Was it an eighties flashback skit?” I ask, amused and sharp at this sleepy hour.

“You’re upset, aren’t you?” he asks, reaching for my hand and interlocking his long fingers through mine.

I shake my head and stare out onto the dark, quiet street.

“I’m sorry I’m getting in late,” he says. “I should’ve gone back to my place instead of coming here and keeping you up waiting.”

“I was awake anyway.”

He pumps my hand. “Couldn’t sleep?”

I brush a hand over the worn bristles of my new goatee, a different look I know Steve loathes.

“Jack?” He says my name quietly. I almost mistake his voice for the whispers in my dreams.

“Mmmm?”

“What’s wrong?”

I am bone-tired, lethargic, and spooked from my recent nightmare.

Steve’s next words needle me. “Another dream?”

He knows how I feel since the nightmares began again this past month. My groggy slurs give me away like a bad liar. “It’s late,” I say. “Let’s get some sleep.” I start to stand.

He tugs on my arm. “Talk to me.” My other self would be annoyed by all the touching and nagging. Still, I promised to live my life like an open book after Steve stumbled into my life last year, sprinkling everything with love and kindness and adding color to my otherwise dreary existence.

I stare down at him, his gaze sad with puppy dog eyes. I ruffle a sweaty clump of his pinkish blond curls and lean down to kiss him hard on the mouth. His lips taste salty.

“Do you mind that I’m here?” he asks, reaching up to my leg to the rim of my boxers and slipping a finger beneath the elastic band. His mischievous smile arouses something naughty inside me. His fingertips are smooth against my skin. I search for something kind to say; he deserves accolades, not criticism, especially in the new chapter of our lives, when both of our personalities are fighting to find their voice.

“I want to be next to you,” I say.

He comes up to my shoulders. I tease him that he is a Mini-me version of myself. He pulls himself up on his tiptoes to kiss my lips. “I am worried about you,” he says.

I retaliate: “Not as worried as I am about you.”

He falls back on the flats of his feet and tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

“Can this wait till morning?” I ask, feeling foolish that I’ve opened a new can of worms. Parasitic, writhing.

“The cat is out of the bag, Jack.” He pulls away from me, turns and walks through the balcony doors, leaving me standing alone outside, sweating in the July heat.

Fuck!

He is in the shower when I come back into the apartment a few minutes later, locking the sliding glass doors and setting my empty tea mug in the sink.

Steve returns to the living room and passes me with an armful of his laundry. I am already in bed, lying under a pocket of lamplight I left on for him.

He ignores me, visibly vexed, no eye contact, silent. As he struggles back into the black military boots in which he performed on stage tonight, tying them lace by lace, as fast as his trembling fingers will allow, I sigh and sit up. “Don’t leave this way.”

He continues tweaking each rainbow-colored bootlace. He coughs, labored and forced.

“Steve?”

He looks up with a Maine Coon stare. His mascara clots the corners of his beautiful blue eyes. He wears contacts, but his gaze is stunning. “I know why you’re worried about me,” he says. “I told you that I’m fine.”

I pause and fiddle with the unraveling seams of the old cotton bed sheets. “It’s not the club work that I’m worried about.”

“No? Then why have we been fighting about my job for the past four months?”

I clear my throat, my mouth dry. I lick my lips and cross my arms over my bare chest. “It doesn’t bother me that you dance for money.”

“So, it is about my job, then?”

“Partially.”

He grunts and bends down to resume tying his boots.

“The incident with your stalker at the club last month scared the s**t out of me,” I say. “But I’m happy that he’s been banned.”

“Banned. Past tense. That creep is no longer allowed on the premises or near the club.”

“It doesn’t mean he isn’t still watching when you come and go. Or that there isn’t another creeper sitting in the front row jerking off to your performances.”

“I think your imagination is running away from you,” he says, hurting me with a low blow. He gets up and starts for the apartment door, stomping toward the kitchen. He reaches for the door handle and turns to deliver another ball-busting comment. He turns: “You need to get help for your nightmares. They’re ruining our lives.”