《The Hanging Words》


 Dead As A Dores

    I don¡¯t like to think of my sister as dead, but that can¡¯t be helped.


    She¡¯s there now at the foot of the altar, resting peacefully as if nothing¡¯s happened at all. They made her look different¡ªshe didn¡¯t use to wear makeup before, and now she¡¯s so fucking caked in it that they might as well have put a mask on her. The lower half of her coffin¡¯s closed¡ªwhy do they always do that?¡ªand with her hands gloved and laid across her stomach, you can¡¯t see any markings.


    ¡°Felix, if you¡¯re not going up there, you should take a seat.¡± The voice is Aunt Evora¡¯s. She comes up behind me, placing a comforting but firm hand on my back to push me toward the pews. I guess I¡¯ve been standing in the aisle for too long. For a moment, I tell myself I can go to the casket to see the body up close, but that confidence turns to shit almost immediately. I choose one of the pews on the left.


    ¡°So far back?¡± she asks. ¡°You should be in the front with us.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think I can get that close,¡± I say, which is the truth. Every time I look up at my sister¡¯s immobile form¡ªeven the smallest, most accidental glance¡ªI feel a surge of despair. It feels wrong not to be up there, but I couldn¡¯t spend the entire funeral planted directly in front of her. Besides, I can see the heads of two people who might object to me joining the up-front crew. ¡°This is where I always sit.¡±


    ¡°Be an adult, Felix.¡±


    ¡°I am,¡± I insist, ¡°but that¡¯s my sister. If you don¡¯t want me to make a scene, you¡¯ll let me sit back here.¡±


    Knowing how much my aunt hates anything that ¡°makes a scene,¡± I enter my preferred row of pews. Aunt Evora purses her lips, but that she doesn¡¯t say anything is a sign she¡¯s bestowed her reluctant approval.


    ¡°Genuflect!¡± she hisses, before turning away and striding toward the altar.


    Obediently, I step back out into the aisle, kneel, and cross myself¡ªfeeling vaguely embarrassed for having forgotten. Despite finding myself here every goddamn (sorry) weekend, I¡¯ve fallen out of practice with a few of the motions. Some old habits die hard, while others leave you for dead.


    That expression might¡¯ve been a bit distasteful seeing as I¡¯m at¡ªwell.


    I catch another glimpse of my sister and there¡¯s a pain in my throat. Quickly, I lift my gaze to the Jesus figure hovering over the altar. When I was younger, the wooden carving of the Son of God used to terrify the shit out of me, not only because¡ªtrue to classic Catholic morbidity¡ªhe was depicted nailed to a cross with painted blood dripping from the wounds in his hands, feet, and torso, but because I thought the statue was actually flying above the priest¡¯s head. If at any moment I wasn¡¯t praying hard enough or obeying the commandments, he looked poised to soar out over the congregation to strike me down. Only later would I figure out the statue was hung from the ceiling with cables. Children have ludicrous imaginations.


    Movement at the podium.


    My brother-in-law has taken the stand. Brian looks like he hasn¡¯t slept well in several days, though he smiles politely at everyone gathered in the church. When they don¡¯t see him waiting patiently, he speaks into the microphone. His voice is deep and soothing.


    ¡°Hello, everybody. I would like to thank you all for making the effort to be here today for Dores. I know she would have appreciated it, as do I. If you wouldn¡¯t mind finding your seats, we¡¯re going to begin shortly.¡± He rejoins his family in the front row. I can just see the top of Mariana¡¯s head poking over the back of the pew, and I wonder if she understands that her mother is the one on display. I imagine she knows but doesn¡¯t truly grasp what the lifeless body means. Again, I feel a pain rising in my throat and I have to avert my gaze. Mariana is so young. I hope this doesn¡¯t steal that joyful part of her personality. She doesn¡¯t deserve to lose her mother.


    None of us deserved to lose Dores.


    The people quiet down, ceasing their idle chatter to find a place in one of the many rows of benches. I spot several relatives¡ªmost of whom I haven¡¯t seen, nor spoken to in years¡ªclustered together on the opposite side of the aisle. Our family is larger than most, though not extensive by any means. Mom was one of four. So was Dad¡ªEvora included. But I¡¯m not close to any of my aunts or uncles for one reason or another. Aunt Evora¡¯s the only one I talk to regularly, but that¡¯s just because she¡¯s also the only one who lives in Sacramento.


    The priest begins the funeral rights and I fade into the rafters, listening as though I¡¯m standing in the foyer beyond the closed doors. Everything is muffled. When I realize this, I feel some guilt¡ªafter all, this is my sister¡¯s funeral¡ªbut it¡¯s a reflexive response I have whenever religious proceedings take place. Aunt Evora and some cousin whose name I can¡¯t remember read bible verses from the podium, and the pianist plays a couple songs in a truly impressive mechanical manner. We kneel and stand, hold hands and mumble prayers in unison. When it¡¯s time to go up for communion, I debate whether I should participate. I¡¯d normally go without second thought, but doing so means willingly placing myself in close proximity to my sister¡¯s corpse. I feel the pressure of dozens of eyes on me whether real or imagined. And a voice in my head reminds me that it is Dores¡¯ funeral. So, despite my trepidation, I join the swaying lines of attendees trudging toward the altar.


    The entire journey, I either keep my eyes focused painfully on the ground or on the priest¡¯s hands as he passes me a host. I don¡¯t even chance a look at Aunt Evora and the gang in the front row, knowing that the sight of the nameless two gathered alongside her will bring its own set of troubles.


    Then it¡¯s time for eulogies, something I¡¯ve been dreading all fucking morning. Brian had telephoned me while preparations for the funeral were under way. He was gentle about it, but he¡¯d inadvertently signed me up for something I wasn¡¯t quite sure I wanted to do.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know when you want to speak,¡± he¡¯d said, as though me speaking was a foregone conclusion.


    It¡¯s your sister¡¯s funeral.


    ¡°You can go first if you like. I know public speaking isn¡¯t your favorite thing to do.¡±


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    It might actually be my least favorite, but I couldn¡¯t refuse, knowing what kind of a dick that would make me out to be.


    So, when the priest calls me up, I stand obediently, my hands already shaking and perspiration beading on my spine. I nod at everyone who has turned to look at me. Deep down, I¡¯m sure their hundred-watt smiles are meant to be encouraging, but in my mind, each toothy simper does little more than remind me everyone here knows I¡¯ve got issues. I clear my throat and step out of the pew, heading for the altar before hearing Aunt Evora¡¯s perfunctory cough. I¡¯ve forgotten to genuflect again, I guess, but it¡¯s too late now. I lumber up to the front of the church, my footsteps echoing into the raised ceiling.


    Then I¡¯m at the podium, adjusting the microphone, my struggle coming across in blaring thuds through the sound system. This is not the right time to look out at the dozens of people watching me, which is, of course, exactly what my dumbass does before nearly swallowing my tongue.


    ¡°Dores¡­Dores was my sister.¡± Not a strong start.


    Last night, I¡¯d tried a seemingly infinite number of times to write a eulogy out, but every single effort was trash. Not a single goddamn attempt was worth keeping. Every sentence I wrote, I erased at double the speed it took to come up with the words. How was I supposed to summarize the life of the woman lying dead before me? That was an impossible task. We¡¯d spent thirty-four years together and she¡¯d lived for an additional two before that. If someone were to summarize my life in a five-minute sentiment, that might be easy. But Dores?


    Everyone¡¯s waiting patiently, but I can tell a few are already restless. To them, this is typical Felix.


    ¡°She was many things: a daughter, a wife, a mother, a journalist. But to me she was a sister. Our family taught us about life, but she taught me about people. How to make friends. How to try new things¡ªexperiment for myself without crossing the line. She was a voice for me when I couldn¡¯t find that voice myself, and I will never forget that.¡± Several family members shift in their seats. Aunt Evora is no longer looking me in the eye. So I immediately fall silent for a few seconds, figuring out where to go next. Only Brian¡¯s gaze is steady. He looks genuinely touched by my words. I can¡¯t help but notice Mariana beside him though. She hasn¡¯t stopped staring at her mother.


    ¡°Dores once said to me, ¡®Sometimes, the hardest thing to do is to realize you need help and to ask for it.¡¯ But I never had to ask with her. She always knew. Somehow. It was like an instinct. And I think most people who knew her would agree. That was what made her so special, and that¡¯s what I¡¯ll miss the most.¡±


    Nods from the congregation. I breathe a sigh of relief, certain by now that the back of my suit is three shades darker with sweat. I suppose one silver lining of being this wracked with stage fright is that I was so focused on my nerves I got through the eulogy without dissolving into tears. A sad compromise, but I do most of my grieving on my own time.


    ¡°I love you, Dores. I¡¯ll miss you always,¡± I finish, then hurry away from the altar.


    Brian stands up immediately to follow my speech. And by the time I¡¯m taking my seat, he¡¯s at the microphone, his eyes already glistening. I would be absolutely mortified to cry in front of so many people. But there¡¯s no chance my mind would ever allow for raw emotion to surface with so many eyes on me. At least where I¡¯m concerned, any reaction becomes performative where expectations are involved. It¡¯s how I¡¯ve always been¡ªeven as a child opening presents on Christmas and knowing the gift-givers were watching.


    ¡°Dores was the best human being I knew,¡± Brian begins, speaking slowly and deliberately to maintain control. Whereas the room had an air of awkward tension while I was at the podium, it feels now like we¡¯re all poised on an emotional precipice and the wrong word might send us plummeting into tears. I can feel the pain in his voice and I hang my head. ¡°She cared so deeply about everything and everyone. She not only wished to make the world understand one another, she wanted to teach every individual how to be compassionate. That was and always will be her greatest strength.


    ¡°She loved her job, and she approached it with an open mind at all times. It was less a job and more a lifestyle.¡± He smiles to himself, remembering something that none of us can see, though we share that specific space with him now. ¡°Sometimes, in my lesser moments when we were debating, I¡¯d say, ¡®Stop interrogating me. I¡¯m not an interviewee.¡¯ Usually, that was when I could tell I was losing the argument.¡±


    A few people chuckle.


    ¡°She would respond¡ªvery calmly, mind you¡ª¡®I¡¯m not debating you, Brian. I¡¯m just trying to understand your side.¡¯ And she would. She would always come to understand.¡± Brain stares down at his hands on the podium, or perhaps his notes. The pause is long enough that I wonder if he¡¯s crying, if he¡¯s finally lost composure¡ªI can hear several sniffs from the congregation. When he looks up again, his eyes are dry though¡ªmorose, but dry.


    ¡°Not many people know this because Dores was embarrassed to talk about it, but I think it¡¯s important that we talk about these things¡ªdestigmatize them. And maybe we can lessen the number of people who come to meet the same devastating fate as my late wife.¡± Brian takes a deep breath, steeling himself against what he wants to say. My heart skips a beat as I have no idea what¡¯s coming next, unaware that she¡¯d been hiding something from the world.


    ¡°Dores was diagnosed with Lacrimosus several months ago,¡± he says, then pauses again as a murmur runs through the church. Dozens of guests turn to one another, muttering unintelligible words that coalesce into a humming¡ªlike an active beehive. Expecting this response, Brian waits until the talk has died down. ¡°She had it under control¡ªor so we believed. She was medicating, she was fine most of the time. And from the outside, she made it so that you couldn¡¯t even tell. But the illness was there, eating away at her still. And in the end, she succumbed to it by suicide.¡±


    More murmurs, but this time Brian doesn¡¯t wait.


    ¡°In one of the last conversations she and I had, Dores encouraged me to talk to people. Never assume that they were fine just because they appeared to be okay. You can¡¯t even tell most people who have Lacrimosus are suffering from it. So, in the words of my late wife, who I will not have the opportunity to discuss anything with for a very long time: talk to your loved ones, try your best to understand them, and let them know you love them. I miss you, Dores. I look forward to seeing you again someday.¡±


    He¡¯s crying by the end of it, thin streams cutting down his dark cheeks. Before returning to his seat, he goes to the casket and lays a gentle hand on my sister¡¯s arm. A lump forms in my throat and I might have started crying too, except my mind still clings to his words¡ªthis revelation about her condition.


    My sister was suffering from Lacrimosus¡ªhad been diagnosed several months ago¡ªand nobody had fucking thought to tell me? Nobody had shared this crucial tidbit, and now I¡¯m only finding out about it after my sister¡¯s suicide? My heart sinks, leaving a void in my chest that quickly fills with a mixture of guilt and sadness. I know I shouldn¡¯t be making any of this about me¡ªmy sister is the one who¡¯s dead, after all¡ªbut I can¡¯t help feeling this diagnosis had been purposely kept secret from me. I know others in the family avoided contact because in addition to being bigoted ass-wipes they thought me unstable, but I¡¯d always taken for granted that Dores was an open book where I was concerned.


    I guess that wasn¡¯t the case after all.


    Don¡¯t make this about you.


    Brian heads back to his seat in the front row, but my eyes linger on Dores¡¯ profile. I can¡¯t see much from this angle, but it¡¯s enough to recognize her by. Any hurt I feel inside is suddenly overcome with a wave of sadness.


    I¡¯m acutely aware of my inability to be a source of comfort¡ªhave been for the better part of my life¡ªbut I¡¯d have hoped that she knew she could come to me at any time and I would¡¯ve done my best not to judge her. Maybe I wouldn¡¯t have known what to say or what to do, but at the very least, I wouldn¡¯t have dismissed her or turned her away.


    It¡¯s too late to ask her now, but I hope she knew that.

 Lonely Is As Lonely Does

    I spend the next few days in a state of shock, wondering if this is how I¡¯ve decided to cope with my sister¡¯s death instead of grieving. Lacrimosus is a relatively new disease, so there¡¯s still so much about it we¡¯ve yet to discover, but I never thought I¡¯d know someone who had it. Empathy isn¡¯t my strong suit¡ªthat¡¯s a flaw of mine, I know¡ªbut I¡¯d still say that I¡¯m aware of global issues and the terrible ways some of those issues affect very real people. It¡¯s just that when you¡¯re feeling bad for someone across the Internet, it¡¯s very different than when it¡¯s someone you talk to face to face on a regular basis. Someone you¡¯re related to. That¡¯s when shit transforms from a cause into a personal matter.


    In the same way, Lacrimosus was always something I¡¯d heard about, maybe skimmed a few articles, but never encountered in real life. I knew of the controversy surrounding it, whether or not the people who claimed to have it were just hallucinating or dealing with more deeply rooted problems, but now there was someone in my life with a concrete diagnosis. According to Brian, she¡¯d even been taking medication.


    And yet she still chose to take her own life.


    Did the medications not work, then? Or had she been misdiagnosed? Could the wrong medication have driven her to suicide?


    I¡¯m drawing conclusions based on conjecture, which isn¡¯t helpful.


    I slap a pan on the stove top and pour in a couple tablespoons of olive oil, while trying to figure out what to make of the whole situation. It¡¯s hard to come to a conclusion, though, when you¡¯re as ignorant as I am of the topic.


    The phone rings.


    Halfway through chopping an onion, I shift my grip on the knife so I can pull my cell out of my pocket and clumsily swipe the answer icon.


    ¡°Hello?¡± I ask, squeezing the flat device between my ear and my shoulder.


    ¡°It¡¯s me.¡±


    ¡°Hi, Auntie,¡± I say, angling my arm to start chopping again.


    ¡°Are you feeling better?¡± she asks, and I have to remind myself that I¡¯d left the funeral reception early after feigning illness. Really, my social battery had gone critically low and, despite the apparent catharsis of grieving en masse, I just wanted to be alone. Shitty thing to do at your sister¡¯s funeral, I know, but I¡¯m a shitty person. So, there you have it.


    ¡°Yeah, I think it was just a twenty-four-hour thing.¡±


    ¡°Probably from someone there. People are so disgusting sometimes. You know I saw Candice leaving the ladies¡¯ room without washing her hands? How quickly everyone forgets. That would¡¯ve never happened in 2020. When the pandemic¡ª¡±


    ¡°I know, I know, Auntie. That was the only time everyone cared about cleanliness. I was alive, you know.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but you were so young.¡±


    ¡°I still remember.¡±


    ¡°Well, you do forget things sometimes. I can never keep track of what you remember.¡±


    I smile through pursed lips, sweeping the onions and now the mushrooms I¡¯ve sliced into the pan. They sizzle, sending up tendrils of steam.


    ¡°Anyway, I was calling because you know how I always have Mariana on Saturday nights?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡± This was a standard rule in Evora¡¯s household, her contribution to Dores and Brian¡¯s well-being. Saturday nights were date night for them, and since Aunt Evora lived close by, she¡¯d have Mariana stay the night so the two didn¡¯t have to cut their evening short.


    ¡°Well, I was thinking it would do you some good to have her over this time. You know? Have some company.¡± She says this in that particular voice of hers, where she knows she¡¯s intruding on your life but thinks she¡¯s doing what¡¯s best for you. I know she means well, but that voice is always followed by reluctant compliance on my part. And nine times out of ten, I don¡¯t actually benefit from whatever it is she¡¯s trying to get me to do. Usually, it¡¯s something like volunteering with her rotary club or cleaning Saint Anthony¡¯s Church¡ªa delightful chore we do so often I now have my own key, which lives permanently in the pocket of my one and only coat.


    ¡°Mariana? Does she even want to stay with me?¡±


    ¡°Oh sure, Felix! She adores you!¡± Evora says. I can just imagine her waving away my concern with manicured fingers.


    She¡¯s not entirely wrong. At least, not as far as I can tell. I love playing with my niece, and she giggles at everything I do. But that doesn¡¯t mean I¡¯m chomping at the bit for her to stay in my condo. I look through the kitchen¡¯s interior window at my rack of vintage CDs in the living room, the stone pipe on its side on the coffee table. Not to mention the liquor cabinet layered with precariously placed glassware. I¡¯d have some cleaning up to do.


    ¡°I don¡¯t have a bed for her or anything,¡± I say, then realize I¡¯ve forgotten to add noodles to my boiling water.


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s no matter,¡± Evora says as though I¡¯m being ridiculous. ¡°She could take your bed and you could sleep on the couch¡ª¡±


    How generous of you.


    ¡°¡ªor she probably has a sleeping bag or something, I don¡¯t know. Stop making excuses, Felix. She¡¯s your niece, for heaven¡¯s sake.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not making excuses,¡± I mumble. ¡°I¡¯ve just never had her by myself before.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll be fine. It¡¯s not like she¡¯s an infant anymore. She¡¯s six. The only thing you need to do is feed and play with her.¡± Evora pauses, but I don¡¯t speak because I know she isn¡¯t done. Sometimes, she just stops for a moment or two when she feels she¡¯s lost her composure. ¡°Look, you¡¯re always in that condo alone, and this is a difficult time for all of us. I love having Mariana over my house. I think it would do you a world of good to have someone stay with you for a night.¡±


    How do you know I haven¡¯t had people over? Of course, I haven¡¯t, but that¡¯s beside the point.


    ¡°Does she have toys or something to bring with her?¡± I ask. ¡°I don¡¯t have much here.¡±


    ¡°Oh, she has plenty of things she can bring. You¡¯ll have a great time. I know it.¡±


    ¡°Alright, I¡¯ll do it.¡±


    ¡°Great, I¡¯ll let Brian know¡ª¡±


    ¡°Wait,¡± I say before she can hang up. ¡°I wanted to ask you something.¡±


    ¡°What was that?¡± she says, her voice getting louder as she brings the phone back to her face.


    ¡°Did you know about Dores? About the diagnosis, I mean.¡±


    I can almost hear my aunt restraining herself, her voice more taut than normal, if that¡¯s at all possible. When she speaks, the words are stilted¡ªdry and cautious.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t, actually,¡± she says. I regret asking almost immediately. ¡°But I suppose that was what your sister wanted. Which is unfortunate. All those people¡ªall of them need help. Proper help, if you ask me.¡±


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    How quickly my sister had become those people.


    ¡°What do you mean by that?¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m not saying it¡¯s not real,¡± she says, which is exactly what people say when they¡¯re close to opining about something they don¡¯t consider to be real. ¡°I just think that if they went beyond themselves a bit more, got outside to some sunshine, regular exercise, then it would do a lot more to make the hallucinations go away than any drug would do.¡±


    I may not know much about the illness, but I¡¯m about ninety-eight percent sure my aunt has got this one wrong. Not that ¡°sunshine¡± and ¡°regular exercise¡± aren¡¯t good for the body, but they aren¡¯t cures for this disease. Then again, I shouldn¡¯t have let her lead me into this question. And while I¡¯m sure she¡¯d love to have a discussion about it, there are few things I despise more than a useless debate for the sake of debating. I¡¯ll google around on my own, thanks.


    When I haven¡¯t responded to her declaration, she takes this as a sign that I¡¯m not willing to engage on the matter.


    ¡°Anyway,¡± she says. ¡°I¡¯ll let Brian know you¡¯re going to take Mariana on Saturday.¡±


    ¡°Thanks, I¡¯ll text him too.¡±


    ¡°Oh, and you should find your rosary.¡±


    I roll my eyes, grateful that she can¡¯t see. Once again, there she goes assuming I¡¯ve lost some rosary I¡¯m supposed to have¡ªand, granted, I did lose the last rosary I was given, for my confirmation, but that¡¯s beside the point. I could very well have a rosary and know exactly where it is, but she¡¯s made a judgment call.


    ¡°Why would I need my rosary?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Because I always say it with her before we go to bed,¡± Aunt Evora explains, as though this is some ingrained practice that can¡¯t be foregone for even one single Saturday. I¡¯m sure if I don¡¯t say the rosary with Mariana, she won¡¯t be too heartbroken over it. She might not even notice.


    But sometimes it¡¯s better to nod along than to argue.


    ¡°I know where it is,¡± I say, perhaps too defensively for someone who does not, in fact, know where his rosary is. ¡°I¡¯ll get it out before then.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a good boy,¡± Aunt Evora says. ¡°I¡¯ll talk to you later.¡±


    I say my goodbye and then we hang up, leaving me alone in my kitchen, flustered at the prospect of having to prepare my home for Mariana¡¯s stay. Hopefully, she¡¯ll bring everything she needs with her, because I won¡¯t have much for her to do.


    And I still haven¡¯t added the pasta noodles.


    ~


    Rain pours throughout the night, blustering winds buffeting my windows with heavy sheets of water. The evening had been so calm only hours before that part of me wants to believe I am dreaming, rather than lying awake beneath my covers, trying desperately not to feel as though my condo might collapse at any given moment. Yet, my imagination isn¡¯t quite powerful enough to convince my mind of this alternate reality. I¡¯m feeling far too exhausted¡ªand time is passing far too slowly¡ªfor me to believe I¡¯m asleep.


    Instead, I toss and turn all night, growing more and more angry with myself as the seconds tick by. I¡¯m not sure why rest eludes me¡ªI don¡¯t generally have problems sleeping. And it¡¯s not as though I¡¯m obsessing over any particular part of the day, or worrying about some issue beyond my control, or even mired by memories that are reluctant to let my consciousness go.


    I simply cannot fucking sleep.


    And so the minutes turn into hours. The intervals between hopeful glances at my run-of-the-mill digital clock alternate between five and thirty minutes apart. Slowly, my exhausted anger turns to exhausted sadness as I realize I¡¯ve passed the point of adequate rest. Even if I fall asleep at this very moment, I¡¯ll wake up tired as shit when the alarm rings.


    Which is why I¡¯m surprised to not wake up to the sound of my alarm.


    My eyes flicker open in my dim room¡ªdim but not dark. The raindrops drumming rat-a-tat-tat on my window remind me just how full to bursting my bladder is. Yet, while I¡¯m relaxed and rested, that eternal pessimist which takes up a disproportionate share of my brain mutters that this can¡¯t be right.


    I roll over to check the clock.


    Shit. I nearly piss in my bed, scrambling to jettison myself from the tangle of sheets. I am late. And when I say late, I mean the-bus-leaves-in-ten-I¡¯d-better-get-the-hell-out-of-here late. Thus begins the most frantic and frustrating morning of my life.


    To make an unnecessarily long story short, I miss said bus¡ªit pulls away as I arrive at the stop, the pennywhistle theme from Titanic playing in my mind¡ªand I wind up walk-jogging the two miles to my office building in the rain. Because I would hate to tarnish the roughly seventy-five percent success rate of my New Year¡¯s ¡°every weekday workout¡± resolution, my gym bag bounces against my hip the whole way there. Perhaps the resulting bruise will count as punishment enough for my tardiness.


    If I¡¯m being honest, that¡¯s not likely.


    I will say that the two-mile moisture parade does give me ample time to reflect upon my choices. I hadn¡¯t chosen not to sleep last night, but I had let Aunt Evora get inside my head. It seems like she and everyone else thinks I¡¯m so lonely, and maybe I am. But I don¡¯t feel like that¡¯s my fault. I¡¯m the one who initiated my gym resolution as a way to better my health and my physical appearance. The hope was that if I made myself a little more conventionally attractive, the rest would follow.


    But I suppose I could do more to take the next step.


    By the time I power walk my way into 55 Rhodes Avenue, I¡¯m not as late as I could¡¯ve been, but I¡¯m disgruntled nonetheless. I cuss myself out, marveling at my own talent for acquiring new levels of stupidity when I least expect it. Sometimes, it feels like even my general drive for mediocrity is too much to maintain. The bar was low, but wading through a crowded downtown, soaked through my clothes and starving to boot, screams failure. I would strive for more, but I have a sneaking suspicion I will spend my life being mediocre.


    Not bothering to wait for an elevator, I hustle up the stairs to the third floor.


    Corner House Magazine greets me in oversized letters upon the landing. The sign¡¯s impossible to miss, lit brighter than the surface of the sun in serifed navy characters. I swear the entrance didn¡¯t use to be so gaudy, but ever since Lenae Champeaux left, all traces of taste left with her.


    After navigating the grid of cubicles, I toss my bag beneath my desk and head straight for my favorite bathroom. It¡¯s the one by the fire exit, tucked behind the storage closet. If there¡¯s any good left in the world, it¡¯ll be empty like usual. But this morning I don¡¯t trust my luck.


    As I thought, someone¡¯s in the stall cutting wet ones with abandon. The smell nearly sends me back out into the hallway, but the squeak of my wet shoes makes me stay. I start emptying the paper towel dispenser, wiping frantically at my sopping shirt.


    This method yields minimal results.


    Shit. I can¡¯t just sit in my chair sopping wet all day¡ªI mean, I suppose I could, but it¡¯s not going to be comfortable. I could also change into my gym clothes, but that¡¯s not appropriate office attire, and they¡¯re likely to be damp too.


    My eyes fall on the air dryer just as the toilet flushes.


    The putrid perpetrator turns out to be none other than Frank Weimar from HR. He doesn¡¯t take long to spot me standing awkwardly by the sinks, fistfuls of paper towel poised at the ready. We lock eyes before his gaze travels down my body, taking in my entire composition.


    ¡°What happened to you?¡±


    What happened to me? I went swimming upriver to get to work today. What does it look like? Smug fuck. I got caught out in the rain. At least I haven¡¯t been holed up in a public restroom for half the morning laying down fecal mortar.


    But that¡¯s not likely to make me any friends. Be nice.


    ¡°I had to walk today,¡± I say, stepping aside so he can access the sinks. He washes his hands without another word, then leaves the bathroom.


    I spend the next ten minutes running my knit shirt under the dryer and jamming my elbow against the button every thirty seconds when it shuts off. My pants I attempt to do while still wearing them¡ªmaneuvering my lower half beneath the nozzle like an unskilled contortionist¡ªbut when it gets too hot to handle, I give up.


    Defeated, I return to my desk and am met by a polite clearing of the throat.


    I sigh inwardly, spinning in my chair, though I already know who¡¯s standing in the entrance of my cubicle. It¡¯ll be Felicia Alba, the boss herself. I¡¯m prepared to be chastised for arriving late during one of the busiest times for the mag¡ªafter all, the winter issue is where we make the bulk of our sales since readers love the shit out of Christmas stories¡ªbut I find her looking at me with wide, understanding eyes instead, and I wish I¡¯d just called in sick rather than putting all this effort into making it to work. This is almost worse than the anger I¡¯d been expecting.


    ¡°Sorry I¡¯m late,¡± I mutter, averting my gaze.


    She smiles understandingly. ¡°It¡¯s alright. This is a difficult time,¡± she says. ¡°How was it? You know¡ªthe funeral,¡± she adds, as if I might not know she meant my sister¡¯s funeral.


    ¡°Alright,¡± I say truthfully.


    ¡°You know, you needn¡¯t feel any pressure to return so soon. If you need more time off, I understand. We¡¯ll manage.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± I say, wishing she would leave me alone. I know I¡¯ve got at least fifty submissions waiting for review in my inbox. ¡°It helps to keep my mind busy.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± she says, with an understanding nod. ¡°Well, let me know if you change your mind.¡±


    I smile appreciatively, but as she turns to leave, I notice several other pairs of eyes lingering on the two of us over the low-wall cubicles. All of them are either nosy or, worse, concerned. I sincerely hope none of them feel the need to come over here to share their condolences. I know their hearts are probably in the right place, but if it was socially acceptable to do so I¡¯d tell them all to leave me the fuck alone. I¡¯m here to fulfill my occupational obligations, and I wish to do so in peace.


    Unfortunately, I can¡¯t say as much without coming off as a complete prick, which means any moment now I¡¯m going to be interrupted again.


    Why do I care about loneliness?

 The Social Climber

    Every part of me screams to go home after work. This has been a rotten day on top of a rotten week. Beyond the trickle of well-wishers and the slog of mediocre condensed fiction in my inbox, I can attest that sitting in wet pants and underwear for eight and a half hours will do something irreversible to your mood.


    So when the quitting hour is upon me, I sit motionless in my cubicle for a few minutes, debating how disappointed in myself I¡¯ll be come tomorrow if I skip the gym today. I shouldn¡¯t feel too bad, right? It¡¯s not like I¡¯m fucking off with nothing to show for it. I ran to that bus stop and I ended up walking all the way to work.


    I let my head fall back and stare up at the corkboard ceiling tiles. I really don¡¯t want to exercise. I mean, I generally don¡¯t want to exercise, but at this moment the reluctance is tenfold its normal strength.


    Alright, I bargain with myself. What if you do half the amount of time because you walked to work?


    That satisfies me. When it comes to personal negotiations, I excel. So I grab my bag at once and descend into the basement.


    I sometimes have to confess to myself that my ability to carry through on my eleven-month-old New Year¡¯s Resolution is not nearly as impressive as it might be, given that the major perk of 55 Rhodes Avenue is its basement gym. In fact, once you consider that startling revelation, it throws my previous four years of failed resolutions into a piteous light. Membership is fifteen dollars a month for all tower employees. So I¡¯ve really had no excuse. Still, motivation beats accessibility as much as accessibility beats resources and resources beat motivation and so on and so forth.


    Regardless, I descend into the basement.


    It¡¯s a beyond decent setup: a couple rows of machines, a row of weights, a climbing wall, and a semi-enclosed basketball court all encompassed by a one-tenth-mile track. I swipe my card at the desk, they hand me a towel, and I make my way to the locker room.


    Son of a bitch. I hadn¡¯t realized how much moisture jeans retain until the moment it comes time to undress. These aren¡¯t necessarily tight by today¡¯s standards, but the effort needed to remove them should stand as a testament to my perseverance. I guess when the material is sandwiched between your body and a seat cushion all day, there¡¯s not much breathing room. I refuse to dwell on this thought and finish changing.


    Normally, I¡¯d start on the track, but technically I¡¯ve already done my distance for the day. I could go on the bike, but again, that¡¯s more legwork. Lifting weights is perhaps my least favorite thing of all time, so what the hell have I come here for?


    I could do the wall.


    That¡¯s one activity I haven¡¯t tried yet. Not because I have any issue with heights, I just feel as though hoisting myself up into the air is putting myself more on display than is ultimately necessary.


    Thinking about it now, it¡¯s got to be a good substitute for lifting weights though. I¡¯ll trick my body into lifting itself. How about that?


    I meander through the rows of instruments and other gym-goers¡ªa collective of young-to-aging humans waging war against the symptoms of desk-body. Besides its incredibly convenient locale, one of the other benefits of belonging to my work gym is that there are very few meatheads in attendance at any given time. Sure, there are fit people, and every once in a while I¡¯ll catch an attractive glimpse of toned flesh¡ªsue me, I¡¯m a goddamn human¡ªbut in general, there¡¯s nobody around to make me feel like I¡¯m not doing enough. I don¡¯t have a problem with someone who has muscles. In fact, I enjoy a nicely muscled human. I¡¯m merely talking about the ripped, grunting-like-they¡¯re-excreting-a-lifetime¡¯s-worth-of-shit fuckwads who find a way to flex in your face when all you¡¯ve asked them is whether or not they¡¯ve seen your missing headphone. Those types.


    Not that this particular hypothetical is based on real events¡ªbut it was in the elliptical¡¯s cupholder.


    The attendant hands me a chalk sock and I meander over to the climbing wall, ready to mount the structure for the first time. Ideally, what will happen is that I¡¯ll find I¡¯m a fucking beast at climbing first try. The ensuing cinematic adaptation detailing the discovery of my life¡¯s purpose will earn accolades. And my character will be played by a young Ryan Gosling¡ªI swear, we share a resemblance if you close your eyes and forget what he looks like.


    I choose to start with a free climb for character development purposes, and am delighted to see that nobody else is using the wall.


    At the base, I stare up at those oddly provocative multi-colored plastic shits sticking out of the surface for a good long minute, wondering to myself why we simulate rock-climbing this way: with infantile, toylike protrusions, when rock faces don¡¯t typically have any sort of grab-hold indicators. Then, out of the blue, I hear a voice.


    ¡°Yeah, I like to plan my attack route too.¡±


    Har-har. I would laugh if I wanted to¡ªI can tell he means it to be funny, but it¡¯s kind of a dick-ish thing to say. Especially given the day I¡¯ve had, and the rotten mood that I¡¯m already in. Under my shorts, I¡¯m still damp, and I doubt if my crotch region will ever be dry again. If I¡¯d wanted to just attack the damn wall, I would have. What gives this man the right to mock me, even if it is good-natured? I turn my head to tell him to fuck right off.


    And immediately forget why I was so angry.


    I¡¯m almost more pissed at myself for being a clich¨¦ straight out of a romantic comedy.


    Mr. Smart Mouth is gorgeous. The stranger stands a few feet away, a basketball of all things at his hip and a disarming, crooked smile on his face. I swear, I¡¯ve never seen him here before, because if I had, I would¡¯ve remembered. Tousled, curly brown hair, bright green eyes, impeccably shaped jaw with tasteful stubble to boot, wide shoulders emphasized by his sleeveless muscle tank¡ª


    I stop my eyes from traveling any lower, not wanting to be a creep.


    Ah, well, fuck it.


    Okay, there¡¯s definitely something there.


    I wrench my eyes back up to his face, wondering how long I¡¯ve been staring. Judging by the fact that he¡¯s cocked an eyebrow, he¡¯s noticed my once-over. I feel my face burn as my cheeks flush. This is why I don¡¯t socialize with other people; my ability to embarrass myself is top-notch.


    ¡°Sorry,¡± he says. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to knock you off balance. I was just on my way to the court and I¡ªwell, I saw you staring. I thought I¡¯d be funny. Guess I wasn¡¯t really funny though¡ªthat tends to happen a lot.¡±


    He gives a defeated laugh and scratches the back of his head with his free hand. Is it my imagination, or is he glancing over at the basketball court, wishing he hadn¡¯t dropped by? This has quickly turned into an advanced-level awkward encounter¡ªand that¡¯s saying something for me.


    ¡°Right,¡± he continues. ¡°I¡¯ll let you do your thang then.¡±


    Yes, he actually says ¡°thang.¡±


    This is where I decide that he¡¯s floundering enough to excuse my own ineptitude for social interactions. I also realize I haven¡¯t said a word thus far in our film-worthy encounter.


    Be nice.


    ¡°Computing plan beta!¡± I semi-scream, as if this is some sort of appropriate response. Still, it¡¯s enough to make him stop his retreat, quite possibly because I¡¯ve shattered any and all previous metrics for worst first line. He smiles an I¡¯m-lost-but-trying-not-to-show-it smile that honestly makes my heart flutter.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I didn¡¯t catch that,¡± he says, playing the hard-of-hearing game. We have a gamer, ladies and gents and everyone else.


    This is my chance to recoup my defenses. ¡°I meant¡ªbecause you said the thing about planning attacks when I was staring. So it was¡­because, like, if my mind were a computer that didn¡¯t like plan A¡ªbeta would be, well, my secondary plan.¡±


    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Nailed it.


    He laughs. He actually laughs. This great, genuine laugh where he throws his head back a bit like a gun recoiling.


    I find myself smiling in response.


    ¡°Okay,¡± he says, nodding. ¡°I get it. That¡¯s a thinker.¡±


    The globally accepted euphemism for ¡°bad joke.¡±


    But he is being incredibly nice about it. I guess his opening line fell pretty wide of the mark as well. Mr. Green Eyes rolls the basketball from his hip to his abdomen, resting his hands across the top of the textured surface.


    ¡°That¡¯s me,¡± I say.


    ¡°I like it.¡±


    The skin between my shoulder blades prickles while my heart takes a dive. For a moment, I think I¡¯m dying. Then I rationalize it¡¯s probably just my physiological reaction to his compliment¡ªthough something still feels off, a lingering emotion that doesn¡¯t belong. It seeps in through my shoes and rushes up my legs like vines.


    I brush this all away, the majority of me marveling at my current situation.


    Am I reading too much into his comment?


    He clears his throat. ¡°Would¡ªwould you mind if I climbed with you?¡±


    Would you mind if I climbed you? Too forceful.


    ¡°Weren¡¯t you going to play basketball?¡± Too snarky. I¡¯m sabotaging myself without realizing.


    ¡°I was,¡± he says, embarrassed. ¡°You¡¯re right, I already have the ball.¡±


    Please don¡¯t go.


    ¡°I don¡¯t actually mind,¡± I hear myself say. My hands tremble. ¡°Another bad joke. I¡¯d like it if you climbed with me.¡±


    ¡°I think I¡¯d like that too.¡±


    A monstrous cacophony liberates itself from my lungs, which I think is supposed to be a giggle, though the two sounds share very few similarities. Even as it¡¯s coming out, it more closely resembles a demented war cry to me¡ªsomething I might scream to intimidate my opponents. And yet, somehow this guy doesn¡¯t seem to mind.


    This guy¡ª


    ¡°So, what should I call you?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Oh, right, shit. I forgot about that part,¡± he says. God, that smile just isn¡¯t fair. ¡°Milo Reid.¡±


    He sticks out a hand. How positively old-fashioned! My knees nearly buckle. I really need to get ahold of myself before I do something irreparably stupid.


    ¡°Felix Macuja,¡± I say, taking his hand.


    Just then, a piercing wail fills the gym. Both of us withdraw our hands in order to cover our ears and shrink away from the noise. But it surrounds us.


    ¡°Is that the fire alarm?¡± Milo shouts.


    ¡°I think so,¡± I respond.


    ¡°We should probably get out.¡±


    I nod, and we go running for the exit.


    Of course, it¡¯s not enough that my ear drums have been shattered by the violently loud alarm. In the next instant, a sprinkler system engages, spraying water over everything in the open space. Fucking hell, as if I hadn¡¯t spent enough of my day sopping wet. My irritation returns as we hustle up the stairs to the main level. Part of me had been hoping it was a false alarm that someone would disable quickly, but judging by the downpour, that¡¯s not the case.


    As soon as we¡¯ve made it outside, I stand shivering in my inadequate clothing. The good news is at least it¡¯s no longer raining¡ªand I¡¯d had the foresight to keep my wallet and phone with me.


    ¡°Well, I guess we won¡¯t be climbing today,¡± Milo says with a shrug.


    ¡°Maybe not for a while,¡± I say, feeling massive disappointed. Not only has my plan to discover my hidden talent withered and died, but I won¡¯t be doing so next to this charming gentleman who kindly agreed to join me. Someone or something is very much against me today, and I¡¯m not sure what I did to deserve such shitty treatment. ¡°That was a lot of water.¡±


    ¡°Look,¡± Milo says, turning toward me. Now that his shirt is wet, it clings to his torso in a way that excites my pulse. I do my best not to look, aggravated with myself for being so easily distracted. If he¡¯s noticed, he¡¯s being very polite about pretending not to notice. ¡°If we can¡¯t climb together, maybe we could go for a hike or something. Could I get your number? I¡¯d like to call you sometime if that¡¯s alright, Felix.¡±


    Fucking fuck fucks, can I have a recording of him repeating my name endlessly? Also, who the hell does he think he is, asking if I want to go for a hike of all things? I don¡¯t hike. I barely tolerate walking around a city. Don¡¯t people usually ask for coffee or something like that?


    ¡°Of course, I¡¯d be down.¡±


    ¡°Awesome, plan beta is a success.¡±


    Cheeky bastard.


    It feels bizarre to be giving a stranger my phone number as sirens rush toward our location¡ªgranted, it¡¯s not like the building is actively up in flames while flailing bodies throw themselves through the windows thirty stories above, but there¡¯s still the air of being at the scene of an emergency. Milo hands me his phone and I type in my number, then send myself a text so I have his.


    An attendant from the gym is coming around telling everyone that a fire broke out in one of the locker rooms, they¡¯re not sure why yet, but the fire department is on its way. Some people start leaving, reasoning that the gym isn¡¯t reopening any time soon. I¡¯ll probably do the same in a bit, though I¡¯m hesitant to stop interacting with Milo¡ªpart of me believes he¡¯s going to fade from existence the moment he¡¯s out of sight.


    As the attendant passes us, I¡¯m reminded that I had a bag in the locker rooms. Chances are, all my stuff has burned up in the flames.


    Well, at least my jeans have probably dried.


    ~


    Milo calls me that night, which is stellar because I¡¯d have never gotten past the debating-with-myself stage where I stare angrily at my phone for hours wondering why it hasn¡¯t told me how to best minimize the possibility of rejection and embarrassment. As the Fates would have it, I¡¯m so surprised to see my cell light up with his number that I answer on the first ring. There¡¯s absolutely no chance for me to play things cool, since I¡¯ve just about answered before he dialed. But he probably understands already that ¡°cool¡± isn¡¯t part of my lexicon.


    ¡°Hey there,¡± he says from a dozen miles away.


    I can¡¯t stop smiling. ¡°Hi.¡±


    ¡°Thought you should know that we were never let back into the building,¡± he says casually. He¡¯d hung around after I left to catch the bus home. ¡°I guess the response time of the suppression system was slower than desired. There was significant damage to the locker rooms.¡±


    ¡°Damn. I wonder how it started.¡±


    ¡°I heard someone say it was ¡®likely electrical,¡¯ but I¡¯m not sure how much they knew, or if they were just talking out of their ass.¡± He pauses, and I can hear him rummaging as if looking through a kitchen drawer or something. ¡°Anyways, they say the building¡¯s fine. So, work¡¯s still on tomorrow! Just no gym for a few weeks.¡±


    ¡°Damn,¡± I say again. Honestly, it wouldn¡¯t have mattered if the offices were open tomorrow or not. I probably would¡¯ve been told to work from home for a few days¡ªsomething I should be allowed to do regularly, but the boss is a tight ass when it comes to that sort of modern practice. At least outside extreme circumstances.


    ¡°What floor are you on?¡± I ask, realizing that he must work in the same building. He might be new and that¡¯s why I¡¯ve never seen him before. Then again, I barely pay attention to my own surroundings. Who knows what happens on the other levels?


    ¡°Twelfth,¡± he says, and I can definitely tell now that he¡¯s cooking while we speak. I can hear water boiling faintly in the background. ¡°Endrion Realty.¡±


    ¡°Are you a realtor then?¡±


    ¡°I am, yeah.¡± I can hear his smile. Thinking about his charm, he must be a great realtor. I¡¯d probably buy Zamboni from him if he tried selling one to me.


    ¡°That¡¯s super awesome!¡± Super awesome? What am I¡ªa twelve-year-old? Good thing I don¡¯t work for a literary magazine, or subpar articulation would be a gross embarrassment. ¡°That¡¯s one of those occupations I¡¯ve always thought would be fun but could never do.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s definitely my calling.¡±


    ¡°Someday I¡¯m going to need your services,¡± I joke, then silently cringe, my face growing hot. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean¡ªI just¡­Not that¡ª¡±


    He laughs heartily, and my face gets even hotter. I should just fucking hang up right now.


    ¡°You¡¯re fine,¡± he says. Despite his reassurance, my body makes no signs of calming. All I can think about now is how I can prevent my next rash of stupidity. He continues. ¡°Listen, it really doesn¡¯t look like we¡¯re going to have the chance to do that climbing together after all.¡±


    My heart sinks a little, even though it¡¯s not like we had some long-standing concrete plans. ¡°I guess a fire in the gym will do that.¡±


    He can¡¯t see my rueful smile.


    ¡°I was thinking about that hike¡ª¡±


    Son of a bitch.


    ¡°¡ªbut it¡¯s supposed to rain the next few days, and I don¡¯t really want to wait that long.¡±


    Jesus, this is a roller coaster of emotions. ¡°Wait for¡­?¡±


    ¡°I was hoping maybe I could take you out for dinner sometime.¡±


    My jaw drops.


    Until now, I¡¯ve generally taken that reaction to be an overblown clich¨¦ known only to movies, but as discussed, I¡¯ve willingly entered into clich¨¦ territory. In this moment, the opening of my mouth is a completely involuntary effort. I haven¡¯t been asked out on a date in¡­well, in a very long time. I tend to keep away from social events¡ªespecially those in settings where romantic interests are a common factor. The idea of trying to get someone interested in me is a strange and unappealing thought, which is directly in opposition to my fondness of the idea of existing within a relationship. I want the comfort and the belonging of an established connection, not everything that comes before. Yet, somehow, despite my reluctance, this man is expressing an interest in me.


    I¡¯m getting ahead of myself though. Is he expressing an interest in me?


    ¡°If you¡¯re willing, of course,¡± he adds, wary of my silence.


    ¡°Oh¡ªyeah, no. Definitely!¡± I say.


    ¡°So that¡¯s a yes?¡±


    ¡°Yes! Yes, I would love to!¡±


    He breathes a sigh of relief.


    ¡°That¡¯s great,¡± he says. ¡°I wasn¡¯t sure.¡±


    He wasn¡¯t sure that I would want to go out with him sometime? This ridiculous notion is a curious sign that he might not know just how more attractive he is than me¡ªand not just in looks. Part of me¡ªthe ever-suspicious part that calls upon years and years of archival memory to inform its most skeptical opinions¡ªwonders if maybe this is a prank. After all, I can remember being that kid in high school about whom the idea of dating was a laughable offense. But I reason with myself that I don¡¯t know Milo outside of these two encounters¡ªonce on the phone and once in the gym. He works on another floor for a different company. As far as I can guess, we don¡¯t have any mutual friends. What would he possibly gain by tricking me into having dinner?


    ¡°So when¡­¡± I ask, letting the sentence hang. I¡¯d almost said ¡°would you like our date?¡±, but the word ¡°date¡± feels presumptuous and almost dirty to say aloud.


    ¡°How about Saturday evening?¡±


    ¡°Fuck,¡± I say before I can stop myself. I start to apologize, but he only laughs. ¡°Sorry. I¡¯m taking care of my niece Saturday night. How about Friday?¡±


    ¡°Ooh, can¡¯t. I¡¯m busy Friday.¡±


    Is this how we die¡ªgoing back and forth suggesting dates until one of us finally gives up?


    ¡°How about Sunday?¡± he says.


    ¡°I can do that!¡±


    ¡°Alright, Sunday it is.¡±


    I breathe a sigh of relief. Now all I have to do is wait.

 It Was A Monster Mash

    Wednesday and Thursday roll by uneventfully. Each day, I have to willfully restrain myself from marching up to the twelfth floor of the office building to demand Milo¡¯s presence¡ªif only to save some face. The discovery that he¡¯s the only thing I¡¯ve been able to think about since our encounter in the gym on Tuesday might not be appealing to the man himself. Obsession doesn¡¯t look good on anyone. We text sporadically, but I quickly learn that he¡¯s not an excellent texter. Granted, I¡¯m not sure I would be either if I had other people to text.


    Dores used to be the only one. But I can¡¯t text her anymore. Our conversation sits below my new one with Milo. I see it every time I go to respond to him. She used to send me a photo every day¡ªwhatever image best summarized how the day went. The last was a sunflower stalk bent nearly to the ground with the caption I¡¯ve never seen one that wasn¡¯t perfect before! I¡¯d written back with a joke about the flower¡¯s core strength. At the time, I¡¯d thought the picture was meant to be comical.


    It doesn¡¯t feel that way anymore.


    Milo¡¯s slow response rate doesn¡¯t bother me much. So he has a flaw¡ªif you can call it that. Everyone does. I¡¯m sure he has more that I¡¯ll discover later if given the chance. I have plenty of my own, so it¡¯s only fair that he does too. I¡¯m just hoping the rest of his are as innocuous.


    When Saturday rolls around, I almost forget that I¡¯m babysitting Mariana until Aunt Evora calls to say that they¡¯re on their way. I wonder briefly why Brian isn¡¯t the one bringing her over, but I¡¯m sure I¡¯ll get the full story when they arrive. Brian¡¯s probably having to pull a heavier workload now that Dores is gone. It¡¯s good that Aunt Evora is so readily available to help out. She can be forceful with her opinions, but Brian is probably grateful for her presence. No doubt she also enjoys feeling needed, given how long she¡¯s been living on her own.


    They arrive around four, Aunt Evora with her auburn-dyed perm pulled back into a beret and Louis Vuitton bag slung over one shoulder. Mariana trails behind her wearing a Vickie Dancer backpack and a matching sweater. I wonder if she¡¯s going to demand we watch an episode while she¡¯s here. I¡¯ve never seen a single frame of the cartoon, and wouldn¡¯t have even recognized the character were it not for the yellow bubble letters across the top.


    When I answer the door, Mariana gives me the biggest smile.


    ¡°Hi, Uncle Felix,¡± she says. She tries to pull away from my aunt, who tightens her grip on the girl¡¯s hand.


    ¡°Hey, hey! Look who¡¯s here! We¡¯re going to have a lot of fun!¡± I say enthusiastically, which only makes Mariana pull harder.


    ¡°Remember what I said.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Auntie,¡± I reply, trying my best not to roll my eyes.


    ¡°Rosary before bed¡ªyou don¡¯t want to compromise her soul.¡±


    Compromise her soul. I don¡¯t understand how the fuck someone can say that unironically, unless they¡¯re in a horror movie or something, of course. I would laugh, but I know that if I do, I¡¯ll be in trouble.


    ¡°Don¡¯t let her see any¡­you know, well, she¡¯s only six,¡± Aunt Evora says, letting go of the girl¡¯s hand. Mariana darts into the condo, disappearing into the folds of my home. I might have been distracted by her movements were it not for my aunt¡¯s latest accusation.


    ¡°What do you mean by that?¡±


    ¡°I mean she¡¯s only six. Don¡¯t expose her to that sort of thing.¡±


    There¡¯s a burst of anger within me before I feel my heart sink in my chest, a weary sadness settling inside my ribcage. ¡°I¡¯m not going to ¡®expose¡¯ her to anything,¡± I say softly.


    ¡°So you¡¯ve hidden any pictures?¡±


    Does she think I just have images of naked men engaging in lewd acts around my home? Does she think the mark of homosexuality is to submerge myself in a constant stream of male hedonism? I would be indignant if my innate shame hadn¡¯t taken over. I want to argue, but there¡¯s no use. I wouldn¡¯t be able to change her mind. Instead, that this is her instinctual question makes me sad.


    ¡°Why would you bring her here if you¡¯re concerned about what I¡¯ll expose her to?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not concerned,¡± Evora says, backtracking a little. Perhaps she realizes she¡¯s said something insulting, but that might be giving her too much credit. ¡°I just want to make sure.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing inappropriate,¡± I say, not that an image of me happy or kissing another man should be deemed inappropriate. As it is, there are no such pictures. Aunt Evora has nothing to be worried about.


    ¡°Good. I¡¯ll collect her from you at church tomorrow.¡±


    ¡°Sounds good,¡± I mutter.


    ¡°I love you,¡± my aunt says, then calls through the open doorway. ¡°Have fun, Mariana!¡±


    ¡°Bye bye, Auntie!¡± returns the childish voice.


    ¡°Don¡¯t stay up late,¡± Aunt Evora says with a wide smile, then turns on her heel to leave. I watch her go, combing my mind for any possibly compromising pieces I might have overlooked in my home while chastising myself for giving credence to such a presumptuous issue. As if gay art is inherently bad for children. I can admit provocative imagery might be inappropriate for a six-year-old, but I don¡¯t have any of that. Especially not on display. Even in my private residence that would mortify me.


    I go inside.


    Mariana waits in the center of the living room, staring expectantly as I enter. If I didn¡¯t know any better, I¡¯d say that smile was hiding something.


    ¡°What are you smirking about?¡± I say.


    ¡°I¡¯m not smirking, Uncle Felix,¡± Mariana replies, putting her hands on her hips. ¡°Let¡¯s play. Do you have any toys?¡±


    ¡°Uh¡­not really.¡± Shit. I knew this request would come up. I legitimately don¡¯t own anything for her to play with¡ªI knew that going into this scenario¡ªbut now that we¡¯re actually here, I¡¯m feeling woefully inadequate. ¡°Auntie Evora said you would be bringing toys.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t bring too many,¡± she says, sitting down right on the spot. ¡°I brought Vickie and Tina, but that¡¯s it.¡±


    ¡°Vickie and Tina? Huh.¡± I¡¯m not the biggest fan of playing dolls. Never have been. When we were kids, Dores would sometimes ask me to play Barbies with her, but I generally turned her down. Plus, I knew if I ever did get caught playing dolls with her, I¡¯d get the belt from our father. Now that I think about it, I can¡¯t remember playing with any toys. I mostly read or played videogames as a kid.


    ¡°Yeah, Vickie dances at a ballet studio and Tina works in a pet store, but they¡¯re best friends,¡± Mariana explains. Wow. Vickie Dancer is a dancer? The name creativity is astounding. I¡¯m really out of my element.


    ¡°I have some games,¡± I suggest in lieu of dolls. Mariana lifts her gaze to meet mine, one eyebrow cocked as if I can¡¯t possibly have a game she¡¯d be interested in playing. Some six-year-olds have all the attitude. ¡°I¡¯ve got checkers¡ªhave you ever played checkers?¡±


    ¡°Is that the one with the squares?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°My dad played that with me before. It¡¯s boring.¡± Well, la-di-da.


    ¡°We could watch a movie. I have DisneyAll.¡± At this she perks up, probably because I know Dores and Brian liked to restrict her screen time. I know this is a bit of a cop-out because I don¡¯t want to play Vickie and Tina with her, but it¡¯s not like I plan to watch movies the whole night. We¡¯ll just watch until I can convince her to do something else. I know I¡¯ve got a deck of cards somewhere¡ªkids love Go Fish. Or at least, I know I did.


    ¡°Let¡¯s do that,¡± she says, turning around to face the television.


    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you move to the couch?¡±


    ¡°The floor is better.¡±


    ¡°But you¡¯re too close to the television.¡± Yeah, I¡¯m the fun uncle. ¡°Come on. Up here.¡±


    Reluctantly, she climbs onto the appropriate furniture.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to get the oven going,¡± I say. ¡°For pizza.¡±


    ¡°Pizza!¡± I¡¯m in the green now. Every kid likes pizza, and I know she doesn¡¯t get a lot of it. Hey, I¡¯m only in charge of her for one night, and I¡¯m her only uncle¡ªit¡¯s expected that I spoil her a bit. Even if I don¡¯t have any toys for her to play with.


    ¡°Now what movie should I put on?¡±


    ~


    Two musical adventures, a pepperoni pizza, and twelve games of Go Fish later, it¡¯s time for bed. I take Mariana upstairs and get her to lay out her toiletries in my bathroom. I¡¯m not sure how this part goes, having never spent the night at her house before. I look at the tiny Vickie Dancer toothbrush and the similarly themed tube of toothpaste for a long, questioning moment before locking eyes with my niece.


    ¡°So, do you know how to¡­?¡±


    She rolls her eyes. ¡°Yes, Uncle Felix, I can brush my teeth. I¡¯m not a baby.¡±


    I laugh, shocked by her indignance. Hell, I don¡¯t remember much from that age, but I do know I thought I was grown at six. ¡°Alright, then, get to brushing,¡± I say.


    She squirts a glob onto the bristles, humming some song from her favorite TV show. While she¡¯s taking care of her dental hygiene, I go into my bedroom and grab some spare blankets from my closet. I know from waking up in the middle of the night on my couch how cold it can get downstairs. So I¡¯m taking no chances. There are no spare pillows, I¡¯m afraid, but I can use one from the sofa. By the time I¡¯ve taken the blankets to the living room and returned, she¡¯s finished.


    ¡°Uncle Felix?¡± she asks, staring at the portraits in the hallway outside my bedroom. Dammit, there¡¯s one of Dores hanging there. I didn¡¯t think to cover anything up or take them down. Is seeing her mom going to upset her? Death is an uncomfortable topic among adults; I don¡¯t know what any of the rules are regarding children. I don¡¯t know how much Brian or Evora have talked to her about it¡ªabout the fact that her mother¡¯s never coming home. I don¡¯t know how she¡¯s been taking her mother¡¯s absence either.


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°How come you don¡¯t have a wife?¡±


    The question momentarily stuns me. I¡¯m not sure how to answer, torn between the truth and¡ªwell, anything else. Given that she¡¯s young, I don¡¯t believe she means the question maliciously at all, but it¡¯s not something I¡¯m prepared to answer.


    ¡°I¡ªwell¡­¡±


    ¡°Is it because you¡¯re a gay?¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what Auntie Evora says.¡±


    ¡°What does she say, exactly?¡± I can feel my heart sinking, that familiar mixture of frustration and hurt creeping into my bloodstream.


    ¡°That you¡¯re not supposed to get married because you¡¯re a gay. God doesn¡¯t like that.¡±


    I swallow, my mind buzzing. Clearly, Aunt Evora has gone to work on this child, implanting her archaic, bigoted ideas into Mariana¡¯s brain. Had Dores known? Or is this a recent development now that she¡¯s been spending more time with the girl?


    ¡°But she says if you try harder, you could stop and get a wife. Then you won¡¯t be so alone.¡± All the fucked-up things that woman has taught this girl. Without realizing the turmoil she¡¯s putting me through, Mariana walks past me and climbs into my bed, grabbing her Vickie Dancer doll from her backpack as she goes. She spends a moment playing with the doll¡¯s hair, combing back the comically stiff strands with her bare fingers. ¡°Why don¡¯t you just stop, then? It doesn¡¯t feel good to be lonely.¡±


    I breathe deeply, reminding myself that it¡¯s not my niece¡¯s fault. She doesn¡¯t know what she¡¯s saying¡ªshe can only repeat the words of ignorant adults. Giving myself time to think, I walk over to the bed and sit on the corner by her feet.


    ¡°Mariana,¡± I begin, ¡°do you know what ¡®gay¡¯ means?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a sin,¡± she says.


    ¡°But do you know what it means?¡±


    She shakes her head. Typical. Tell the girl it¡¯s wrong without even explaining to her what you¡¯re talking about.


    ¡°Well,¡± I say, ¡°it¡¯s when a boy likes another boy.¡±


    Mariana scrunches her nose. ¡°Ew, that¡¯s gross.¡±


    I inhale to respond, but she continues, cutting me off. ¡°Boys are icky.¡±


    I let out a relieved laugh. ¡°I agree with you on that one,¡± I say, patting her feet through the blankets.


    ¡°Then why do you like them?¡± she asks.


    I shrug. ¡°The heart wants what the heart wants.¡±


    ¡°So that¡¯s a sin?¡±


    I sigh again, wondering how I¡¯ve wound up teaching my niece life lessons about tolerance. The fear of inadequate playtime had made me nervous, but that has much less of an effect on her moral fiber than this conversation. ¡°Look, some people, like Aunt Evora¡ªthey like to cling to ideas from the past. A long time ago, we used to think being gay was bad, but most people know now that it¡¯s normal. Gay people can get married, just not in the church.¡±


    ¡°So she¡¯s lying?¡±


    Jesus fucking Christ, this girl is hitting the heavy topics. Part of me wishes we¡¯d kept watching movies until she fell asleep.


    ¡°Well, no¡ªshe¡¯s not lying,¡± I say, careful to choose my words wisely. Anything I say to her might get repeated to someone else¡ªthat someone could easily be Aunt Evora. ¡°She believes that being gay is bad, but she just doesn¡¯t realize that she¡¯s wrong.¡±


    ¡°Someone should tell her then. I like you¡ªI don¡¯t think you¡¯re bad, even if you are a gay.¡±


    This makes me laugh. ¡°If only it were so easy.¡±


    Mariana looks pensively at the doll in her hands. The vacant smile on the painted face is supposed to be welcoming, but I find it somewhat creepy. The lifelessness of the eyes gives the illusion that Vickie is simply putting on an emotional display¡ªor perhaps I¡¯m reading too far into the expression of an inexpensive, mass-produced plaything.


    ¡°Good night,¡± I say. I lean forward and kiss her forehead, then reach to turn off the lamp.


    ¡°Wait!¡± she says. ¡°Can you leave that on for a bit? Daddy usually lets me play in bed before sleeping.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure?¡± I ask, skeptical that this is an actual parenting technique.


    ¡°Yeah, it¡¯s true. Every night for five whole minutes.¡±


    Now I know she¡¯s trying to pull a fast one. I laugh.


    ¡°Oh, yeah? Well, I guess if your daddy lets you,¡± I say, withdrawing my arm. We¡¯ve bent a few rules thus far this evening; I can let her bend one more. As I stand, I realize that I¡¯ve also conveniently forgotten to find my rosary¡ªtwo rules, then. In the morning, I¡¯ll have to request that we keep this missing detail to ourselves lest we incur the wrath of Auntie. Part of me says I should just get it now to avoid any possible admonishments tomorrow, but the majority of me doesn¡¯t want to put in the effort. I don¡¯t want to say the rosary, and I¡¯m pretty sure Mariana¡¯s not too worried about it either.


    I leave the room to the sound of my niece talking to her Vickie doll. When does that behavior go from normal kid stuff to batshit crazy? Because she¡¯s only six, I know she¡¯s got a few more years before she crosses that threshold, but I can¡¯t decide when the transition occurs. When they stop playing? And why, exactly? I mean, I get that most people agree to stop talking to their toys at some point. But is it because we lose our imaginations or because we realize what a waste of time it is to pretend something inanimate has life?


    In the bathroom, I grab my own toothbrush out of the medicine cabinet.


    ¡°I don¡¯t want you to be alone,¡± Mariana says to me from the bedroom. The warring sides of my heart melt a bit.


    ¡°Thanks. I don¡¯t want to be either.¡± And perhaps I won¡¯t¡ªnot if my date with Milo goes well tomorrow. My stomach does a little flip. I have a date tomorrow with another man.


    ¡°What are you doing?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m brushing my teeth,¡± I explain. Well, I will be once she stops asking me questions.


    ¡°That¡¯s a funny thing to do.¡±


    I¡¯ve met plenty of strange adults in my time, but kids are a special type of strange. I laugh a bit, rolling my eyes. ¡°Mariana, you were just in here doing the same thing. We all have to brush our teeth unless you want a bad visit to the dentist.¡±


    ¡°My dad is bigger than you.¡±


    I frown, staring blankly into the eyes of my reflection as I listen to her speak. ¡°I¡­uh¡ªhe is, but what does that have to do with¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d like it if you stopped doing that.¡± There¡¯s fear in her voice now.


    ¡°Doing what? Brushing my teeth? Mariana, I¡ª¡±


    ¡°Please, stop.¡±


    ¡°I have to brush my teeth.¡±


    ¡°My uncle Felix won¡¯t like you touching his things.¡±


    It feels like someone¡¯s punched me in the gut. I set my toothbrush down on the edge of the sink and creep over to the doorway. From here, I have a partial view into my room¡ªdarkness combated by weak yellow lighting. I can see the shadow of Mariana¡¯s shoulder cast against my bookshelves. She¡¯s completely still, the only time she¡¯s been still since arriving at my condo. I can¡¯t see anyone else in the room with her. Trying my best not to make a sound, I tiptoe toward the open door.


    ¡°Please, don¡¯t do that,¡± she whimpers.


    I¡¯m almost to my room, hand outstretched, reaching for the doorframe. How the fuck could an intruder get in here without me noticing? They would¡¯ve had to break a window, or the lock on the front door. How in the fucking hell¡ªmy heart seems to be making up for lost beats, thrumming against the inside of my ribcage. I¡¯m not prepared to take anybody on. If I can surprise the fucker, maybe I¡¯ll have a chance. Maybe I can jump on them. I don¡¯t know. The odds aren¡¯t great, but it¡¯ll be better than announcing myself.


    I hold my breath.


    ¡°Please¡ªNO!¡±


    She screams and I throw myself into the room.


    For a moment, wild shadows dart along the walls. Mariana¡¯s frightened screech fills my ears as I search wide-eyed for the intruder. In the corner opposite me a book continues its descent to the ground, clattering to the floor.


    Then everything stills.


    Nobody¡¯s there.


    Mariana is crying beside me, her face scrunched up in terror, Vickie doll clutched to her chest. The sight of her is alarming, but I can¡¯t rush to her side. Not yet. Not until I¡¯m certain that we¡¯re alone.


    Which we appear to be.


    ¡°What happened?¡± I ask my niece, still combing the room with my eyes in case I missed something. Bookcases shoved against the walls, an IKEA dresser with the top drawer half open like always, a painting of a stormy harbor Dores once gave me. The closet door is open, but it usually is. Still, I peek around at the inside. No feet, so unless the intruder is hanging from the bar, it¡¯s empty.


    My heart begins to slow, even though I¡¯m left with a sobbing six-year-old.


    ¡°Mariana, what happened?¡± I repeat.


    She doesn¡¯t seem to be able to respond, now hiccupping in addition to her tears. I sit on the edge of the bed.


    ¡°Was there someone in here?¡±


    I inconspicuously eye the book on the floor as I take my seat. She couldn¡¯t have possibly knocked it over¡ªI would¡¯ve seen. I was in the room when it fell¡ªshe wouldn¡¯t have had time to rush back under the covers. Or perhaps she threw something? Is this all an odd, childish game? Unlikely. Not with the way she¡¯s carrying on. Confused, I look back at her. Though her face is still scrunched and upset, she¡¯s calmed enough to wipe at the tears on her cheeks.


    ¡°Was someone in here with you?¡± I ask. ¡°A man?¡±


    She shakes her head, lower lip protruding.


    ¡°No,¡± she says, ¡°it was a monster.¡±

 Muscling Memory

    I¡¯ve never understood why the bells in the tower bring me comfort. Perhaps they remind me of an easier time¡ªa time when the most pressing issue in my arsenal was having to suffer through an hour of mass while wearing a bowtie. My parents were all about donning your Sunday best when it came to The Lord. That meant slacks, blazer, button-up, the whole nine yards. Which was torturous as a pre-adolescent. The issues that plague a youthful mind seem abhorrent in the moment¡ªwe can¡¯t fathom that things can be worse. I¡¯m a firm believer that sadness never leaves us, but neither does happiness. They compound, additions to either side tipping the scale so that we are more of one or the other at any given moment. Wearing that bowtie is still down at the bottom of that bucket somewhere, but it¡¯s buried underneath death and disappointments and loneliness.


    As I travel along the sidewalk with my niece, I¡¯m reminded of this. We haven¡¯t spoken much about last night¡¯s incident. She took some coaxing, but after I sat with her for a few minutes, she fell right asleep¡ªyouthful minds might not forget trauma, but in some ways they¡¯re better at temporarily coping with it. I didn¡¯t sleep worth shit, tossing and turning on the couch downstairs and angry as hell with myself for being so awake. After all, I hadn¡¯t seen anything, but Mariana¡¯s reaction had been enough to spook me.


    She turns to me now, hand yanking mine to get attention, and says, ¡°Do you think it¡¯s because of Mommy?¡±


    I snap out of my bell-filled train of thought. ¡°Do I think what was because of your mommy?¡±


    ¡°The monster last night.¡±


    ¡°Why would you say that?¡±


    ¡°Things happen, but only since Mommy died.¡±


    I pause, looking between the tiny girl holding my hand and the church maybe a quarter mile ahead of us. We¡¯ll be late, probably, which won¡¯t make Aunt Evora very happy, but I think some things are more important than being punctual.


    ¡°Have you seen the monster before?¡± I ask, squatting down so that we¡¯re at eye level. She avoids my gaze.


    ¡°No,¡± she says. ¡°But the night after Mommy died, Daddy was looking at old pictures, so I did too. And I thought something was watching me, only I couldn¡¯t see it.¡±


    ¡°I see. That doesn¡¯t sound very nice.¡±


    She shakes her head, mouth a thin, straight line.


    I try my best to sound confident and understanding. ¡°Sometimes, when we¡¯re at our most vulnerable, we imagine things¡ªour fears come to life. Your mommy would¡¯ve never sent anything to scare or harm you. I know that for a fact, so you should believe it too. She loved you more than the whole wide world.¡±


    Mariana nods, crossing her arms, though it looks more like she¡¯s hugging herself for comfort. ¡°I miss her a lot,¡± she says, looking like she might start crying.


    ¡°I know you do,¡± I whisper. ¡°I miss her too.¡±


    ¡°She wouldn¡¯t have let the monster near me.¡±


    ¡°You bet.¡±


    ¡°Daddy says she could see them too¡ªbecause of her disease.¡±


    So that¡¯s what this is about. I close my eyes, letting my head fall just a little bit. The world can be such a fucked-up place. Especially for a little kid. We try to spare children the worst of it, but the universe doesn¡¯t care about age. Maybe it¡¯s because the world is so ancient; the difference between a newborn and a hundred-year-old is indistinguishable.


    ¡°Your mommy had a shitty disease, yes,¡± I say, trying to keep myself from crying now. All I can see in my head is a vision of Dores, smiling and carefree like I remember her. No signs whatsoever that she was suffering. ¡°But that doesn¡¯t mean you do too. It doesn¡¯t always work that way. It might¡­it might just be that all the scary monsters are up here.¡± I tap my temple with my index finger.


    Then I stand. The bells have stopped ringing.


    ¡°Come on,¡± I say, holding out my hand for her to take. She¡¯s hesitant at first, but after a few seconds she relents. Her fingers are so small, her palm a fraction of the size of my own. And yet her words carry so much weight on my heart. She¡¯s too young to become this familiar with grief. I know that¡¯s just a matter of opinion, but damn if it isn¡¯t true.


    ~


    All throughout the mass, I can¡¯t stop seeing Dores¡¯ coffin positioned beneath the hanging statue of the crucifixion. When I take my usual seat in the back, a flustered Aunt Evora grabs Mariana and brings her forward to sit between her and Brian in one of the front pews. The services run their course. I sit, stand, sit, stand, kneel, and mutter the recitations in unison with the other churchgoers. In the end, the priest recedes down the aisle, and Evora returns to ask me why we were late. No excuse will be good enough, I¡¯m sure, so I mumble a brief apology. Brian invites me to breakfast at his house, but I politely decline. I need some time on my own.


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    My feet carry me to William Land Park, where the verdant fields stand in stark contrast to the barren trees. This late in the season, the sky retains a colorless palette like wet cement. Since the funeral, I can¡¯t step inside that church without images of her coffin displayed before the altar. I came here to find relief, but now that Dores is on my mind I¡¯m finding that everywhere carries remnants of her. I suppose that¡¯s the disadvantage of having lived so close together. There are benches where we used to congregate for lunch some weekends. The pond we always joked was filled with more goose shit than water. The softball field where I¡¯d been forced to watch her work team lose on Saturdays. Funny, I wandered through this park hundreds of times without these intruding memories, and now that I¡¯m purposely trying to find peace, the memories are inescapable.


    I allow myself to wade through the recollections for a few more minutes, but then seeing my sister¡¯s face in every corner of the park begins to frustrate me. It¡¯s just a park. It never belonged to us. I don¡¯t want to start tearing out holes in my world map with all the places I can¡¯t go because her memory is too strong.


    But then again, I suppose it¡¯s been less than two weeks. Everything is still fresh.


    Daddy says she could see them too.


    I stare into the foliage, wondering if I¡¯ll see Mariana¡¯s monster come waltzing out. The idea is ridiculous, but as I stand there on my own on this overcast Sunday morning, I begin to feel a chill run down my spine¡ªalong with the sensation of eyes upon me. Nothing is coming out onto the path, but that doesn¡¯t mean there¡¯s nothing there. Not a monster, of course, but the eyes could belong to an animal. Or a person.


    Great, now I¡¯m being paranoid.


    Did Dores have the same fears? She had Lacrimosus¡ªshe had just cause to be afraid, as far as I know. How could she hide it so well?


    How could she hide it from me so well?


    I suppose maybe, in the end, we weren¡¯t as different as I¡¯d thought. She always seemed to play fast and loose with her emotions, willing and able to unload emotional heft with anyone close by. That¡¯s what made her so fun to be around: she wasn¡¯t afraid to be vulnerable. I, on the other hand, wouldn¡¯t tell someone I was dying even if they were standing on my fucking grave.


    Okay, maybe that comparison was a little too close to home.


    My phone vibrates in my pocket. Eager for distraction, I draw it out to see who¡¯s contacted me. The screen lights up, and I can see the preview of an urgent-looking text from Felicia.


    I need your selections for next issue.


    So much for having ¡°all the time I need.¡± Although, to be fair, she¡¯s just doing what I asked her to do since I told her I didn¡¯t want to take any time off. ¡°Don¡¯t say what you don¡¯t mean¡± is her philosophy. A part of me is glad to have been yanked from a spiral of memories. The task-oriented mind is best kept occupied.


    I head for home, wanting to get the request done as soon as possible.


    ~


    Somewhere in the shuffle, I¡¯ve even managed to forget about my date tonight.


    My phone buzzes again and I fly across the living room to see who it is, welcoming the distracting glow of the notification. Shout out to my phone for being the only thing that consistently lights up when I touch it.


    The orange dialogue bubble portrays Milo¡¯s intentions to pick me up at six. Of all the minutiae that goes into the selection of a perfectly matched mate, I¡¯m glad that he hasn¡¯t decided to fetch me later. I have never in my life chosen to eat dinner later than seven in the evening, and I will never choose to do so. Men who flaunt reservations at eight or later are an instant source of suspicion. Not that I have experience with any of those. I¡¯m basing this purely off of my own eating habits.


    I spend about three hours in front of the mirror, wondering if I¡¯m spending far too much time deciding what to wear. Half of me wishes I had someone to bounce outfits off of, while the other half is grateful to have no audience during this arduous period of turmoil. By five thirty, I¡¯m ready to call the whole shitty ordeal off¡ªfiguring a worthy ensemble is not worth the effort of a date. But by five minutes to six, I¡¯ve settled on the most mundane, inoffensive number I could¡¯ve conjured¡ªwhich is perhaps most representative of my state of existence. I¡¯m wearing a solid black button-up over tastefully fitted jeans. I only have one coat, so that¡¯ll have to do. Wow, if he isn¡¯t getting a taste of my personality.


    At approximately 6:08, the bell rings and Mr. Reid awaits at my door. My heart immediately starts flipping like a rabbit gymnast ingesting caffeine for the first time. I¡¯m simultaneously the most excited I¡¯ve ever been and feeling the urge to vomit all over my doormat. Since that would fuck up his fly-ass adidas, I do my best not to follow through on this urge.


    Milo smiles sheepishly at me, a crooked grin that wrinkles his forehead, and I almost slam the door in his face. If this is how difficult it¡¯s going to be to get through the night without creaming my pants, then I don¡¯t think I can make it. Making small talk at the gym or over the phone was one thing; having him collect me for a bona fide date is another.


    Stop being a cunt waffle.


    ¡°Glad I picked the right house,¡± he says. ¡°I couldn¡¯t tell if your number was on the left or the right.¡±


    A common conundrum for first-time visitors, which usually means pizza delivery guys, Chinese food delivery guys, ramen delivery guys¡ªyou get the picture.


    ¡°You¡¯re right!¡± Who said I don¡¯t have a way with words?


    ¡°You look nice,¡± he says, taking in my appearance. I run my eyes over his sweatered torso, admiring the shape of his chest for a moment longer than is necessary. He must do some lifting in addition to the basketball. Unless you can also get that shape from climbing. Damn, if only we¡¯d had the chance to climb together.


    Stop gawking.


    ¡°Should we¡­uh, go?¡± he asks, chuckling.


    ¡°Yeah, sorry¡ªuhm. You look great! I¡ªYes, I¡¯m ready.¡±


    It¡¯s going to be a long date.

 Semis and Snowmen

    As my cheeks flush, I grab my keys, shove on my coat, and follow him to his car. His blue Jetta is parked beneath the streetlamp at the end of my empty driveway. I get in, not sure where we¡¯re headed, or to what type of cuisine¡ªI guess some questions slipped my mind¡ªbut I¡¯m prepared to participate nonetheless. He drives us to a restaurant called Namaste Nepal, with music I don¡¯t recognize playing in the background the whole way. I wonder if this has all been a mistake. Conversation stalls, mostly due to my error, and our awkward silences are instead filled with nervous laughter. By the time we reach our destination, Milo seems almost glad for an excuse to get out of the vehicle.


    Good fucking going. The thought twists my stomach. This was a bad idea. I should¡¯ve known better than to think I could go on a date with someone as beautiful as Milo Reid. It was a miracle we got to this moment in the first place, but all I¡¯ve done is position myself for embarrassment. I should¡¯ve seen this coming. I should¡¯ve known better. Maybe if I make an excuse now, he¡¯ll drive me home. I could even take a Lyft if he¡¯d rather not get back in the car with me.


    ¡°May I?¡± he asks, and I look up to see him holding out his arm.


    Ask him to take you home.


    ¡°Of course,¡± I say, and slip my hand into his elbow. The simple gesture melts my insides.


    As luck would have it, though, we are doomed to face yet another obstacle in our rocky adventure. The wait time is forty minutes for a table¡ªwhich puts me dangerously close to my no-meals-after-seven rule. I can overlook this given it wasn¡¯t Mr. Reid¡¯s intention, but I¡¯m beginning to wonder if fate would rather Milo and I not end up together.


    Call it quits now.


    After putting our name on the list, Milo wanders back outside to me. I stare at the ground, summoning the wherewithal to have him cancel. This isn¡¯t right. More and more things are just going to keep going wrong. And the longer this goes on, the more disappointed I¡¯ll be when it doesn¡¯t work out.


    ¡°Well,¡± he says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his peacoat. ¡°I royally fucked that one up, didn¡¯t I? Thought I could wing it without a reservation.¡±


    I give an appreciative smile. ¡°Who knew Sundays were so popular?¡±


    ¡°I suppose every night¡¯s popular in a city.¡± He leans against the wall beside me. ¡°It¡¯s getting colder.¡±


    He wants to go home too.


    Milo smiles conspiratorially and wraps an arm around my shoulders. ¡°It¡¯s a good excuse for us to get closer.¡±


    And with that simple gesture, he improves my mood tenfold. My skin tingles, even though there are several layers of clothing between us¡ªhow am I getting a semi-erection from the barest of contact? I dare to lean into him just a little bit, savoring the fact that he wants to be close to me.


    ¡°Was this your plan all along?¡± I ask. ¡°Pick a busy restaurant so I¡¯d be forced to wait outside, relying on you for warmth?¡±


    ¡°Damn, I was hoping you weren¡¯t clever enough to figure that out.¡±


    ¡°If you were looking for tall, hot, and stupid, you might be barking up the wrong tree.¡±


    ¡°At least you¡¯re one of those three.¡±


    ¡°Let me guess, tall?¡±


    I love the sound of his laugh, loud and carefree. It makes me feel like I¡¯ve done something special for him, like I¡¯ve personally made his day a little brighter. Standing there laughing with his arm around me, I can¡¯t help but join in. If I were a bystander watching us be so unabashedly saccharine, I¡¯d probably projectile vomit all over us.


    He takes my arm and pulls me away from the building. We comb the surrounding downtown area for Christmas lights. There aren¡¯t many, but a few businesses have put in serious effort to add festivity to their atmosphere. A vintage junk store at the end of the block even has a snowy landscape painted on their windows complete with chubby snowmen and a pine forest. It takes a few minutes, but the cynical voice in my head retreats to the background as I let Milo lead me from one block to another. By the time we find ourselves back at Namaste Nepal, my cheeks are pinched with cold, but I am thoroughly enjoying myself.


    The moment we step through the doorway, however, I¡¯m hyperaware of all the eyes around us. Diners crowd the long room, chatting quietly beneath the numerous colorful lanterns. Anytime a pair glances at us, I feel the instinctual urge to pull my hand away. Realistically, none of them care¡ªand I repeat this belief to myself¡ªbut certain mentalities have been etched into my skull and cannot be erased.


    ¡°You, uh¡­don¡¯t go out very often, do you?¡± Milo asks after the host seats us.


    ¡°Is it that obvious?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re just a bit jumpy.¡±


    It would appear I¡¯m also a bit conspicuous.


    Trying to dodge having to answer, I ask, ¡°Do you?¡±


    ¡°Do I what?¡±


    ¡°Go out very often.¡±


    Milo laughs. ¡°Not a ton. No.¡±


    A tragedy, given how attractive I find him.


    He clears his throat. ¡°Actually, it¡¯s been a while. I was in a serious relationship that had a messy end, unfortunately¡ªand I needed a long break afterward. It was¡ªwell, let¡¯s just say we broke up more times than we got back together, and that¡¯s that.¡±


    If he needed as long of a break as he said he did, I¡¯m surprised to hear him sound so jovial about it now. I wonder exactly what happened? But even I know it¡¯s too soon for a question that personal. Another part of me is also secretly flattered that¡ªif he¡¯s telling the truth, which I¡¯m willing to believe he is¡ªI was somehow the one to end his single streak.


    A waitress comes by to pour us water. When she leaves, I raise my glass toward him. ¡°Well, then here¡¯s to leaving the past behind.¡±


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    He tilts his glass my way and we clink above the candle on the table. ¡°Amen to that.¡±


    Amen.


    Not everyone who says ¡°amen¡± is religious¡ªand not everyone who¡¯s religious is Aunt Evora. I mentally shake myself. God, I need to stop getting hung up on such minutiae. That¡¯s the type of shit that¡¯ll drive him away.


    ¡°So,¡± he says after downing the entirety of his ice water. Thirsty fucker. ¡°You work for Corner House, right?¡±


    ¡°How¡¯d you figure that out?¡± I ask.


    ¡°I might have seen which floor you went to Friday.¡±


    ¡°Ah, so you stalked me?¡± Glad to know I¡¯m not the only one. My heart flutters again.


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t say ¡®stalking¡¯ so much as ¡®showing interest.¡¯¡±


    ¡°Right. Well, your interests are correct.¡±


    ¡°How did you get into that?¡±


    How much time do we have? Already, I¡¯m mentally paring down the details to a story length that feels manageable¡ªsomething that gives enough substance to satisfy his question without overstaying its welcome. I know I¡¯m more than capable of going on long enough for him to lose interest.


    ¡°Truth be told, I started out wanting to be a big bad literary agent, but I found that I lacked some of the necessary skills for that job. Namely, the ability to network. There were a lot of twists and turns along the way, but I wound up at Corner House.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    The waitress brings us our drinks; we¡¯ve both ordered sodas. Seeing as I¡¯ve never been here before, I ask for a few more minutes to decide on my meal. Smiling graciously, the waitress leaves again and I open my menu for the first time. Milo continues. ¡°There was a brief¡ªbrief¡ªmoment in time when I thought about writing a novel myself.¡±


    ¡°Oh? Why didn¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Well, I started, but the process became too daunting after a while. I was afraid. I couldn¡¯t figure out where it was going, and that frustrated me.¡±


    ¡°So you gave up?¡± I ask with what I hope is a wry smile.


    ¡°I¡¯m very good at immediacy,¡± he says.


    I shrug. ¡°It¡¯s probably for the best.¡±


    Milo bursts into laughter.


    ¡°Wow,¡± he says, ¡°I guess you¡¯re not the type for positivity.¡±


    ¡°What? I¡¯m just being honest!¡±


    ¡°How so?¡±


    ¡°It sort of comes with the line of work,¡± I say. ¡°If you saw the number of rejections I send¡ªI beg most people not to fall in love with writing. She seldom loves back.¡±


    He crosses his arms, sitting back to observe me with a silent smile. What I wouldn¡¯t give to have him always look at me that way: every morning, every time I sit down to eat, anytime we might go for a walk¡ªI know I¡¯m getting ahead of myself. That sort of thing takes time. Certainly more than one date. But it¡¯s the sort of thing I can¡¯t help thinking. Nobody has ever looked at me the way he does now¡ªaffectionate, desiring, wholly content. It¡¯s humbling and empowering at the same time.


    And almost immediately, I feel a sense of loss. I don¡¯t know why or what brings it on, but it spreads inside me like doves released from a cage¡ªflying up through my esophagus into my mouth and my sinuses and my brain. This won¡¯t last. That¡¯s what I¡¯m telling myself, I realize. Something will come between this feeling and my hopes. Whether it¡¯s him losing interest once the immediacy is over or me discovering some part of him that I don¡¯t like¡ªhowever unlikely that might seem right now. But there will be that intangible something.


    Why am I doing this to myself? It¡¯s torture.


    I am used to hearing voices in my head. Not the result of mental illness, I don¡¯t think, but manifestations of my warring thoughts. The voices all sound like me, and that¡¯s how I¡¯ve convinced myself I don¡¯t need to seek help.


    Sometimes, one will ask, Are you ever going to be happy?


    And sometimes another voice responds, Why do you think you deserve to be?


    ¡°Are you ready to order?¡± the waitress asks. She¡¯s standing right beside me.


    Shaken from my opaque fog of internalized woe, I look down at my menu. ¡°Yeah, I¡ªUh, I¡¯ll have this,¡± I say, pointing to the first item I see: a chicken vindaloo dish.


    ¡°Excellent, that¡¯s a great choice,¡± she assures me, then turns to Milo.


    I¡¯m still reeling from the chasmic feeling in my stomach that¡¯s continued for far longer than usual when my phone buzzes from inside my pocket. As Milo orders, I pull the device out and check the notifications.


    It¡¯s a text from Felicia.


    Where the hell are those recommendations?


    I guess her well of sympathy has officially dried the fuck up. More concerning, though, is that there¡¯s clearly been some miscommunication here.


    I thought I sent them to your email, I respond, a frown creasing my brow. They should be in her inbox. She¡¯s never had trouble receiving my emails before.


    I open my mail app to check my sent messages.


    Nothing there, Macuja.


    My stomach drops as I feel my face growing hot.


    ¡°Is everything okay?¡± Milo asks once the waitress leaves again.


    ¡°Shit. Yeah, I¡¯m sorry, just give me a sec,¡± I say, scrolling through my outgoing mail though I know that if what I¡¯m looking for is there, I would¡¯ve seen it by now. As time goes on and I start my search over several more times, the horrific realization begins to set in. I never sent her my picks for next issue. How is that possible? I know I did it¡ªor at the very least I intended to.


    ¡°Felix?¡±


    ¡°I need a minute.¡±


    I specifically left the park with the intent to go home and mail Felicia my selections. I remember that for a fact, because it was the last time she¡¯d texted me. I¡¯d gone straight home, hadn¡¯t I? And I¡¯d¡ªI¡¯d¡ª


    Memory fails me. I can¡¯t actually place sending the email, or making my picks, or even getting home, for that matter. But how can that be? That was today. Today. Mere hours ago. I know memory can be spotty, but even then, I should have some recollection from this afternoon. Something to pinpoint what I¡¯d done between deciding to leave the park and choosing my outfit for tonight¡¯s date.


    The date. Fuck.


    I look up at Milo, who¡¯s watching me with concern. The room is spinning now, and I can feel perspiration clinging to my upper lip. Can he see it? Is it shining in the light from that beautiful, bright¡ªhot¡ªlantern? It¡¯s really giving off way too much heat now. Sweltering, though I was comfortable only moments ago.


    What happened to those missing hours?


    I really have no fucking clue.


    Deciding I need a moment to step outside, get some fresh air, and make some uneducated guesses as to which of my flagged submissions I¡¯d pick, I make to get out of my seat.


    ¡°If you don¡¯t mind, I need to¡ª¡±


    A shadow scurries past the table and I leap back in surprise, letting out a shocked yelp in the process.


    Alarmed, Milo¡¯s eyes widen, and I notice a few heads turning our way.


    I glance around but there are no animals in the dining area. Nobody else seems to have seen the shadow either. And if it¡¯s hiding beneath an occupied table, it certainly isn¡¯t causing any ruckus. I look back at my date, heart racing.


    ¡°Felix, are you okay?¡± he asks, holding out a hand.


    I really can¡¯t say at the moment. I hold my breath, trying to calm myself, but it just ends up coming out in ragged gasps. Even after the shock of seeing the darting shadow has worn off¡ªeven after I¡¯ve dismissed it as a trick of the light¡ªI can¡¯t get my heartrate to slow. Too many things compound at once and my body won¡¯t let them go.


    Milo comes to my side of the booth, and as he slides in beside me, he takes my hand. At this¡ªour first skin-to-skin touch¡ªI feel myself melt back into the present moment. My mind relaxes its stranglehold on the email that I still need to send as soon as possible to my boss. I sit back down on the cushion, eyes lingering on the place where our skin connects, and the edge inside me begins to soften.


    ¡°Are you alright?¡± he asks again, so much closer this time.


    I don¡¯t answer with words, though I give his hand a gentle squeeze.


    ¡°I can take you home,¡± he says.


    ¡°Our food¡ª¡±


    ¡°I can cancel the order or come back to pick it up.¡±


    He¡¯s being ridiculously kind. In all honesty, I should go back home. I could glance over the flagged submissions first before responding to Felicia. It would work better than trying to recall enough fractured details to write back to her on my phone. But a larger part of me doesn¡¯t want to leave this place, this date. I don¡¯t want to ditch him. Not now that I¡¯ve somehow managed to stumble into something that feels remarkable. I just want to go back to that moment where he was smiling at me and everything felt great.


    But that moment has passed.


    I know what the responsible thing to do would be.


    ¡°No,¡± I say, ¡°but thank you for offering. If you don¡¯t mind though, I need to step outside to send this really important email I forgot to send earlier.¡±


    Milo nods before going back to his side of the table while I eke myself out of the booth. I can tell he¡¯s still somewhat skeptical, but willing to trust my judgment.


    At least someone does.


    Now which of the submissions do I remember?

 Kiss And Not Tell

    After I¡¯ve returned from sending my email, it takes a few more awkward minutes to regain our footing than I¡¯d like to admit. I have to give credit to Milo for his undeniable effort. Were it not for him, the dinner would¡¯ve been a complete disaster.


    Being the shit that I am, my mind lingers on my mistake, wondering how poorly this will reflect on me as an employee, and whether or not Felicia will be able to tell that I¡¯ve phoned my selections in. I¡¯m hopeful I won¡¯t receive too much flak given this is a first offense. I¡¯ve never not given her my recommendations on time. So if I¡¯ve only slipped up once, she can¡¯t really fault me for not having a perfect record.


    Or can she?


    The missing hours have done a number on me as well, and I find it hard to keep my mind from searching for them. But after about thirty minutes of Milo working full-charisma, not to mention a couple cocktails, I loosen up enough to focus on the task at hand. It helps that I find every little thing that Milo does so goddamn charming. To be honest, he could dunk my vindaloo in my glass and chuck it across the room and I¡¯d probably still swoon.


    He doesn¡¯t, but it¡¯s a thought I have while he tells me about his house-touring experiences. How nine times out of ten he can tell when a client has found the one, and how that¡¯s the most rewarding part of the whole affair. Not when the papers are finalized¡ªalthough he doesn¡¯t knock that portion; after all, he¡¯s got to make a living¡ªor having the opportunity to see so many different cool and interesting homes. No, his bread and butter is when a couple walks through the front door for the first time and simultaneously look at each other with that euphoric expression of belonging.


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t happen every time,¡± he says. ¡°Sometimes it takes a few viewings before they fall in love with a home. But the ones who have that moment of clarity¡±¡ªhe snaps his fingers¡ª¡°that¡¯s the best part.¡±


    I ask him if he ever falls in love with the houses too. I wouldn¡¯t be able to stop myself from imagining the life I could have in each.


    Milo shakes his head.


    ¡°No. I mean, some of them are really nice houses, don¡¯t get me wrong, but something about the fact that I¡¯m showing them for other people keeps me at arm¡¯s length.¡± He lifts his fork to his mouth and spends a few seconds chewing in thought. ¡°I¡¯ve only fallen in love with one house in my entire life, I think. An old house I stayed at in the Northeast one winter when I was visiting family. Something about it was so haunting. I¡¯ll never forget.¡±


    ¡°You fell in love with a haunted house?¡± I ask, meaning to tease him.


    ¡°Not every haunted thing is bad.¡±


    By the time we decide to head for the exit, I can¡¯t believe it¡¯s been nearly four hours since he picked me up. The night is fucking freezing, and the moment we step outside, my body begins to vibrate violently.


    ¡°Jesus Christ!¡± I say, wrapping my arms around myself. I¡¯m definitely not dressed for this temperature.


    Milo laughs. ¡°Quick, to the car!¡±


    When we draw near, the Jetta beeps as if cheering us on. In my haste, I practically yank the door off the hinges before throwing myself inside. Milo slides himself into the driver¡¯s seat and wastes no time turning the key in the ignition and cranking the heater for all it¡¯s worth.


    ¡°That was a close one,¡± he jokes.


    ¡°You¡¯re telling me.¡±


    ¡°Jack Dawson could never!¡±


    The reference sends me into another flurry of laughter.


    ¡°Did you just casually allude to the late nineteen hundreds classic disaster romance Titanic?¡±


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    ¡°Are you really shivering so hard that my car is rocking?¡± he asks as I cover two of the heater vents with my palms. He grabs my left hand in both of his, and my heart skips a dozen beats. ¡°Your fingers are like ice.¡±


    I stumble over my words, not sure what I¡¯m trying to say. For a moment, we¡¯re looking into each other¡¯s eyes, this incredible smile on his face and mine agog and paralyzed with stupidity.


    ¡°So, should I take you home?¡± he asks, purposely drawing out the question to give room for argument.


    No, let¡¯s go somewhere else. Let¡¯s go to your place.


    My heart is racing. How am I so worked up over such an innocuous question? If I wasn¡¯t amply aware that I¡¯m in my thirties, I would¡¯ve guessed I was a teenager from the way electricity ricochets through my body, igniting my veins. He¡¯s fishing for the invitation, for the chance to extend our evening past the perfectly lovely dinner we¡¯ve just had.


    Of course, I want to. I would love nothing more. But there¡¯s a buzzing in my head now and it won¡¯t leave me alone. This is too much too soon. It feels like jumping from the first step to the tenth in a single leap. I know there will be expectations if I ask to go to his place, and as much as I want to run my hands all over his perfectly defined chest, and down to his narrow waist, perhaps into the waistband of those dark jeans. Does he wear boxer briefs? Trunks? A jock? Great, now I¡¯m picturing him in a jockstrap. I don¡¯t think I could handle being in that setting just yet.


    ¡°Yes, thanks,¡± I respond. He¡¯s still smiling, but I can see a flicker of disappointment in there as he lets go of my hand and takes hold of the steering wheel. To keep the words flowing, he asks me about my music tastes, though in that department I can¡¯t say I¡¯m very interesting. It¡¯s not that I don¡¯t like music, I¡¯ve just never been someone whose life needs a soundtrack. I¡¯ll play it in the background while I¡¯m doing something else¡ªwhich often leads to me knowing various melodies but having absolutely no idea who the artist is or what the lyrics are. Milo finds this all fascinating, and teases me about being an old man. Apparently, he¡¯d once had dreams of being a rock star. He even played drums in a band in high school called Those People. I pry a bit, because I enjoy hearing him talk about these details, but he doesn¡¯t shy away from his past. He admits now that the band was never very good, although they had made a few recordings in their day.


    ¡°I have to hear these,¡± I tell him.


    ¡°No way. Never in a million years.¡±


    ¡°Why not? I¡¯m sure you¡¯re amazing.¡±


    He laughs. ¡°Maybe I¡¯ll put it on in the background when you¡¯re not paying attention.¡±


    This earns him a punch in the arm.


    He pulls into the driveway of my condo and steps out into the frigid night again. I do the same, immediately regretting my decision to leave the heated car. There aren¡¯t enough layers in the world to warm me up. He walks with me to the front door, and I can barely enjoy having his arm around my shoulders because of how painfully cold I am.


    ¡°I had a lot of fun,¡± he says, lingering on my front step after I¡¯ve managed to still my hands long enough to get the door unlocked. With me standing just inside the threshold, we¡¯re almost the same height. I can look straight into his eyes, marvel at the beauty in them.


    Invite him in. Ask him to stay a little longer.


    ¡°Me too,¡± I say. He has one of my hands in his, fingers warm despite the temperature outside.


    ¡°I¡¯d like to do it again soon.¡±


    ¡°Me too.¡±


    Would you like to come in? We could watch a movie. Sit close enough on the couch that our thighs touch. Maybe he¡¯d rest his hand on my knee, or maybe he¡¯d keep an arm around my shoulders. I¡¯ve found that I like this go-to move of his. It wouldn¡¯t matter what we watched, because I know the whole time I¡¯d be thinking about him sitting next to me. Wanting to know how it would feel to wrap my arms around him. I wouldn¡¯t think about what Aunt Evora or anyone at Saint Anthony¡¯s might say. It¡¯s my business, not theirs. Some of the parishioners might even be supportive if they found out¡ªnot that there¡¯s any reason they should. Find out, I mean. Why does it matter?


    ¡°We could go for that hike. Or maybe next time we can do something a little cozier,¡± Milo says, probably thinking many of the same thoughts as me.


    Invite the fucker inside, Jesus Christ.


    He steps closer to me, our faces inches apart, and leans in. Just like that, we¡¯re kissing. His soft lips press against mine. His mouth is gentle yet passionate and somehow also reserved, like he knows anything too aggressive will scare me away. But I no longer have any thoughts about running away. All I want is to keep kissing him. I have been utterly cleared of every negative thought that¡¯s been plaguing me for the past half hour. I¡¯m lighter.


    How could anyone think the feelings I have in this moment are wrong?


    Then he pulls away and I nearly follow him with my face. Damn, how do I get more of that?


    ¡°I¡¯ll see you later,¡± he says, handing me my bag of leftovers.


    ¡°See¡ªsee you then,¡± I say, unable to wipe the stupid grin off my face. He leaves and I watch him go, not retreating into my house despite the cold until his Jetta¡¯s red taillights have disappeared around the corner.

 Words Like Knives

    The months of December and January are always the busiest times for Corner House. My impeccable detective instincts tell me that it all has to do with the New Year. Writers who swear up and down they¡¯ll get something published in their New Year¡¯s resolutions send flocks of submissions during January, with the hope of achieving their goals early. On the other hand, the writers who realize they¡¯ve reached the end of the previous year without sending anything in for publication swarm to submit in December¡ªsaturating our inboxes with half-developed stories and first-draft shitstorms. Which is a long-winded way of saying that I don¡¯t get very long to bask in the effervescence of my date before being plunged head first into stress season.


    Luckily¡ªor maybe not so luckily, depending on your point of view¡ªMilo¡¯s schedule also becomes increasingly busy, which is unusual for the start of winter but not unheard of, he says. This is the absolute last chance people have if they want to move in before the holidays. The lucky part is that I don¡¯t feel like I¡¯m the only one keeping our souls from intertwining.


    Even so, he makes a point to call me Wednesday evening, and I spend damn near the entire conversation grinning like a fucking dolt. I can¡¯t stop thinking about his lips¡ªabout how they seemed to fit perfectly on mine. The feel of his hands over my cold fingers. God, I¡¯m becoming a sap and I don¡¯t think I even mind.


    Our conversation only ends when I see headlights on my driveway. Confused, I run to the front window. The car shuts off, plunging me back into the dimness of my incandescent bulbs. For a moment, I¡¯m elated¡ªthinking Milo¡¯s made a surprise visit. But despite the darkness, there¡¯s no mistaking the shadow making her way up the path. My serotonin levels take a steep dive.


    ¡°Everything alright?¡± Milo says in my ear, confused by my sudden silence.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I say. ¡°Well, that¡¯s yet to be determined. I need to go.¡±


    ¡°You sure?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just my aunt, I¡¯ll be fine.¡±


    He says goodnight, and reluctantly I hang up just as the doorbell rings.


    ¡°Hi,¡± she says when I answer, drawing out the syllable for at least four seconds too long.


    ¡°Auntie, what a surprise.¡±


    I notice the large paper bag gripped in one hand. Without another word, she steps into the house and glides past me, swinging her purse back so she can slide off her shoes.


    ¡°I thought you might be lonely,¡± she says. ¡°You¡¯re always here by yourself.¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t have to come over just to see me. I¡¯m alright.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s okay, it¡¯s okay,¡± she says, before turning to give me a tight hug. ¡°It¡¯s no bother. Besides, you shouldn¡¯t be alone. It¡¯s not healthy.¡±


    I laugh a little. ¡°Really, I¡¯m fine. It¡¯s not like I¡¯m isolated. I go to work every day.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going to cook dinner.¡±


    I thought that might be her plan, judging from the paper bag. Aunt Evora makes for the kitchen, dropping her Louis Vuitton purse on the coffee table as she passes it. My immediate reaction is to roll my eyes, though I¡¯m not entirely unhappy. She¡¯s an excellent cook¡ªI just wish I¡¯d been forewarned about the visit. What if I wasn¡¯t home? What if I¡¯d had someone over? Milo, for instance.


    You might if you had the balls.


    In the kitchen, my aunt has already put my largest pot on the stove and pulled out containers of sliced beef and vegetables.


    ¡°So, who was that on the phone?¡± she asks while she starts cooking.


    My face flushes as I clear my throat.


    ¡°Just a friend.¡±


    ¡°Ohhhh.¡± She draws out the syllable for nearly twice as long as her hello. ¡°A girl friend?¡± she asks playfully, scooping the chopped vegetables into the pot.


    The room feels even hotter. My frustration rises. ¡°No¡ªAuntie, we¡¯ve already been over this.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know why you think the girls don¡¯t like you. You¡¯re so handsome. I¡¯m sure the girls think so too. You could get any of them you want.¡±


    ¡°Auntie.¡± My hands have clenched into fists at my sides. ¡°It was a man.¡±


    She¡¯s silent for a moment¡ªgrabbing a cabbage from her bag instead of answering right away. Maybe it¡¯s because she¡¯s busy slicing, but she doesn¡¯t look at me. ¡°You don¡¯t have to be shy around girls.¡±


    ¡°He and I went on a date.¡±


    At this she sighs, looking up at me as though she¡¯s extremely tired of the conversation. I have half a mind to tell her how tired I am of this topic¡ªnot to mention the fact that she¡¯s the one who¡¯s always bringing it up.


    ¡°You know, Mariana said something to me about that after she stayed here,¡± Aunt Evora says, shaking her head. Referring to that as if it¡¯s some kind of curse word. ¡°How could you bring that up in front of a child?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing wrong with talking about that to a kid. It¡¯s not inappropriate.¡±


    ¡°She doesn¡¯t have to know about those things.¡±


    ¡°She was the one who brought it up because of something you told her.¡±


    ¡°All I said was that you wouldn¡¯t be getting married. Children have questions, Felix¡ªwhat am I supposed to say to her?¡±


    ¡°Talk to her like a human being. I can get married. It¡¯s allowed in every state. It¡¯s only the church that¡¯s stuck in its shitty ways.¡±


    ¡°Felix! Don¡¯t talk like that. Besides, she¡¯s not going to understand it. It¡¯s confusing to children.¡±


    Something darts across the living room.


    I see it out of the corner of my eye, the same sort of shadow I¡¯d seen at Namaste Nepal. I whip my head around, blood rushing. It looked like a fucking animal¡ªI could swear¡ªbut the room looks empty from where I¡¯m standing. Nothing out of the ordinary in sight.


    The vision has had its effect though. Dread clenches my stomach and I¡¯m momentarily relieved of the heat on my face. I even forget the indignant anger that was surging through me seconds before.


    ¡°Look,¡± Evora says, reeling me back into the conversation. She¡¯s oblivious to what just happened, though I can¡¯t shake my dread. ¡°It¡¯s fine if you want to be¡ªwhatever. Just don¡¯t talk about it in front of a child. She can learn what it is when she¡¯s older.¡±


    The statement is so damn chockful of offensive nuggets that I can¡¯t even find the words to begin picking it apart. I stand frozen on the spot, paralyzed by a mixture of indignation and lingering fear. What is so goddamn inappropriate about telling a child queer people exist? If I¡¯d have known about people like me growing up, maybe I wouldn¡¯t have turned out to be such a fucking nutcase. Besides, if Mariana were growing up in any other environment besides the hyper-orchestrated Catholic school Evora pays for, she might¡¯ve already learned about these things.


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    But Evora isn¡¯t done. I don¡¯t know what¡¯s happened to put her in such a divulgatory mood, but it¡¯s really reached into her stash of bigotry and pulled out all the stops. She dumps the cabbage into the pot and turns to face me with disappointment on her face¡ªthe kind of disappointment you usually reserve for an insistent child who refuses to cooperate despite countless attempts at mediation.


    ¡°Maybe if gays didn¡¯t go about waving it in people¡¯s faces, your parents would still come around.¡±


    I don¡¯t have time to react. A thud from behind me makes me spin on my heel. My eyes comb the shadows, looking for the source of the noise. But as far as I can tell, nothing¡¯s moved. Still, anxiety and fear continue to rise within me, joined by a resigned sadness. A dreaded lump forms in my throat.


    ¡°They can reach out to me any time they¡¯d like,¡± I say in a low voice, turning back to the kitchen. ¡°I haven¡¯t waved anything in their face¡ªin fact, I haven¡¯t had anything to wave in their face in a very long time. It¡¯s not my actions that are keeping them away.¡±


    But they are, in a manner of speaking. Aunt Evora¡¯s not completely wrong. If I hadn¡¯t insisted on being out, we might have talked to each other in the past few years. I¡¯d be hiding a large part of myself, but surely there are other parts of me they enjoyed. Other aspects of their son they liked besides his hoped-for willingness to marry a woman.


    Then they might¡¯ve said something to me at Dores¡¯ funeral.


    The floor creaks. I don¡¯t allow myself to look, knowing I won¡¯t see anything even though I have the strong sense that someone is standing right behind me. I might be able to feel the slight disturbance in the air as their breath sweeps over the back of my neck. It¡¯s all I can do not to shudder.


    Don¡¯t look. Nobody¡¯s behind you. Your aunt would¡¯ve reacted by now if there were.


    So why do I feel this way?


    ¡°Yes, well, maybe that¡¯s true,¡± Evora says quietly, and it¡¯s perhaps the most accepting thing she¡¯s said since arriving. ¡°Come, the pancit is hot.¡±


    I eat in silence while Aunt Evora talks at me, carrying on about mundane things as if we hadn¡¯t just brought up my parents for the first time in months. Dazedly, I lift forkfuls of the¡ªadmittedly delicious¡ªnoodles into my mouth. All the while trying desperately to ignore the inescapable sensation of eyes watching me. Anytime I do give in to the feeling and look behind me, there are none to be found. It¡¯s only my imagination. Perhaps a result of my anxiety.


    Or perhaps something more.


    But I shake the thought away. I don¡¯t need to start leaping to conclusions. That¡¯s how you drive yourself crazy.


    The truth is, I¡¯m sort of glad for the distraction¡ªwithout admitting it to myself, of course. If it weren¡¯t for the fear and agitation coursing through me, I might be more focused on the hurt, the rejection. The absolute fuckery that is my parents living within driving distance and wanting nothing to do with me. Half of all loneliness is voluntary¡ªbut they¡¯re a weighted side of the coin. They will always hide their faces.


    Dores had tried several times to rekindle our relationship. Despite my immobility, she was always willing to believe that someday they¡¯d change their minds. If she tried enough times, wore away at their defenses, she¡¯d break through and then they¡¯d see the error of their ways. I think she thought of that as her ultimate goal.


    Even your death couldn¡¯t bring them around. And that was the most extreme move you could¡¯ve made.


    ¡°You¡¯re not eating your food,¡± Evora says disapprovingly. In her mind, there¡¯s no greater insult. ¡°You don¡¯t like it?¡±


    ¡°I do¡ªNo, it¡¯s great,¡± I say hastily. ¡°I¡¯m just not very hungry right now. I¡¯ll save it for later.¡±


    She eyes me suspiciously before taking her plate to the kitchen.


    ¡°Don¡¯t let it sit for too long,¡± she says. ¡°You know it¡¯s best when it¡¯s fresh.¡±


    I twirl my fork absentmindedly amid the glass noodles. My apathy is here to stay for the time being.


    ¡°I¡¯ll leave the rest for you, okay?¡± she says. I hear the rustle of her going through her bag and know that she¡¯s brought extra reusable containers for this very purpose. Aunt Evora is nothing if not prepared. When the leftovers are safely in the refrigerator, she gathers her things, stuffing them in her handbag. Her aversion to driving late at night means she never stays late unless someone else takes her home.


    ¡°Thanks, Auntie,¡± I say, trying my best to mask my lack of enthusiasm. Although the sense of a third presence in the room remains, its importance is waning beneath the growing listlessness in my mind. Part of me wants to call up Milo as soon as she leaves¡ªcraving the warmth of his voice¡ªthe other side of me wants to sulk in a dark corner alone.


    ¡°Okay, I have everything. Kiss me goodbye,¡± Aunt Evora says, walking to my front door. I stand and follow her, leaving my slowly cooling bowl of food on the table. The presence doesn¡¯t follow and I breathe a sigh of relief. Tension in my shoulders releases. I can focus on my self-pity now.


    I lean down to peck my aunt on the cheek. She smiles like a doting guardian, glad to have saved me from a lonely meal. Little does she know I¡¯m about to get fucked up on solitude after she leaves.


    ¡°Eat,¡± she says. ¡°It¡¯ll make you feel better¡ªand don¡¯t forget what I said.¡±


    ¡°I will and I won¡¯t,¡± I respond, not wanting her to clarify which part of what she said I should keep in mind. Regardless, there¡¯ll be plenty of her shitty words echoing around my head for the rest of the evening. That¡¯s a given.


    I stand watch until her taillights disappear, shivering out on my frigid driveway. Then, heart sinking lower and lower with each passing minute, I trudge back inside. I really don¡¯t feel like eating the rest of that pancit in my bowl. It won¡¯t make a difference if I just scoop it into the container with the rest of the noodles. Who knows when I¡¯ll get around to it¡ªor maybe I won¡¯t. The dish can spoil like half of the other shit in my refrigerator.


    Anytime I step inside after being in the icy night, the warmth of my home comes as a surprise. I pad my way back to the dining room and grab my room-temperature food. I know I should eat something¡ªwhen Aunt Evora arrived I was starving¡ªbut all traces of my appetite are completely gone. The sight of the food is almost repulsive, even though it probably looks just the same as any other time she¡¯s made it.


    I step into the kitchen.


    The bowl slips from my hands.


    For a split second, everything¡¯s in limbo. My heart leaps. The bowl tumbles through the air. Vegetables spill over the rim. The more I stare, the more my heart tells me I should run. But my brain can¡¯t seem to send the command.


    Every knife in the kitchen¡ªevery knife I own¡ªis out of its respective place. The set of steak knives removed from the cutlery drawer. The bread knife, chef¡¯s knife, paring knives, and a half dozen others I¡¯ve collected over the years all laid out across the kitchen counters. Pointed at me.


    The bowl hits the floor and shatters.


    Assorted vegetables and noodles go flying. The crash wakes me out of a stupor, and I back away, finding it difficult to breathe. What¡¯s happening? What¡¯s going on? What sick fuck did this? Why would anyone¡ª


    Was it Aunt Evora? She¡¯d been in the kitchen last.


    No, that doesn¡¯t seem right. She might be overbearing and bigoted at times, but this isn¡¯t the sort of prank she¡¯d pull. She was busy cooking food, and the only time she hadn¡¯t been cooking food while in the kitchen, she¡¯d been packing up her things. She wouldn¡¯t have had time. I was watching her.


    I drag my eyes away from the knives, sweeping my gaze across the surroundings. The closed cabinets, unlit lights. Then out into the dining alcove behind me¡ªthe table exactly the way I¡¯d left it, liquor cabinet untouched, hanging plants, bookshelves¡ª


    The sense of being watched returns. Not necessarily eyes, but a consciousness I can¡¯t place here inside these walls with me, focused on my movements, my emotions. Homed in on the fear that grips me now.


    But there¡¯s nobody there. I know that. I can¡¯t see anything. I¡¯m creeping myself out and for what reason?


    Is it because of my sister? Dores and her disease.


    I¡¯m a fucking idiot. Transforming my fear into anger, I grab each of the knives and shove them back into their drawers, their sleeves, their slots in the knife block. This isn¡¯t the work of a disease¡ªthis is the result of a troubled mind. Aunt Evora had probably used all of these knives at some point tonight¡ªor she¡¯d taken them out to see what I had to work with. If she hadn¡¯t put them away, that was annoying, but it didn¡¯t mean anything bad. She wasn¡¯t exempt from slips of the mind. Things happen.


    No. I was taking the information I had and extrapolating. Perhaps I¡¯d spent so much time blocking the thought of my sister¡¯s death out that it was bleeding into other things. I hadn¡¯t had time to grieve¡ªI still didn¡¯t have time to grieve. And that¡¯s affecting my ability to reason, I guess. Fucking hell. I need to get ahold of myself.


    With the knives put away, I trek upstairs, tired and annoyed and wishing I was face to face with Milo. His presence was enough to calm me. I wouldn¡¯t have had such crazy thoughts if Auntie hadn¡¯t driven him from my mind. I think about texting him, but I don¡¯t want to overdo the communication. We already talked on the phone earlier. He knows Evora came over. I¡¯ve absorbed plenty of warnings about being overbearing. Significant others don¡¯t like to be suffocated.


    Not that he is my significant other.


    Whatever. I need to get out of my own head.


    I enter my bedroom, trying to remember where I¡¯d left off in the book I was reading¡ªa high fantasy story about some rebellion or another. It had some pretty clever bits, but mostly I was in it for the gay romance story arc. The rest was a bit contrived.


    Fuck if it is only eight. I undress and slide into bed. As I roll over to grab the book from my nightstand, my hand slides under the pillow and I recoil in surprise, my heart once again racing from shock and pain and fear. Holding the damaged hand close to my chest, I reach forward with the other and yank the pillow away.


    Beneath it is another knife, sharp and glinting and waiting for me.

 Ignorance is Blistering

    Milo joins me at the library, although he does so with far too many questions. I understand his concerns, but there isn¡¯t anything inherently weird about wanting to use a public resource even if I have a perfectly good Internet connection at my condo.


    I spy him waiting by the entrance as I approach. Well-fitting jeans and another sweater that makes him look like a clothes model in a catalog. His hair is somehow perfectly windswept by the icy breeze harassing the city streets, and I have half a mind to stop where I am so I can appreciate him for a few minutes before he notices.


    But perhaps it¡¯s best if I don¡¯t linger for too long.


    Milo waves when he spots me walking up, eyes filled with that bewildering excitement. I catch myself smiling as I wave back, completely unaware of mentally approving this involuntary reaction. He has a way of doing that to me.


    ¡°Morning,¡± I say.


    He catches me off guard by leaning forward and giving me a swift kiss. Despite the cold air, a wave of warmth rolls through me.


    ¡°Hey there,¡± he says. ¡°Didn¡¯t realize I was going to find myself in ancient times today.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that supposed to mean?¡±


    ¡°Going to the library,¡± he says, laughing. ¡°I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve been here since my kindergarten fieldtrip.¡±


    He winks at me, and my heart soars.


    ¡°More people should use the library,¡± I say vaguely, not wanting to admit that I just wanted an excuse to get out of my condo. I didn¡¯t sleep a minute last night. Not after finding the knife under my pillow. I was tempted to get a room at a local motel, but my logically sound mind was convinced I couldn¡¯t leave my bed¡ªthough, if I were rational, I would¡¯ve realized the comfort of the covers was ill advised, given the location of the weapon I¡¯d found. Instead, I clung to the knife all night like a psycho serial killer lying in wait.


    ¡°I¡¯m just joking, by the way,¡± he says, his teeth all straight and white. ¡°I think libraries are a great resource that deserve more attention¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yeah, yeah.¡± I wave him away. He¡¯s hazardously close to some earnest-sounding shit, and I don¡¯t have the emotional intelligence to navigate those waters at the moment. Milo laughs while I lead the way inside. We¡¯re assaulted by the aggressively comforting aroma of a million books. All the outdoor noises¡ªthe road, the wind, the people¡ªare replaced by a thick silence that coats my ears like cough syrup.


    ¡°So, are you here to browse?¡± Milo asks.


    I shake my head. ¡°I¡¯m gonna use one of the computers.¡±


    ¡°Should I come with?¡±


    ¡°No, you should look around a bit,¡± I say, trying to sound casual.


    He cocks an eyebrow. ¡°You invited me to come with you just so you could shoo me away?¡±


    ¡°Well¡ªno, I just¡ªI won¡¯t take that long, and then we can do something else.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a weird dude, Felix,¡± he says, squeezing my shoulder briefly. ¡°Does that ¡®something else¡¯ involve making out?¡±


    I stifle a giggle. ¡°It can if you want it to.¡±


    ¡°Alright, deal. Let me know when you¡¯re done. I¡¯ll be, uhh, perusing the DVD section.¡±


    ¡°They don¡¯t ha¡ª¡±


    The tip of his tongue pokes out between his lips.


    I watch him head off into the stacks, momentarily distracted by his retreating figure. Damn, if I¡¯ve never seen a man wear a pair of jeans like that. I savor the miracle of an Adonis like him spending a minute of his time with a flattened toadstool like me. He even looks like he knows where he¡¯s going¡ªno hesitation whatsoever.


    When the last of his ass disappears around the corner, I shake myself out of my stupor. Despite the content of my distractions, I am here for a rather somber task.


    Twelve computers are lined up back to back on a pair of tables in the library¡¯s center. Even though I don¡¯t plan on using them for anything recriminating, the way they¡¯re displayed feels oddly vulnerable. One is occupied by a woman in a black cardigan, and I can see every recipe she¡¯s perusing without meaning to.


    I choose the computer on the corner nearest the historical references, reasoning that¡¯s where I¡¯m least likely to attract an audience.


    Alright. Wow these units are ancient. Based on aesthetic alone, Felicia would never let these into the Corner House office¡ªit¡¯s one of the old flat LED monitors every company thought was a good look at one moment in time. The resolution¡¯s probably not even 2K. As I sit on the pleather chair, it lets out a sigh, adequately mimicking my internal state. The computer takes a moment to read my library card.


    Okay, time to do some research.


    I glance over the top of my screen, scanning the library from my seat. There¡¯s an old man staring at a wall of magazines, a young mother of two who gazes into the distance, and a woman deciding whether she needs all six of the massive tomes she¡¯s struggling to carry. I suppose none of them have any interest in what I¡¯m doing¡ªthey probably don¡¯t even realize I¡¯m here. I¡¯m the one spying.


    Focus. This isn¡¯t embarrassing. Nobody cares.


    I type in lacrimosus.


    After a few seconds, the browser presents my search results: a list of articles all written within the past five years with varying degrees of startling headlines. I skim the first few words of each, frowning as I scroll past DEATHS and IS IT REAL and MADNESS and FAKED, knowing that none of those will lead to what I¡¯m looking for.


    I wouldn¡¯t be searching these now if Dores had talked to me. Or maybe if Brian had¡ªanyone. I could¡¯ve just asked my sister about it. She¡¯d probably done much of this same searching already, and after her diagnosis, her doctor had probably discussed the details with her.


    Had our parents known?


    I look back at the screen and add to my search terms.


    Symptoms.


    Immediately, the titles change so that less of them resemble clickbait and more of them look helpful. I choose the one three down from the top: How To Recognize Lacrimosus.


    The link takes me to a clean-looking website with a calming pale pink background and neat text. It looks professional enough that I¡¯m willing to trust it¡ªthe article is attributed to a medical doctor, after all, so that¡¯s got to be worth something.


    One last look around informs me that I still haven¡¯t attracted any attention. The old man is nowhere to be seen, the mom has reengaged with her children, who are pointing at pictures in the book she holds, and the woman has decided to return two of the books she¡¯s carrying to their spot on the shelves.


    I begin to read:


    In the past eight years, discussion of Lacrimosus has taken the world by storm. Despite its relatively low prevalence, viral awareness campaigns, along with allusions in popular media, ensured a permeating public discourse when it first left the medical sphere. Much of that discussion, however, has been mired in harmful rhetoric based on a mixture of confusion and a lack of information. As with most things, knowledge is the key to understanding, and thereby mitigating, the negative effects of something as rightfully worrisome as Lacrimosus.


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    So, what is it?


    The actual origin of Lacrimosus is believed to date back to the early 2020s, to a single case in coastal Washington state. Much of the confusion surrounding Lacrimosus, however, didn¡¯t come until almost a decade later, when it gained public notoriety. Contrary to common rhetoric, it is not a disease but a mutation¡ªakin to being born with heterochromia iridis. Therefore, it cannot be transmitted as many have come to fear; rather, it develops through a mixture of environmental factors and one¡¯s own genetic makeup.


    Fearmongering groups have also posited that Lacrimosus is a manifestation of the supernatural. But those in the medical sciences have been quick to dispel this sentiment.


    ¡°Many unfamiliar things can appear preternatural until understood,¡± Doctor Abigail Monson of the Harold Institute for Medical Research said, following last Sunday¡¯s Revelation March on Washington. Tens of thousands of supporters gathered outside the capital to express their worries that the newly discovered condition confirms a need to return to organized religion. ¡°While we may not fully understand Lacrimosus, there is no reason to assume that it relates to a higher power¡ªor punishment by one.¡±


    Regardless of whether or not you believe the appearance of the condition relates to a deity, the effects are concerning.


    Those diagnosed with the condition suffer an additional awareness, like an extra sense. It¡¯s been described by those afflicted as a manifestation of powerful negative stressors, which often take the shape of beings exacerbating the individual¡¯s circumstances. One anonymous source counter-protesting at the Washington rally stated that ¡°moments of work-related frustration often resulted in crumpled papers on my desk¡±¡ªnot by his own voluntary doing.


    Another activist, Gus Zucker, said he suffered for years with his symptoms before the formal discovery of Lacrimosus. ¡°After my wife passed away, I kept finding the doors into my house unlocked in the morning, but the security cameras I installed never caught anything¡ªwhich of course they wouldn¡¯t. It wasn¡¯t until my condition progressed and I spoke to my doctor that I began to understand.¡±


    Which can all come off a bit like evidence of demons, to be fair to fundamentalist religious groups. But Doctor Monson is adamant that these are not evidence of paranormal interference.


    ¡°What¡¯s most important is to recognize the symptoms of Lacrimosus so they can be addressed early on,¡± she says with a very reassuring smile. ¡°Heightened and prolonged periods of negative emotion, loss of interest in normal, pleasurable activities, loss of memory or false memory, and bouts of paranoia¡ªthese are all early signs of Lacrimosus.¡±


    Seeing a specialist is a key factor in slowing the progression of the condition, and numerous breakthroughs have improved the medication used to treat Lacrimosus¡ªthough activist groups have criticized the price tag of¡ª


    The last time I saw Dores, she¡¯d mentioned giving up photography¡ªwhich I¡¯d thought was weird given how much effort she¡¯d put into the hobby over the years, acquiring special lenses and lights and software. She¡¯d said the reasons were monetary and I¡¯d fucking believed her. But that had been a surefire sign of her condition, according to this article. Were there others? Obvious things I¡¯d missed about her behavior because of my ignorance? Had she been screaming for me to listen in a way that I¡¯d missed? Sure, it was unlike her to not be vocal about something on her mind, but maybe her diagnosis had been an exception and not the rule.


    And what about this medication? She and Brian hadn¡¯t been loaded, but they¡¯d been comfortable. When he¡¯d revealed her diagnosis at the funeral, I think Brian mentioned that Dores had been medicating as instructed. Dores had always been militant about believing in science¡ªany advice that came from a trusted doctor, really. And even if her condition had swayed her convictions, I couldn¡¯t see Brian allowing her to skip. On the other hand, I hadn¡¯t known as much about them as I thought I did. If she¡¯d been medicating, would she still have taken her own life?


    I should¡¯ve recognized what was happening to her. I should¡¯ve at least acknowledged that something was wrong.


    Sitting back against the pleather chair, I close the computer window. One more sentence of that article might send me into a spiral. It¡¯s a reminder that, even though the strange cultural obsession with the condition had been a flash in the pan, it¡¯s still very much alive, and many people suffer in silence from it.


    Feeling a tumultuous regret, I log out of the library computer. I¡¯m not sure exactly what I gained, but I¡¯m acutely aware of what I lost. I wander over to the aisle where Milo disappeared, listening to my shoes click on the linoleum floor. Despite restraining myself from reading the full article, what I did read churns through my thoughts like a highly unappetizing ice cream: stigma surrounding the condition cast by non-believers¡ªsomething I had been previously aware of, but which was cast in a new light given my proximity to the illness¡ªand fresh thoughts about all the signs I hadn¡¯t interpreted in my sister.


    The minute he notices me, Milo can tell something¡¯s wrong. He puts the book in his hand back on the shelf and rushes to my side.


    ¡°Felix?¡± he asks, before wrapping his arms around me. Relief floods my entire being and I don¡¯t want to talk about anything in the entire world. I don¡¯t want to speak, I don¡¯t want to move. I just want to stand there in his embrace. ¡°Are you alright?¡±


    I hold him tighter, grateful for the relative privacy of the aisle.


    When I don¡¯t respond, he tries again. ¡°Did you find what you were looking for?¡±


    ¡°Maybe we should go outside.¡±


    The library is shaped like a U, and in the center is a small, fenced-in area with trees and bushes and several benches for quiet reading. Though the chilly air is biting in the shade of the building, I find it more breathable than indoors. Milo is patient, though he does lead the way to one of the benches beneath a Japanese maple tree. He stares expectantly at me as he sits, waiting for me to either speak or join him.


    I can¡¯t decide which I want to do, but then my mouth decides for me.


    ¡°I should¡¯ve known,¡± I say, crossing my arms over my chest.


    He stares for a moment, trying to interpret my words before asking, ¡°Should¡¯ve known what?¡±


    ¡°That my sister had Lacrimosus.¡±


    ¡°Oh, Felix. I¡¯m so sorry. Is she¡ª¡±


    ¡°She died,¡± I say hurriedly. ¡°A few weeks ago. That¡¯s when I found out.¡±


    ¡°Felix.¡± He says my name again, and despite the comfort I get from hearing him say it out loud, in these circumstances it lacks the enthusiasm that usually delights me. ¡°I¡¯m so, so sorry. I didn¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s okay, it¡¯s not your fault. I¡¯m the one who should¡¯ve tried to do something about it.¡±


    ¡°If she didn¡¯t tell you¡ª¡±


    ¡°The signs were there. They were definitely there and I should¡¯ve noticed them.¡± My heart is racing. I haven¡¯t spoken with him yet about my sister¡¯s death. He¡¯s watching me, eyes wide and full of concern. I slump into the seat beside him, letting my head fall back so that I¡¯m staring up at the lattice of naked branches above me. ¡°I¡¯m sure the signs were there.¡±


    ¡°But did she ever tell you?¡±


    ¡°No!¡± I sit up, turning to him. ¡°And that¡¯s the other thing. You know? She fucking told me everything¡ªeverything. But not this. Not the most important thing. The only thing she kept from me, and this shit drove her to kill herself.¡±


    We¡¯re both silent then. Milo continues to watch me while I stare at the ground, unable to hold eye contact. The air smells like winter¡ªicy and sharp. Wooden skeletons after their colorful dressings have been swept away. Concrete that¡¯s never quite dry. Rain clouds. Damp soil. None of it is particularly inviting.


    ¡°Felix¡­¡±


    ¡°Why didn¡¯t she tell me? She told me everything.¡±


    Milo reaches over and pulls me to him, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. It¡¯s not as warm and comforting as the hug in the stacks. No. This one feels protective¡ªlike he¡¯s pulling me away from a cliff.


    ¡°Sometimes it¡¯s hard to tell someone else you¡¯re suffering,¡± he whispers. ¡°That doesn¡¯t mean she didn¡¯t trust you or that she wanted to hide it from you.¡±


    ¡°But that¡¯s how it feels,¡± I say, equally softly.


    ¡°That¡¯s understandable,¡± he says, ¡°but that doesn¡¯t also make it true.¡±


    I stare up at him, his face inches from mine.


    ¡°It sounds like you two were incredibly close and that she confided in you.¡± He runs a hand across my hair. ¡°But when it comes to illnesses¡ªthey don¡¯t always play by the same rules.¡±


    I nod. All the things he¡¯s saying are things I know, and hearing him say them aloud is a comforting affirmation in its own right, but these are stubborn thoughts that won¡¯t disappear quickly¡ªmaybe ever.


    ¡°They think it might be hereditary,¡± I say.


    At this, he lifts my face in his hands, forcing me into eye contact. ¡°Are you experiencing symptoms?¡± he asks. And this is the most serious I have ever seen him. ¡°Tell me, Felix. Please. If you are having symptoms.¡±


    Maybe?


    ¡°No,¡± I say, because it¡¯s true. I haven¡¯t had concrete symptoms. I know I¡¯m just in my own head, worried because I was made aware what my sister went through. If I take away that fear and doubt, then nothing has actually happened to me.


    ¡°Are you sure?¡± he asks. Then he hesitates. ¡°Sometimes you do seem a little¡ª¡±


    ¡°My sister just died,¡± I say, cutting him off. ¡°That¡¯s all. Besides, it¡¯s nothing. Everyone is sad.¡±


    He frowns. ¡°No, they aren¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Yes, they are. You can talk to anyone. We¡¯re all just wading through our own sadness.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t believe that. I won¡¯t believe that.¡±


    I scoff. I can¡¯t help myself. ¡°You can¡¯t make things untrue just because you don¡¯t want them to be.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not the reason.¡±


    ¡°Why then?¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°There has to be someone out there who¡¯s found it, someone out there who¡¯s happy. If there isn¡¯t, then what¡¯s the point of any of this?¡±


    I don¡¯t have an answer.


    He leans toward me until our foreheads are resting together.


    ¡°Look, I¡¯ll believe you if you say you aren¡¯t experiencing symptoms. But if anything does come up, please tell me¡ªanything at all, not just Lacrimosus,¡± he says. ¡°I want to be here for you. I want to be on your side no matter what.¡±


    And I believe him.


    I believe him.

 Tap of the Morning

    With my eyes closed, I can hear nearly everything happening in the church. The restlessness of children only mildly placated by whatever toys their parents brought for them. The incessant sniffing of several parishioners battling colds. Creaking pews beneath the shifting weight of the uncomfortably seated. The reader¡¯s mouth noises amplified by the microphone. Of all the volunteers, Gabriel is my least favorite¡ªand not just because his only talent is to spew flecks of spittle whenever he makes a p sound. I generally steer clear of him due to the over-earnest fa?ade he insists on wearing despite its utter lack of believability. I know it¡¯s fake. I¡¯ve overheard him calling someone a faggot under his breath.


    Brian once accused me of sitting in the back with my eyes closed so that I could fall asleep. Though I knew he was joking, I denied his claim¡ªthat sort of behavior could get you a stern bitch-fest from Evora. I¡¯ve never fallen asleep during mass. I¡¯ll swear by that. But keeping my eyes closed and listening seems to make it go by faster.


    Time passes. The ceremony progresses, then finishes. After the priest et al proceed out the doors behind me, the assembly erupts into the hubbub of visiting hours and the leaving time. I stand as families wander by, ushering their children out into the cold. With the foyer of the church filled, there¡¯s no reason to rush.


    ¡°Oh, Felix. You¡¯re back here!¡± Aunt Evora is suddenly at my side, gripping my arm. ¡°Good.¡±


    I bend down to kiss her cheek. ¡°I always am,¡± I say in a sing-song voice.


    ¡°I know, but I¡¯m so short. Sometimes I can¡¯t see you.¡±


    When I stand straight again, Brian¡¯s passing behind her with Mariana. He looks better¡ªthe both of them even smile and wave at me. I try to return the gesture, but I doubt how successful I am at appearing amicable.


    ¡°You should come with us,¡± Aunt Evora says, leading me out of the pew. ¡°I¡¯m making tocino tonight. Your uncle used to love that recipe¡ªit was his favorite. I think if I was not there to cook for Brian and Mariana, they wouldn¡¯t have anything but frozen pizzas, you know. That¡¯s not healthy for them.¡±


    ¡°I think Brian used to cook sometimes too,¡± I say. ¡°It wasn¡¯t always Dores.¡±


    Evora waves my response away. ¡°Maybe, but he¡¯s too sad now.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure about that? I mean, he might be sad, but he¡¯s not helpless.¡±


    She clicks her tongue. ¡°What are you trying to say? If he doesn¡¯t want me there, he would tell me. He likes when I cook for them. Besides, I make all this extra food. I can¡¯t eat it all myself.¡±


    You could make less of it.


    The priest is greeting parishioners in the foyer. Both of us shake his hand as we pass and he addresses us with a welcoming smile.


    ¡°Great homily today, Father,¡± Aunt Evora says. ¡°So timely. I¡¯m almost finished with that book you recommended.¡±


    Then we¡¯re outside.


    At the top of the steps, I notice him.


    Milo is parked right in front, leaning back against his Jetta, squinting against the morning light and looking like a goddamn movie star in his sunglasses and bomber jacket. I¡¯m not quick enough to recover without Aunt Evora noticing my misstep, and she looks between me and the man who hadn¡¯t attended the services.


    ¡°Who is that?¡± she asks through a tight jaw.


    Fuck.


    ¡°That is Milo,¡± I say slowly. Although my heart had tap-danced at the sight of him, I¡¯m already feeling very on display and uncomfortable. My hands sweat and my face suddenly feels hot. What is he doing here? He didn¡¯t ask me if he could show up.


    ¡°He¡¯s your friend?¡± Aunt Evora asks, and the slight pause before ¡°friend¡± does not go unnoticed. She seems to be wondering the same things as me, though she quietly mutters, ¡°In front of a church?¡±


    Knowing there¡¯s no way around this, we head straight toward him. Milo waves, that breathtaking¡ªfrustratingly clueless¡ªsmile on his face. ¡°I was hoping I hadn¡¯t mixed up my churches.¡±


    ¡°Milo,¡± I say, heart hammering faster than a hummingbird¡¯s wings. ¡°How did you know where I was?¡±


    I hope that didn¡¯t come off as rude as it did in my ears.


    His smile falters one degree. ¡°Oh, well, I know you walk to mass on Sunday mornings¡ªand you told me the name of the church you cleaned.¡±


    I did?


    ¡°I did?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡± He looks a bit uncomfortable. ¡°I guess maybe I took more note of that than I should have.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m Auntie Evora, by the way.¡±


    ¡°Shit, yeah, sorry,¡± I say, realizing that my aunt has been standing there awkwardly holding my arm, waiting for this stilted explanation. She slaps my shoulder for cursing. ¡°This is my Aunt Evora.¡±


    ¡°Pleased to meet you,¡± Milo says, flashing his smile again and reaching out to shake her hand. I love the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. There¡¯s no way in hell that Evora won¡¯t be charmed by him. In fact, I even see her smile a bit. ¡°Sorry about the confusion. I came here to pick up Felix for our hike.¡±


    ¡°A hike?¡± Evora asks.


    ¡°A hike?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Yeah, like we keep saying we¡¯re going to,¡± Milo says. Damn, he really doesn¡¯t forget a thing. ¡°Although, now that I¡¯m thinking about it, more like I keep saying we¡¯re going to.¡±


    His cheeks have flushed a bit. I can tell now that this exchange has grown painful for all of us. Immediately, regret bubbles up in my gut. I never want him to feel regretful. Regaining my footing, I cough up an agreement.


    ¡°Oh, right,¡± I say. Even though a hike on a chilly, wintry morning isn¡¯t my ideal activity, it provides a good excuse to be around Milo. I turn to Evora.


    ¡°So, you¡¯re not coming over?¡± she asks.


    ¡°I forgot.¡±


    ¡°We can postpone, if you want,¡± Milo says quickly, not wanting to dispel what little favor he thinks he might have with Evora. ¡°It¡¯s no big deal. I wouldn¡¯t want to cancel any of your plans.¡±


    ¡°There weren¡¯t plans,¡± I say. ¡°It was a casual invitation. I just forgot about our hike for a moment.¡±


    Evora eyes me in a way that is maddeningly unreadable for a woman who I can usually understand with one glance. Then she shrugs, apparently unbothered, though I¡¯m now acutely aware just how off-put she really is. That¡¯s more like her. ¡°Go with your friend, it¡¯s okay. You can have tocino next time. Maybe Lenae will come too. She¡¯s always talking about you, you know.¡±


    I swallow, fighting my rising frustration and embarrassment. A number of phrases come to mind that I wish I could say, but instead I clear my throat. ¡°Maybe next time,¡± I say. And Evora wanders off to find Brian.


    Milo and I stand in silence for a while. I can¡¯t bring myself to do anything but stare at the cement.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I should¡¯ve called first,¡± he says. ¡°I wanted to surprise you, but maybe that wasn¡¯t the best decision.¡±


    I don¡¯t say anything, listening as the multitudes meander toward their vehicles.


    ¡°Listen, I¡¯m sorry,¡± Milo continues. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to put you in an awkward situation.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s alright,¡± I say. Turning, I make a beeline for the car and shove myself into the passenger seat. Milo walks around to the other side and gets behind the wheel. In silence, he starts the engine and we drive away. I¡¯m assuming he has a destination in mind. As it¡¯s not one of my typical activities, I¡¯m unfamiliar with the popular hiking spots around the city. On the radio, they¡¯re playing Christmas music. Melancholy tunes about missing old friends and loved ones waft out of the speakers in digital high definition.


    ¡°If you don¡¯t mind me asking,¡± Milo begins, which is usually what someone says before asking something you will mind them asking, ¡°are you not out to your family?¡±


    I contemplate my response before answering. ¡°I¡¯m out, but even though she¡¯s acknowledged in the past that I¡­like men, my aunt is somewhat in denial. She¡¯s determined that I just need to find the right woman.¡±


    ¡°Ah, that old argument.¡± His tone is rueful. ¡°I¡¯m guessing she¡¯s somewhat aware of me, though?¡±


    ¡°What makes you say that?¡±


    He laughs a little. ¡°I noticed she didn¡¯t invite me over for tocino sometime.¡±


    My embarrassment deepens and I clutch the seat belt over my chest. ¡°Yeah, I guess that¡¯s a pretty good indication.¡±


    ¡°Not that I¡¯m broken up about that bit,¡± he adds hastily. ¡°I don¡¯t hold it against you and it doesn¡¯t change the way I feel.¡±


    I look over at him, a dash of lightness inside me.


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    ¡°I¡¯m guessing you¡¯re out to your family?¡± I say.


    He nods. ¡°Yeah.¡±


    We drive the rest of the way in silence, passing the exposition center and the dormant water park I¡¯ve never once in any of my many years living here had the slightest inclination to visit. Amid the barren trees and the cloudy sky, the bold colors of the many intertwining plastic slides look cartoonish and out of place. Like someone forgot it wasn¡¯t summer anymore and left them out by mistake. Milo circumnavigates the backside of the park, and I wonder if he¡¯s gotten lost before a dead-end parking strip materializes. A blacktop walking trail leads up over a dry weir and out of sight.


    ¡°I thought we were going on a hike?¡± I say.


    ¡°Considering your inexperience,¡± he says with a wry smile, ¡°I thought we¡¯d start with a lengthy walk instead.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re enjoying this, aren¡¯t you?¡± Little shit.


    The trail inlet begins in a weird place, weaving between the feet of massive electrical pylons. But once we¡¯re through the forest of girthy cement footers and folded steel, we¡¯re led to a marshland of sorts that parallels the American River. In the distance, I can see the plastic slides towering above the concrete, but from so far away, their colors aren¡¯t quite so stark.


    We are absolutely the only people on the trail this morning, which surprises me, though I¡¯m not complaining. When I face away from the city, it feels almost like we¡¯re somewhere remote. Among only nature. The bushes, the trees, the sky. Flocks of birds ebb and flow overhead along a tide I can¡¯t comprehend. The breeze chills but is, begrudgingly, also refreshing.


    Something brushes my hand. I look down in time to see Milo interlacing his fingers with mine. His hand is large, skin smooth and fingers strong. His grip is firm but comforting. I marvel at how well our hands fit together, swinging lightly forward and back between us. When I meet his eyes, he¡¯s giving me a gaze that asks whether I¡¯m okay with this. And of course I am. I never want to let go.


    ¡°Are your parents religious?¡± Milo asks, his eyes focused and intense.


    ¡°Yes, very.¡±


    ¡°But they don¡¯t go to the same church?¡±


    ¡°They don¡¯t live in this part of the city.¡±


    ¡°How do they feel about Evora¡¯s stance? I mean, like, the way she treats you and all that.¡±


    ¡°They agree.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    ¡°Actually, she¡¯s not even the bad one. They¡¯re worse. When I came out to my parents, they told me I was an abomination. I think ¡®doing the work of Satan¡¯ was one of the exact phrases. My mother cried, my father begged me to look at what I was ¡®doing to her,¡¯ as if it was some behavior I¡¯d chosen purposely to torture her. I tried to reason with them, make them see that I was still the same person they knew, but they weren¡¯t having any of it. Nothing I said mattered anymore so long as I wasn¡¯t taking it back. And then they chased me out and said they didn¡¯t want to see me again until I was done with my sinful lifestyle and had found God once again.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s really fucked.¡±


    ¡°It was only a few years ago, so I was already on my own. I¡¯d waited until then because I figured¡ªI mean, I had a sneaking suspicion¡­¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand how someone could do that to their own child. Especially in this day and age.¡±


    ¡°This day and age?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. It just seems too¡­archaic to still be relevant.¡±


    ¡°Well, it happens. Dores¡¯ relationship with them got fucked too. She still went over and saw them¡ªmostly because of Mariana¡ªbut it was contentious after that. She was always trying to convince them to change their stance. To realize my orientation wasn¡¯t The Great Terrible Thing they¡¯d been led to believe it was. To be honest, I don¡¯t know that I even wanted to come back, but it would¡¯ve been nice not to be¡ªwell, not to be cast aside.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I didn¡¯t realize.¡±


    ¡°Aunt Evora still sees them. God¡ªsorry, I¡¯m a mess.¡±


    ¡°You can use my sleeve if you want.¡±


    ¡°No. I just need a moment.¡±


    ¡°Take as many as you¡¯d like.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a bit soon for me to be laying this on you, huh?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s fine, really. I asked.¡±


    ¡°Yeah. So, Aunt Evora lets me know how they¡¯re doing. What they¡¯re up to. It¡¯s not great, what she says sometimes, especially¡ªyou know, with you standing right there. I realize it¡¯s rude. I don¡¯t really mind if she doesn¡¯t completely understand though, because at least she hasn¡¯t thrown me away, you know? At least she¡¯ll still have me.¡±


    Away from the bank, the river splits around a small island with little more than a few trees, and I¡¯m reminded that flowing water will take whatever route it can while it slowly carves its own path. The dour sky has dyed the river a pale gray.


    What a thing to confess on a third date. Milo owns a part of me now, whether he wanted to or not. I can¡¯t believe I¡¯ve told him¡ªthere are still tears on my face¡ªbut even though some of these admissions are words I haven¡¯t even told myself, confessing to him felt right. If he decides to leave, at least it can be an informed departure. And if he¡¯s scared by the brand of fucked up that I am, then more power to him. I would¡¯ve run away from this long ago if I could¡¯ve.


    ¡°Do you want to tell me about your sister?¡± Milo asks tentatively, unsure if this is a topic that might set me off again.


    ¡°What do you want to know?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. It sounds like you were close.¡±


    ¡°We were,¡± I say, searching for words. Sometimes, I wish I could simply hand over an entire emotion in order to explain something: words won¡¯t suffice, so here¡¯s the feeling in a nutshell. But words are all I have. ¡°She could be messy¡ªyou¡¯d never describe her as organized, but she always made time for you. We weren¡¯t like most siblings. Even as kids we got along super well. She used to make up all these stupid games that we would play.¡±


    I can¡¯t stop myself laughing through a sludgy cascade of mucus.


    ¡°Like what?¡± Milo asks, smiling.


    ¡°Well, uh, she had this one we did a lot where she¡¯d say half the words in a sentence and I¡¯d have to guess what the rest was based on our surroundings. Like ¡®I Spy¡¯ but more infuriating.¡±


    ¡°Infuriating? I thought you said you got along well.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but I swear most of the time she was changing the answer on the spot.¡±


    ¡°Messy and manipulative, I approve,¡± Milo says, but he¡¯s laughing.


    ¡°At the end of the day, though,¡± I say, feeling the fleeting burst of warm nostalgia melt away. ¡°She always had my back. She stood up for me. That was the most memorable thing about her.¡±


    ¡°She sounds amazing.¡±


    ¡°Dores,¡± I say, unsure if I¡¯d ever told him her name.


    ¡°Dores.¡± Milo smiles pensively. ¡°I understand you better now. The world would have us believe that your parents¡¯ reactions don¡¯t happen in America anymore.¡±


    I don¡¯t respond.


    ¡°If the religious revival of the twenties hadn¡¯t¡ª¡±


    ¡°My parents were always that way,¡± I say. He squeezes my hand a little tighter and stops so he can turn to face me. I get the feeling we¡¯re no longer alone, but when I glance over my shoulder, I see the path is still empty in either direction.


    ¡°They¡¯re wrong,¡± he says.


    ¡°I know that,¡± I whisper. A gust of wind blows down the alley created by the trail and the trees pressing in on either side. Cool air glides through my sleeve, finding a way to chill my skin beneath my many layers.


    ¡°But do you believe it?¡± he asks. ¡°Do you believe you haven¡¯t done anything wrong?¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t fix me after one month,¡± I say. The words surprise me. A few minutes ago, I was swooning at every goddamn thing he did, but now I sort of wish he would stop looking at me with those sad eyes. He doesn¡¯t understand that there isn¡¯t just sorrow and dejection in my story¡ªthere¡¯s anger and remorse there too.


    ¡°I¡¯m not trying to fix you,¡± he says, taken aback.


    ¡°Then stop looking at me like I¡¯m broken.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t mean to look at you like you¡¯re broken. But you¡¯ve had to deal with a lot of trauma. I¡¯m just¡ª¡±


    ¡°Trauma,¡± I scoff. I¡¯m lashing out, but I can¡¯t stop myself. Not with this sinking feeling in my chest¡ªthere are eyes in the trees watching me. A presence that makes itself known in the woods. I don¡¯t want to be a spectacle. To anyone. Not to whoever is watching me, and not to Milo. I back away. ¡°You¡¯re just repeating buzzwords from trendy mental health articles.¡±


    ¡°Felix, please. I¡ª¡±


    Branches snap.


    I start running. Sprinting down the path away from a sputtering Milo. As soon as I¡¯m no longer by his side, I¡¯m flooded with remorse¡ªhe didn¡¯t do anything wrong. He wasn¡¯t hurting me. So why am I running from him? Why don¡¯t I want him near me anymore? Whatever was watching me in the trees is keeping pace, running alongside me just out of sight. If I turn my head, I can¡¯t see it, but I can hear it ripping through the underbrush, seconds from reaching out and grabbing me. I can¡¯t lose it on the path. Clenching my jaw, I pivot hard and dive to the left, off the road. I raise my arms, trying to keep the barren branches from poking at my eyes. A twig whips across my face, clawing at my cheek. Another gets me on the forehead. I don¡¯t think I¡¯m moving fast enough for them to make me bleed though. Soft ground. Fallen leaves. Uneven soil. Gnarled roots. Ducking. Twisting. Jumping.


    And then I¡¯m alone. Truly alone. I can¡¯t feel the presence anymore. I can¡¯t hear it moving. No eyes. Nothing. I come to a stop, breathing heavily, hands resting on my knees. I haven¡¯t run in a while, since the gym closed. Sweat layers my skin beneath my clothing, though the winter air feels colder than ever on my face. My breath comes out in great puffs of white vapor, swirling into nothing before my eyes.


    Silence.


    Did Milo chase after me?


    I have half a mind to call out. I should apologize. But he knows how fucked I am now. Apologies mean nothing¡ªhe knows now that¡¯s how things are going to be with me. It¡¯s easier if we never see each other again.


    He said he wanted to be there for me.


    My ear prickles, picking up a faint noise above the claustrophobic silence. I hold my breath, hoping to hear better.


    Tap. Tap. Tap.


    The sound comes slow, even, rhythmic. So faint that I still can¡¯t quite tell what it is. The deciduous forest around me is impenetrable. A solid mass of white trunks and twisting layers of branches. The knoll isn¡¯t so large. The world shouldn¡¯t be this silent. I should be able to hear the highway somewhere in the distance.


    Tap. Tap. Tap.


    Louder now. Something thin and metal being struck lightly against something else. Something not as hard. Wood? A tree trunk?


    I turn my head, staring into the trees. Anything that moves should be easy to discern against the pale backdrop. If anyone¡¯s close enough for me to hear them¡­


    Tap. Tap. Tap.


    It¡¯s a knife. I can¡¯t know that. There¡¯s no possible way to tell. But now that the image has surfaced, it¡¯s impossible to rid myself of it. I turn on the spot, shoes sliding against the blanket of dead leaves on the ground. Vapor puffing out into the air. Swirling. Evanescing. Empty landscape.


    Tap. Tap. Tap.


    ¡°Hello?¡± I call, voice weak. ¡°Milo, is that you?¡±


    No words in response.


    Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.


    No longer one source. The sound comes from either side. The same rhythmic tapping like knives against the trees. Observers letting me know they¡¯re watching, nothing more. They see me, even if I can¡¯t see them.


    ¡°Milo, this isn¡¯t funny. I¡¯m sorry. I¡ª¡±


    Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.


    It¡¯s everywhere now. Not just to my right and my left but in front of me, behind me, above me. I turn on the spot. There have to be dozens of them. Everywhere all at once. Standing hidden but close enough to get to me. The ceaseless tapping has so many innumerable sources that it¡¯s become a cacophony. A buzzing. A hive of insects. Cutting off any sense of the outside world. Why can¡¯t I see them? Why are they doing this? I press my hands against my ears, trying to block out the noise. The incessant tapping. The hum.


    ¡°Stop!¡± I feel myself saying. Eyes shut tight. ¡°Stop! STOP! STOOOOOP!¡±


    Someone grabs my wrists. Their grip is strong, shaking me so that I open my eyes instinctually to see who has me.


    Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. TAP. TAP. TAP.


    It¡¯s Milo, looking as terrified as I feel. His mouth opens, repeating my name over and over. I can¡¯t hear him above the tapping. He pulls my hands away from my head¡ª


    ¡°Felix!¡±


    The noise is gone. Everything fades. It¡¯s only him and me and the empty trees standing beneath a gray sky.


    He¡¯d pitied me before. Now he¡¯s afraid.


    ¡°Felix. What are you doing?¡±


    I look around. Where did the sound go? Did they all leave at once? That can¡¯t be. There were so many of them.


    So many of who?


    ¡°Felix,¡± he says again, softer. Releasing my wrists, he runs a hand across my hair. Then gently tilts my head back so I can look him in the eyes. ¡°Are you okay?¡±


    ¡°Did you hear it?¡± I say.


    ¡°Hear what?¡±


    It was so loud. How could he not? How could anyone within a mile radius say they hadn¡¯t heard the tapping? Yet somehow, he didn¡¯t. Somehow I¡¯m the only person affected by it. I shake my head, exhaling deeply. I can¡¯t be crazy. I won¡¯t be crazy.


    ¡°Nothing,¡± I say.


    ¡°Are you okay?¡± he asks again, lowering his hands to my shoulders.


    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m fine¡ªreally! I don¡¯t know. I just got confused for a moment.¡±


    ¡°You ran away from me.¡±


    I look at him, seeing the hurt lingering behind the concern.


    ¡°I did,¡± I admit, but offer no explanation.


    He doesn¡¯t let go of me, waiting for something else besides the non-response I¡¯ve given. Inside, I search for words to placate him, but nothing arises. I usually have no problems conjuring what I¡¯m supposed to say. I¡¯ve had so much practice with Aunt Evora. But the last few minutes have rendered me inert.


    ¡°Can we go home?¡± I ask.


    Milo nods and heads back toward the path.

 Reid-ing Between the Lines

    Milo drives me home in near silence, though it¡¯s not for lack of trying to converse. He makes several innocuous comments to drum up conversation, but I¡¯m resistant to each attempt. I¡¯m not looking for a return to normalcy. I know we¡¯re well beyond that stage and into the I¡¯ve-royally-fucked-this-up portion of our acquaintanceship¡ªor friendship¡ªor whatever the fuck we have. No amount of avoiding the topic is going to erase the fact that I dipped mid-discussion, sprinted my fucking ass off into the trees, and was later found screaming at the apparent silence to stop. Things are not looking well for me. On some level, I appreciate Milo not wanting to address the skyscraper in the room, but it all feels a bit futile. After fifteen minutes, Milo seems to realize this and stops trying. We listen to pop¡¯s top-forty radio instead. A wash of electronic beeps and blips with the uncanny ability to suck the remaining life out of the air.


    Finally, we pull up at my condo, and I relax some at the sight of familiarity. I can sulk in solitude now. Thank God.


    Why?


    I furrow my brow, aggrieved by my own errant thoughts. Wallowing is best done in isolation¡ªI¡¯m testament to that¡ªand wallow I will, once I¡¯m inside. Once the door is locked. Once I know this is over.


    It should¡¯ve never started.


    I know I shouldn¡¯t have said any of those things to him on the path. It¡¯s not his fault. I know he was just asking, but I knew better. And yes, maybe he hadn¡¯t immediately turned away like I expected him to¡ªhe ran after me and somehow made the tapping go away. But eventually he will turn away. All the more quickly, now that he knows what he¡¯s dealing with.


    I was killing it on my own¡ªI can do so again. Predictability can be satisfying. Find the pipe and get those naked men back on my screen. We¡¯ll be out before nine.


    The Jetta dies.


    Milo lifts his hand. For a brief moment, it hovers in place like he might reach for mine. But then he opens his door instead and steps outside.


    Is he going to walk me inside?


    I glance up at the clouds, still hanging there above us. Rolling languidly over one another.


    Maybe I don¡¯t have to be alone.


    My door opens and Milo is standing there smiling down at me. That heartbreakingly beautiful smile. How could I have been angry at him before? It¡¯s utterly impossible. I undo my seat belt and slide out.


    He lets the door fall closed behind me. The car beeps as it locks.


    ¡°Do you want to come in?¡± my voice asks.


    ¡°If you don¡¯t mind,¡± he says.


    ¡°I don¡¯t.¡±


    Searching my keys, I select the one for the front door. The deadbolt slides out of place. The door creaks as it opens. Darkness. I flip the switch. Yellow light floods the entryway. I step in. Milo follows and the door closes behind him.


    ¡°This is it,¡± I say, gesturing around with one hand.


    ¡°Worth the wait,¡± he says, and follows me deeper into my home. To our left, the stairs climb to the upper floor, where I¡¯m all too aware my bedroom waits. The expectations are a clusterfuck I¡¯m unwilling to contemplate at the moment, preferring to veer away from acknowledging them by not giving him a tour.


    We step down into the living room.


    ¡°Feel free to sit,¡± I say, gesturing to my worn sofa.


    ¡°You like to read, don¡¯t you?¡± he says, nodding toward my bookshelves. I have two of them¡ªinherited from Aunt Evora¡ªin the faux 1970s oak stylings of yesteryear. But they do the job just fine. Each stands taller than me and is absolutely stuffed with an assortment of hardbounds and paperbacks.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I admit. ¡°There are more upstairs. It¡¯s pretty much the only thing I do consistently.¡±


    ¡°Good thing it¡¯s kind of your job, then, huh?¡± He winks at me before sitting down on the sofa.


    ¡°Are you cold or anything?¡±


    ¡°No, I¡¯m very comfortable.¡±


    ¡°I can get you¡ª¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s perfect,¡± he says. ¡°Will you join me?¡±


    ¡°Oh, yeah. Of course.¡± I sit down too, close enough to be in arm¡¯s reach but not so close that our bodies are touching. Before he can say anything, I blurt out the first suggestion that comes to mind. ¡°Do you want to watch a movie or something?¡±


    ¡°That sounds like a great idea.¡±


    So we do. At first, we have a little difficulty picking something to watch out of the literal millions of movies available on streaming services. Milo¡¯s tastes lean toward either emotional dramas with very serious themes or raunchy comedies that require absolutely zero brain power to view, while I¡¯m generally more of an action film fan or a horror junky. The more blood, the better is my general rule of thumb. Eventually, we stumble upon something outside both our wheelhouses that somehow satisfies all our collective criteria: a gay science fiction romance about a space innkeeper who drops everything to find a man that had stayed at his stellar hotel for one evening. It¡¯s ridiculous in the best vein of self-aware storytelling, and we find ourselves laughing and cheering with every unpredictable twist of the plot. Amid the campy hijinks, I even forget the shitstorm that was this morning. When it finishes, we order pizza, open a cheap bottle of wine I have on the rack, and immediately elect to find another film. Sadly, our first pick seems to be a one of a kind. But though the fantasy film we settle on next about a soul-collector isn¡¯t quite as entertaining, I do look up halfway through, pleased to find Milo¡¯s arm around me. Without allowing myself a moment to hesitate, I lean into him and finish the movie resting against his shoulder.


    By the time the credits roll, the world is well and dark. The pizza box sits empty on the coffee table, as do two empty bottles. I spend a moment breathing in his scent¡ªspiced and warm¡ªbefore realizing myself and sitting up.


    ¡°Hey¡ª¡±


    ¡°That was a fun one,¡± I say, grabbing the remote and exiting out of the film before the service can automatically start the next recommendation.


    ¡°Where are you going?¡±


    ¡°Can I get you anything?¡±


    Playing host seems like an easy way to put off whatever¡¯s supposed to come next.


    ¡°More water, if you¡¯ve got it,¡± he says in a breezy, conversational tone. He stands as I grab our glasses, meandering over to my bookshelves. There¡¯s nothing very interesting there, so I figure it can¡¯t hurt for him to look around.


    In the kitchen, I commence filling our cups in the sink. While I do so, I sneak a peek at Milo through the doorway. He¡¯s busy perusing the shelves still, eyes roaming over the dozens of fiction titles. Horror, most of them, some fantasy thrown in. A few literary novels for good measure. Somewhere in there is a dictionary I¡¯ve had for longer than I¡¯ve been alive and maybe a reference book or two about critiquing fiction.


    I marvel at him while he looks, wishing I could be the type of person who found this sort of thing easy. The way it should be. At the risk of sounding mawkish¡ªwell, fuck it. Milo is extraordinarily good-looking. I¡¯ve known this ever since I first laid eyes on him in the office gym, but it¡¯s even more apparent now that I have the chance to check him out unobserved and under the spell of an entire bottle of wine. His eyes are like gemstones despite the lackluster lighting, twinkling green as he reads the titles. His nose is prominent but straight, his jaw as sharp as the pages of any of the books on the shelves. Without his jacket, I can see how the shirt he wears hugs his slim frame. A waist I could dream about wrapping my arms around accentuated by his wide leather belt. The jeans he¡¯s wearing¡ªstriking evidence that God might be a homosexual¡ªhug his ample ass and broad thighs. How could I have waited so long to let him inside my home?


    Water spills over my hand as the cup overflows. Reluctantly, I turn my attention back to our glasses.


    ¡°Did you like what you saw?¡±


    ¡°What?¡± I ask, surprised. Panicking, I dump the whole glass before realizing I meant to keep most of the water.


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Milo laughs. ¡°You might not be as inconspicuous as you think.¡±


    I turn my face away, feeling heat rush into my cheeks. Fuck. He knew I was looking at him? ¡°Sorry. I didn¡¯t¡­¡±


    Mean to. But that would be a lie.


    ¡°No, no!¡± he says, darting to my side. ¡°I was joking. I¡¯m not offended. By all means, please look.¡±


    I grit my teeth and hold out the newly filled glass for him.


    Of course I was going to get caught staring.


    ¡°I¡¯ve stolen glances too when you weren¡¯t looking,¡± he says gently. ¡°I hope you also don¡¯t mind.¡±


    The statement catches me off guard, and I lock eyes with him inquisitively. Some of the heat recedes.


    ¡°I don¡¯t mind,¡± I say. I might even be hopeful.


    He smiles, accepting the glass. But he doesn¡¯t take a drink. Instead, he sets it down on the counter. ¡°Then hopefully, this will be okay too.¡±


    Hands on either side of my face, he leans forward and kisses me. Whereas our first kiss had been short and sweet, this one is much more. His lips press against mine, passionate and lingering, soft but firm. It steals my breath away, coating my mind with a numbing sensation that obliterates thought for the moment. All I want are his lips and for him to keep kissing, kissing, kissing me.


    My hand releases the other glass, leaving it sitting empty underneath the faucet. Milo leads me backward until I¡¯m against the inner corner of the counter, my hands resting against the cool Formica surface to steady myself. I can feel the stubble of his five-o-clock shadow against my skin, the side of his nose against my own. In one swift movement, he seizes me around the waist and hoists me up onto the counter, reverses the tilt of our heads. I wind my hands around the back of his head, wanting more of him, feeling his thick hair between my fingers. He¡¯s still holding me by the waist, standing between my parted knees.


    ¡°I want you,¡± he whispers, moving his lips to my neck. Then he grips the bottom of my shirt and pulls it over my head. It catches briefly on my ear, but he¡¯s slick about it, adjusting before the snag lasts for too long. I¡¯m suddenly aware of the cold, aware of my bare skin. How it¡¯s not quite warm enough in the house to be this naked.


    I sit up straighter, hoping to flatten some of the creases in my stomach.


    Milo doesn¡¯t seem to notice. He¡¯s kissing my neck again, hungrier now the longer we go on.


    He hasn¡¯t noticed yet, but he will.


    Wanting to stay in the moment, I slide off the counter. Standing, I feel better about my stomach, and I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve pulled Milo out of his zone. If anything, he seems more determined. His hunger drives me. I let him slide me up against the refrigerator, and I can feel the hardness in his jeans.


    ¡°I want you,¡± I respond. I grab the hem of his shirt and hoist it up. I can¡¯t quite get it over his head, so he helps me, giggling a little as he does so. His willingness to let humor into the situation amid the lust is helpful. I don¡¯t feel so inept. That his laughter doesn¡¯t detract from the heat in his eyes encourages me to continue.


    I lunge forward, leading him out of the kitchen with desperate kisses. I want to run my hands over every square inch of his toned torso. Marvel at the work he¡¯s done to his own body even if I can¡¯t compare. He doesn¡¯t seem to mind.


    In the living room, he seizes me about the waist again, but this time he carries me over to the sofa. I can feel the strength in his arms, the flex of his muscles as I soar through the air. Just before he can set me down on the cushions though, I become too heavy and he drops me the last few inches. The furniture squeaks as it slides. Milo lets out another little giggle, but this time I feel a twinge of shame. On the television, something has started playing, but I have no desire to find out what it is or how to turn it off. It¡¯s background noise, something I can use to calm my mind.


    Milo¡¯s face hovers over me, lips parted, breath heavy, eyes focused and horny. My heart races, waiting for him to lower himself onto me. Waiting to feel the weight of his body on mine. He complies slowly¡ªso painfully slow. Never breaking eye contact. Until his figure has completely eclipsed the overhead light. His broad shoulders, arms to either side of my head, lean torso sliding down onto mine.


    Below our waists, his hardness presses against me through his jeans. He¡¯s so swollen¡ªpractically begging to be released from his trappings. The pressure of his body against mine causes a cringey, involuntary whimper to escape my lips.


    This is wrong.


    It¡¯s not wrong. It feels so amazing. Lying here beneath him on my couch, his obvious carnal desire to have me. Whatever tricks my mind might want to play, I can¡¯t deny his arousal. He wants me.


    But you shouldn¡¯t have him. This is wrong.


    No, those are Aunt Evora¡¯s words. That¡¯s what she tries to tell me every time she drops some hint about a woman I should go on a date with. That¡¯s not her being correct, that¡¯s her not understanding that this¡ªwhat Milo and I feel¡ªis fine.


    This is fine.


    But it¡¯s also why your parents disowned you.


    I inhale sharply, feeling a sudden ache in my chest. Whether it¡¯s immoral or not, that last thought is the truth. If this wasn¡¯t what I wanted, if I could deny myself these feelings, then I¡¯d still have my family. I¡¯d still have my parents. I wouldn¡¯t have forced this schism to materialize between my mother and father and their children. We¡¯d still be celebrating birthdays and Christmases together. They¡¯d be coming over for impromptu dinners and not my aunt. I wouldn¡¯t be searching her offhanded comments for updates on their well-being. Dores could¡¯ve visited them with her daughter without feeling any guilt or the need to try and mend the broken familial bond. If I didn¡¯t feel this need then maybe that weight wouldn¡¯t have been on Dores¡¯ shoulders. Maybe she could¡¯ve been happier. Maybe she wouldn¡¯t have had the shadow of responsibility looming over her. Maybe she wouldn¡¯t have felt the need to shield me from the truth of her illness because she thought I was too fragile. Maybe we would¡¯ve all been happy together. Maybe she would still be alive.


    ¡°No!¡± The cry escapes me. All traces of my sexual engagement are gone. Instead, I¡¯m lost and confused and horrified by my own reversal.


    It takes Milo a moment to realize what¡¯s happened, but I see his face change. Immediately, the lust disappears, replaced by that same frustrating pity¡ªI don¡¯t want your pity, I want you to want me¡ªas well as irritation. He backs away. The prominence in his pants lingers, but I know soon that will be gone too. I want to grab for him, pull him on top of me again so that I might get back to that place before it all went wrong, but I also don¡¯t want him near me, and the dichotomy is infuriating.


    Tap. Tap. Tap.


    ¡°No.¡± This time a whisper. I look around, seeing nothing but the empty room.


    Tap. Tap. Tap.


    ¡°No.¡±


    A sparrow figurine perched precariously on one of the shelves falls to the ground with a dull thud.


    ¡°Felix.¡±


    ¡°No! Stop!¡± I shout. I am completely and utterly disgusted with myself. This is the second time today that I¡¯ve felt yanked out of a desirable situation by my own head, and I am entirely fed up.


    ¡°Okay,¡± Milo says, hands raised in an attempt to calm me. The way he¡¯s poised now, I can see the perfect shape of his abdominal muscles, bringing into sharp awareness how my own bare torso is weak and undefined. Seizing hold of the only thing I can control, I dart into the kitchen. The room spins as I snatch my shirt off the counter.


    ¡°Wait, Felix,¡± Milo says, coming after me. By the time I¡¯ve pulled my shirt on, he¡¯s grabbed his own from the floor and is doing the same.


    I try to move around him, but where Milo is standing, he blocks the doorway.


    ¡°Excuse me,¡± I mutter.


    ¡°Felix, please. Can we talk about this?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t need to talk about it, I just want to get out of the kitchen.¡±


    ¡°But where are you going to go?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, I just need to¡ª¡±


    ¡°Felix. Stop.¡± He grabs my hand, and reluctantly I stop trying to go around him. I can still feel the presence. The tapping hasn¡¯t returned, but the presence is there, lingering in the shadows. I turn my head, trying to find the source of the feeling, but I can¡¯t see anything.


    That¡¯s because there¡¯s nothing there. You¡¯re imagining it.


    But the article said it would keep getting worse.


    Nothing will keep getting worse. I just need to stop thinking about all this.


    ¡°What is happening?¡± he asks.


    ¡°Nothing is happening.¡±


    ¡°Really? Because if that¡¯s the case, then all I¡¯m getting is you don¡¯t want me here.¡±


    I grunt in frustration. ¡°I do. I do want you here. Okay?¡±


    ¡°So then why do you keep pushing me away? What¡¯s wrong?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡±


    ¡°No. You¡¯re not.¡±


    ¡°Really, it¡¯s okay.¡±


    ¡°Felix, you went sprinting away from me on the path earlier. When I found you, you were covering your ears and screaming. Now, in the middle of¡ªwell, in the middle of something else, it¡¯s like you became another person. I¡¯m not mad that you changed your mind about having sex, but I¡¯d be lying if I said I wasn¡¯t feeling rejected.¡±


    ¡°We weren¡¯t going to have sex,¡± I say, unsure if I mean that or not.


    Milo looks back and forth between my eyes. ¡°Regardless of what we were going to do,¡± he says, ¡°the way you¡¯re acting concerns me.¡±


    ¡°Then maybe you need to stop being concerned.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a little fucking late for that.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure you won¡¯t have too many problems moving on from me.¡±


    ¡°What the hell is that supposed to mean?¡±


    ¡°It means I¡¯m sure there are plenty of people out there who would love to be with you.¡± The words are spilling out of me in a spiteful stream of drunken vitriol. I hate every pointed syllable, but I can¡¯t stop. I know even as I say them that I don¡¯t mean the words, not really. ¡°With your sculpted body, and your charming smile, and you just show up all spontaneous and thoughtful and just¡ªjust so fucking perfect.¡±


    ¡°Felix!¡±


    ¡°What am I supposed to offer?¡±


    Now I stop myself, breathing heavily and staring him in the eyes. I¡¯m burning with shame, but my frustration hasn¡¯t ebbed. It should be aimed at me, but it¡¯s much easier to take it out on someone else.


    ¡°Will you listen to me for one second?¡± Milo asks, his voice low. The layer of anger in his tone startles me. I haven¡¯t heard his anger before. Even if he¡¯s not threatening me, acknowledging it now awakens a familiar fear. But I don¡¯t want to be afraid of him. I don¡¯t want to actually cause him pain. ¡°This isn¡¯t some fling for me.¡±


    I relax my stance, backing away so that we can speak more freely.


    ¡°I like you, Felix,¡± he says. ¡°I really, really like you. But I think it¡¯s pretty obvious that something¡¯s going on.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not¡ª¡±


    ¡°Please, don¡¯t deny it.¡± His palms are open toward me. The anger has vanished. ¡°I¡¯m not running away,¡± he says. ¡°I¡¯m here with you, but I need you to acknowledge that you¡¯re going through something.¡±


    My head hangs, unable to hold his gaze.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I say. ¡°It¡¯s not you, I just can¡¯t.¡±


    Images are flashing through my mind. Dores at the funeral. Dores the last time I saw her, when she told me that watching Mariana grow was both the happiest aspect of her life and the saddest. Aunt Evora bringing me a gift the first Christmas after I came out to the family. Sitting my parents down in the living room with Dores standing in the doorway; the moment wasn¡¯t for her but she was prepared to step in when the situation called for it. The only boy I ever had in my dormitory, who shoved me into the wall when I told him I wasn¡¯t ready for him to touch me that way. Dores, on the day I graduated high school, telling me without telling me outright that I should be anyone I wanted to be in college.


    ¡°I¡¯m broken.¡±


    I wait for him to tell me I¡¯m wrong, to deny what I feel is true inside. I wait for Milo to reassure me that everything is okay and I just need to look past the wall that¡¯s been built around my mind.


    But he doesn¡¯t.


    He doesn¡¯t say anything. Instead, he approaches calmly and wraps me in a comforting embrace.


    <hr>

 What Felix Wants

    In a couple hours, morning will come, but it won¡¯t matter much since I¡¯ve been awake most of the damn night. God forbid I know what adequate sleep feels like.


    Above me, the ceiling is dark and plain. When I¡¯d last been lying on the couch like this, Milo had been over me, and for a few brief minutes I¡¯d known a bliss that I¡¯d long denied myself. But as close as I¡¯d come to allowing that bliss to happen, the whole ordeal had ended in a fiery, self-destructive implosion.


    To be fair, though, Milo is still above me. He¡¯d drunk far too much to drive himself home, so I convinced him I was comfortable with him staying the night. Of course, he¡¯d claimed the couch, but I couldn¡¯t let him do that. Not after the dedication he¡¯d shown me today. I might be a shithead, but I wasn¡¯t enough of a shithead to make him sleep on the sofa.


    I¡¯d told him that if he went up and slept in my bed, eventually I¡¯d join him when I was tired. I didn¡¯t want him staying up with me. I needed time to be alone and think. We went back and forth, but I convinced him in the end. After all, I could tell he was dead tired, and I knew, despite what I was saying, that tonight would be a wash. I nearly went up at two, thinking about how hopeful he¡¯d looked at the prospect of holding each other, but the thought of lying beside him felt more torturous than lying on the sofa alone.


    So here I am, wrestling with that decision.


    As per usual, I¡¯ve run the full gambit in my isolation¡ªanger, frustration, sadness. I¡¯ve settled on self-loathing, which is usually the finisher. Pinning me to awareness despite the exhaustion inside. My heart hurts from the emotional extremes of the day, from the turmoil that still grips me. Why do I let the dissenting words of others control me? Why have I let them become so ingrained in my psyche that even though I live an independent life I¡¯m still incapable of obtaining the things I want? I have, in my home, someone who wants to make me happy. Someone who, despite my erratic behavior over the past fourteen hours, finds it in himself to remain with me. Milo is a better person than I¡¯ve ever had. Milo is a better person than I deserve, and yet, somehow, he¡¯s here and he¡¯s willing to help me. How does that make any sense at all? And how long will his good faith that I¡¯ll eventually come around last?


    I¡¯m managing to destroy it. I¡¯m doing everything I can to drive him away¡ªself-destructive tendencies, disapproving words from people who shouldn¡¯t have any say in whom I love, self-diagnoses that are not based on fact but a desire to cripple myself. None of it is real. And none of it should dictate what choices I make because I want to be with Milo Reid.


    I want to love Milo Reid.


    And maybe that admission is all that matters.


    I am the one standing in my way.


    I slide my feet onto the floor, the cold hardwood stinging my skin. Hearing the rain drum a heavy rhythm against the building, I decide to keep the blanket with me, wrapping it around my shoulders to fight the chill in the air. Teeth clenched around my resolve, I cross the living room and step up into the hallway. My home is dark, but I feel my way by memory, navigating past the foyer to the stairs. On my left is the rock wall, a relic of the condo¡¯s 1970s construction. I climb the stairs, one hand tracing a grout line between the rough stones. Through the window, moonlight casts the palest glow through the rain-soaked glass over my path. My steps are light and quiet. Weightless, like a ghost¡¯s. I¡¯m grateful for the carpet on the landing. Through the upper-floor hallway. He kept my door open, hoping I¡¯d join him but probably aware on some level that I had no plans to.


    ¡°Milo,¡± I say softly. I drop the blanket before climbing onto the bed. This is what I want. Nobody else besides the two of us can decide what we do together. I decide to crawl over to him. I place a hand on his bare shoulder, feeling him stir as he¡¯s awoken from sleep. His eyes open in the dark, somehow still glinting like gemstones, and I wonder for a moment if he¡¯ll be angry that I woke him. But then he looks up at me and those fears are dashed.


    ¡°Felix,¡± he says, surprised and happy. Sleep still lingers about his face, the half-aware way that he smiles. It still takes my breath away. ¡°I was hoping you¡¯d¡ª¡±


    ¡°Shh.¡± I press a light finger against his lips, then replace it with a kiss. ¡°We don¡¯t need to talk right now. I just want this.¡±


    I slide myself beneath the blankets, feeling the warmth of his body between the sheets. He¡¯s sleeping in only his underwear, and a part of me is grateful that that much has been done for me. As I straddle his waist, he opens his mouth, but remembers not to say anything and bites his lower lip instead.


    Even in the dark I¡¯m in awe of him. This beautiful, beautiful man both inside and out. I want him. I want to be with him. I want to accept his concern for me. His understanding. His vitality. And I want him physically too. I want every part of him. My body responds, my hips rolling back and forth. This is something I¡¯ve never done before. This. All this is entirely new to me, and I¡¯m unpracticed and out of my element but damn if it doesn¡¯t feel right. I can feel him coming to life beneath me, swelling as he had when we¡¯d finished our movies and lust had taken over. He moans with pleasure, eyes closed, and I feel a rush of pride at having done this to him. He¡¯s fully awake now. Holding me by the waist and pressing me down over his engorged member.


    Penis, I think, demanding that I use the right word. The longer I hide from these terms the way I¡¯ve been taught, the longer they have power over me.


    Before I know it, he¡¯s rolled me over so that I¡¯m on my back and he¡¯s pulling my shirt over my head like he did before and he¡¯s tugging my pants down and then my underwear so that I¡¯m completely naked. Despite the cold, he whips off the covers and I lie exposed to the dark room. Vulnerable and in plain view, but utterly unperturbed. I want him to see me. I want him to reach forward and grab my dick.


    But as much as I want that for me, I want what I came for. Getting on my knees, I grab the waistband of his briefs. He straightens, watching with voyeuristic pleasure as I pull down and expose his rigid cock. Even in the darkness, his impressive member is unmistakable, standing at a shallow angle away from his abdomen.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    ¡°Felix,¡± he whispers, begging me to do something with the torturous desire he¡¯s suffering from.


    ¡°I don¡¯t, um¡­have things,¡± I admit.


    ¡°I brought them just in case.¡± I can hear the smile in his voice. ¡°I didn¡¯t want to miss an opportunity. Are you sure you want to?¡±


    I nod, and then in case he can¡¯t see, whisper a firm ¡°Yes.¡±


    He leans over the side of the bed and grabs his wallet from my nightstand. From inside, he withdraws a condom and two silver packets I¡¯m assuming are personal lubricant. I hadn¡¯t realized such things existed, but it makes more sense than traveling around with a bottle on you at all times.


    ¡°Lay back,¡± he says, and I do so, staring up at the ceiling and willing myself to breathe slowly. I want everything to happen at once, but I know that there must be some procedure to follow.


    I feel something cold against my asshole.


    Surprised, I let out a yelp and scoot away. Milo lets out a small laugh, and I can¡¯t help but do the same.


    ¡°Sorry, I should¡¯ve warned you,¡± he says.


    ¡°Oh,¡± I say, realizing what had happened.


    ¡°Can I¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m ready now.¡±


    The cold sensation returns. His finger lightly massages the area for a moment before pressing its way inside. My mouth opens, unsure what to make of the sensation. ¡°You doing okay?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I say.


    ¡°Just breathe.¡± He starts kissing me, and though I¡¯m still unsure what to make of his finger inside me, the throbbing of his erection against my side keeps me from going flaccid. He¡¯s undoubtedly more experienced than I am, so I let him lead the way, wondering how on earth anything bigger than his finger is going to fit in there. Once or twice, the notion surfaces that what we¡¯re about to do is against everything I¡¯ve been taught, but I push the thoughts away, my desires more powerful than any dissent. I still want him. I still want his skin against mine. I still want him inside me.


    Then he gets up on his knees again. He lifts the condom close to his face, looking for a place to tear the wrapper. My heart races as he draws it out of the packaging, this small round item that carries with it so much meaning. Knowing I have little to offer, I simply watch as with one hand he holds the base of his penis and with the other rolls the condom on. The act is highly arousing. Even more so when he empties the second packet of lube over his hand and spreads it on himself.


    ¡°I want to be on top,¡± I say.


    ¡°Are you sure?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    Milo lies back. He grabs a few tissues from my nightstand to wipe the excess lube off his hand, then watches as I position myself.


    ¡°Are you sure?¡± he asks, one more time. ¡°It¡¯s easier on your first time if I¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure,¡± I whisper. He reaches between my legs to angle himself correctly. Doubt flashes across my mind, wondering if this is actually going to feel good or not. I know what I¡¯ve heard, but how can that possibly be, given how large his finger felt. I turn instead to the anticipation on his face, the unmasked desire in his eyes. I don¡¯t want to stop now. I want to deliver that pleasure for him. I lower myself, gritting my teeth when I feel him pressed against my entrance.


    ¡°Breathe,¡± he reminds me.


    And I do, forcing slow, full breaths as I apply more and more pressure. I can¡¯t imagine this will work. This can¡¯t be right. We¡¯re not compatible and I should¡¯ve known the second I laid eyes¡ª


    With a silent pop, he slips through. I gasp in surprise and then again as a wave of pain washes through me. This is too much¡ªnothing that size is meant to go through there.


    ¡°Breathe,¡± he says again.


    And I do.


    The minutes extend, but Milo is incredibly patient¡ªnever forcing me to go faster or moving himself to quicken the pace. I will myself to breathe, doubtful that any pleasure can come from this experiment. I¡¯ve made a mistake, but I persist, determined that I not be wrong for once in my life.


    ¡°Are you doing okay?¡± Milo asks again.


    ¡°I¡¯d be fine if you had a pencil dick,¡± I joke. This makes him laugh, which is a bad move, and I nearly pull away completely.


    Finally, with a determined exhale, I sit all the way down.


    And everything changes.


    Relaxed at last, pleasure sweeps through my body, cascading down from the very top of my head until it curls my toes. My mouth falls open and I arch my back, a sense of intimacy filling my mind. I look down at Milo and his face is lost in a rapturous bliss, eyes closed to better give himself over to the feeling. His hands, once holding me by the waist, hover over my skin. In this moment, I know that I have never shared this closeness with another human being, and it¡¯s exactly what I wanted.


    ¡°You feel so good,¡± he whispers.


    ¡°So do you,¡± I say. Then I do the only thing that makes sense. I move. Rocking my hips back and forth. Figuring out what works best takes a few tries, but before long I find a rhythm that erases everything I knew before about pleasure. I can feel him swollen inside me, filling me in a way I¡¯ve never experienced. Perfectly formed so that every aspect of my body, of his body, the weight, the nerve endings, the blood pounding, the rise and fall, the sighs, the moans, the friction, all meld together in a way that can¡¯t possibly be wrong.


    Tap.


    Tap.


    Tap.


    A chill runs down my spine and my rhythm falters.


    No, don¡¯t let them in.


    I pull my focus back to sex, back to Milo underneath me.


    Eyes on my back. A presence in the dark, watching as I make love to this man.


    No. Focus on the pleasure on Milo¡¯s face. Look at how euphoric he is. Don¡¯t turn away. You won¡¯t see anything behind you because there isn¡¯t anything behind you. This. This is real. Milo is real. Don¡¯t let him slip away.


    I grind harder. Pushing him deeper inside me. This elicits an involuntary gasp of pain from my lips. Milo mistakes it for pleasure and smiles. God, that smile. I want to see that smile every day.


    Behind me, I hear the door of my closet swing open, the unmistakable creak of the old hinges. Another chill runs down my spine but I refuse to look. They will not take this moment away from me. This moment is mine.


    Mine.


    I squeeze my eyes shut, moving faster now. I¡¯ve lost some of my rhythm, and an erratic movement sends another painful shock through my rectum, but Milo¡¯s moan keeps me going.


    Incoherent whispers. No more signs of the tapping. Now they have voices, dim enough that I can¡¯t make out the words but voices nonetheless. I can hear them moving too¡ªcrawling out of the darkness like monsters in a childhood nightmare. Their fingers claw at the carpet. No mistaking them now. Milo must not hear them though; his behavior hasn¡¯t changed.


    Don¡¯t let this get away from you.


    I persevere, tears pouring down the sides of my face. All that¡¯s left are the motions. Hips oscillating. But the eyes are on me now. And their presence is right behind me. And their voices fill the room. And they repeat the words of my aunt, and the last words of my sister, and the curses of my parents. And their fingers are sharp on my skin, tracing my spine. My tears are dripping from my chin.


    ¡°Get out of this house, you fucking abomination, and don¡¯t come back, pervert! YOU DISGUSTING FAGGOT!¡±


    ¡°Felix?¡±


    The claws dig in, ripping downward with flesh-tearing force.


    My cry of pain escapes as a sob and I throw myself aside.


    I barely register Milo¡¯s yelp of pain as I begin shoving my clothes back on.


    ¡°Felix! Wait!¡± Milo calls from somewhere in the room. The presence hasn¡¯t left, though, and the voices continue taunting me. I don¡¯t want to look¡ªI can¡¯t bear to look. And as I stuff the last item of clothing onto my body, I flee the room.

 The Living and the Dead

    Some part of me knows I should be freezing. Some part of me is aware that it has to be in the mid-thirties outside. Beneath the glow of the streetlamps, rain shoots down toward the concrete like shooting stars. But I no longer have the capacity to care. Every part of my mind and body is screaming at me, working at 120 percent of normal, and all I can feel is pain and embarrassment and anger. I hate myself. I hate whatever it is that¡¯s making me feel these things. That¡¯s stopping me from holding on to any sort of joy. I¡¯m tired of it. All of it. I just want everything to dissolve away.


    I¡¯m not even sure where I¡¯m going until I slow to a stop at the foot of Saint Anthony¡¯s Catholic Church. The stoic brick building rises out of the ground like a stern guardian: always available, but with a firm hand. Wiping my wet hair out of my eyes, I mount the steps to the entrance. This late at night, Father Griffin will have locked up, but I search my coat pockets and withdraw the key.


    Evora has always forced me to help her clean the church, to help keep our community from dirt and disrepair. She would frown upon me using it now to break in, but it¡¯s time the church did something to help me instead.


    Father Griffin will understand. I have nowhere else to go.


    Shivering. Soaked. Anguished. I take one last look around before slipping inside.


    The interior of the church is dark and cold¡ªthough slightly less cold than outside. The sound of the pounding rain is amplified by the tall stained-glass windows whose depictions are nonexistent without light behind them.


    Hurrying to the left, I feel around for a bit before finding the matches. I strike one, the tiny orange flame springing to life. Then I begin lighting the prayer candles, muttering things even I don¡¯t understand. Vague prayers. Promises. Desires to change. I don¡¯t know what any of it means anymore. I need light and warmth, and that¡¯s all I have the mental capacity to focus on.


    When all of them are lit, the church glows with an austere beauty. I look around, unused to being here at night and all alone. Everything looks so different: the empty pews, the darkened lanterns, the empty altar. Even the suspended Jesus on the cross. Light from the candles doesn¡¯t quite reach his face, shrouding his somber expression in shadows. The brown hair which cascades down from his head takes on the appearance of a dark hood. I feel the fear I used to feel as a boy, staring up at the ominous, floating figure.


    Dripping rainwater everywhere, I stumble over to my usual seat and sink down onto the pew. I bow my head before him.


    How ironic that despite my unrelenting inner turmoil, this place brings me an odd, reluctant comfort. It¡¯s the comfort of familiarity¡ªof normalcy. I have spent so many Sundays here listening to readings about God¡¯s love and the path to it. Singing melodies about forgiveness and compassion. Words about how to be a better person. And I can¡¯t fit any of them.


    I just want to be happy. But it seems that time and again I will be denied that.


    I will deny myself that.


    Maybe it¡¯s because I¡¯m not meant to be happy. Do I not deserve happiness? I am so utterly lost and confused because maybe Aunt Evora is right. Maybe my parents are right and that¡¯s why it¡¯s all crashing down on me. I am the one in the wrong.


    Hot, desperate tears stream down my face. I collapse onto my knees, not bothering to lower the kneelers. I don¡¯t deserve the relief of cushions. I need to feel the pain of the hard tiles against my kneecaps. I wince, but remain where I am, shutting my eyes and raising my clasped hands to my forehead.


    The crucified Jesus, who died for my sins, hovers before me to judge the living and the dead. Arms outstretched in either love or condemnation.


    Please, God, please.


    I reject the pleasure of sexualizing Milo Reid.


    Please, God, please.


    Rain patters against the windows. Applause for my confession.


    I reject the pleasure of holding his hand.


    You are the word and the word is with you.


    Wind gusts and the roof creaks, loud enough to disturb my prayers.


    I reject the pleasure of kissing his fucking lips.


    Please, God, lift me above my sins. My homosexual desires.


    The sky flashes with lightning.


    I reject the pleasure of stripping off every damn stitch of his clothing.


    I promise to follow the narrow path to righteousness. You are the one and only true God.


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    Thunder rumbles through the air and in my chest.


    And I reject the pleasure of sitting on his stiff, swollen sex.


    Take me, Jesus. TAKE ME.


    A loud crack like a whip echoes through the dark church. My eyes fly open in startled terror, just in time to watch as the statue of the son of God falls to the ground with an almighty crash. The floor shakes. I duck, shielding my head behind the cover of the pew in front of me. Pulse drumming in my ears, I stay huddled, terrified as the church around me seems to break amid the crashing storm outside. In a matter of seconds, it¡¯s all over, though the wind still howls and the patter of the rain continues to race my heart.


    The statue can¡¯t have fallen. The cross was tethered to the roof with cables. Strong cables. It can¡¯t have fallen.


    And yet, when I raise my head to look, the statue no longer hangs above the altar.


    My body trembles.


    No. I am supposed to be safe in a house of God. They can¡¯t¡ªthey can¡¯t have followed me here. I don¡¯t feel them.


    I stand, stepping out into the aisle.


    Shards of broken tile lay everywhere at the head of the church along with splinters of wood. The statue must have struck the altar on the way down, for it¡¯s canted on only two legs now. Above, the frayed cables swing uselessly from the ceiling. All three can¡¯t have snapped at once.


    The cross lies out of sight amid the wreckage.


    Fuck. It dawns on me that if I¡¯m caught in here, the only conceivable explanation will be that I vandalized the church. I cut the statue down somehow. I destroyed the altar. I will be held accountable. It¡¯s all my fault.


    Maybe that¡¯s true.


    Smelling the iron of my own blood from when the monster shredded my back, I turn to leave.


    And hear movement.


    My ears ring, straining to eliminate the white noise from outside. I can¡¯t have heard movement¡ªor if I did, it¡¯s only the debris settling.


    But it comes again. This time, not a single, sharp noise, but the sound of scraping. The sound of ceramic against stone. Statue on tile. Against my better judgment, I take a few steps toward the front of the church. It¡¯s the last place I want to go¡ªI have little desire to see what¡¯s waiting for me there¡ªbut I need to eliminate the only possibility in my head. At the sight of the broken cross, my blood turns to ice.


    The body is nowhere to be seen.


    It¡¯s my imagination. I have finally lost my grip on reality.


    A shape moves in the dark, crawling over the debris. It¡¯s pitch dark, clawed hands still painted with my blood. But this is no human form. This is no savior. This is something I should never meet and it¡¯s headed in my direction.


    I run, sprinting back down the aisle as fast as my feet will carry me, knowing that if I am not safe here, then I¡¯m not safe anywhere. They promised me sanctuary in God¡¯s house. They promised me forgiveness. I throw myself at the doors, but somehow, they¡¯re stuck. As rigid as any of the walls. Panicked sobs escape my throat. I grasp at the deadbolt, but it¡¯s already unlocked.


    ¡°Please.¡±


    Behind me, I can hear the thing crawling over the last of the detritus. I glance back in time to see a shadow at the end of the aisle. There¡¯s no sense in it hurrying¡ªI can¡¯t go anywhere. We¡¯re trapped in here together.


    ¡°Someone help!¡± I scream, pounding my fists against the doors. They remain resolute, not even an inch of give when I throw the full force of my shoulder against them. ¡°Milo! I¡¯m in here! Please, help!¡±


    The air is still and yet the candles extinguish in unison, plunging me into a darkness that permeates my entire being. I shrink away from the door, clutching myself with trembling arms. The tears are painful now, pouring so heavily I might be bleeding from my eyes. Behind me I feel the presence. It towers over me, growing larger by the second, exuding its threatening intent. Its proximity has the power to drain everything from me but pain and despair. Unending unhappiness. I clutch at my head, trying to stop it from getting inside. But the darkness is terrifying and the darkness is complete. I know all I will feel is darkness forever.


    ¡°HELP!¡± My throat tears open.


    Hands grip my arms. I brace myself to feel the claws once again slicing through my flesh. My shirt sticks to my back with drying blood. I¡¯m writhing, attempting to break free from its grasp. Flailing. But the hands grip harder.


    ¡°HELP!¡±


    I will die here in this church, struggling against the grip of the demon who followed me inside.


    ¡°HELP!¡±


    ¡°Felix.¡±


    My feet lose purchase on the slick floor. I would fall, were the arms not around me.


    ¡°Please!¡±


    ¡°Felix, it¡¯s me. Open your eyes¡ªit¡¯s Milo.¡±


    I¡¯m still thrashing. Panicking. Trying to distance myself from the restraining hold. But my eyes flick open and the world once more comes back into focus.


    ¡°It¡¯s okay. It¡¯s okay, you¡¯re alright,¡± Milo is saying, his voice distant as if he isn¡¯t whispering the words in my ear. As if we aren¡¯t standing in the back of the church, the rows of overhead lights glowing yellow. The rain beating quietly against the windows. The candles burning in their glass vases. I might have thought the whole thing was a hallucination were it not for the destruction plainly visible at the other end of the aisle¡ªthe leaning altar, the ceramic shards, the figure of Jesus torn from the cross. Though the storm has calmed, the frayed cables sway almost coyly from the ceiling. I absorb all of these details, my breath coming in shuddering gasps that shake my whole body. I still haven¡¯t found my feet. Instead, I hang by Milo¡¯s support, and he holds me tightly in a way I can¡¯t remember ever being held.


    ¡°It¡¯s okay, Felix,¡± he says. ¡°I¡¯m right here.¡±


    And then I collapse into sobs, flooded with an anguish that I can¡¯t release quickly enough. The tears are large, hot orbs squeezing from my eyes like flames. My chest hurts, my throat hurts. And I¡¯m clinging to him like I might never let go.


    ¡°Dores is dead,¡± I say, the words congealing on my tongue between sobs. ¡°Dores is dead and I can¡¯t¡ªgrieve¡ªwith my parents because they hate me.¡±


    Milo lowers us down so that we¡¯re both kneeling on the floor of the church. His hand moves to my back, massaging my crumpled shoulders.


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to be gay. I don¡¯t want to be like this. I don¡¯t want to be ostracized. I don¡¯t want to be alone.¡±


    The words don¡¯t feel like enough, and yet they¡¯re all I have. So I give them to Milo because he asked me for them. Because despite everything, I¡¯m still hopeful. Because of the way he holds me. I think sometimes we long to give ourselves to someone, because there¡¯s a chance they¡¯ll carry us when we¡¯ve given up.


    ¡°I think I have Lacrimosus too,¡± I admit, ¡°like Dores did. And I don¡¯t want to end up doing the same thing to myself.¡±


    Milo told me he would stay. He said he wanted to be with me despite how fucked up I might be inside.


    I think he meant it.


    As the storm continues outside, dawn mere minutes away, he sits with me on the floor of Saint Anthony¡¯s and never lets me go.

 To The Stars

    I find the constant, underlying chorus of beeping machines to be somewhat soothing. They¡¯re like a pulse for the hospital. An audible reassurance that the building is alive. But maybe I feel that way because nothing in my room makes any consistent noise. That the sounds are somewhat removed from me creates a separation¡ªI might be in another world tethered to this one by a single, repetitive note.


    Brian and Milo stand beside Doctor Allende, asking her questions that seem so common sense but which I know I never would¡¯ve thought to ask. So far, she¡¯s been nothing but enthusiastic today, and this conversation is no exception. I like that she smiles with her whole face, especially her eyes.


    When she sees me watching, she approaches the bed.


    ¡°We are going to keep you overnight,¡± she says, one hand holding a clipboard against her hip and the other gesturing with a pen.


    ¡°Is it because you think I might hurt myself?¡±


    ¡°Goodness, no!¡± she says. ¡°Why? Are you feeling the urge to self-harm?¡±


    I shake my head. ¡°No. And I don¡¯t think I ever really have.¡±


    ¡°Okay.¡± She nods and takes a note. ¡°If you¡¯re feeling at all like you¡ª¡±


    ¡°Really, I¡¯m not going to hurt myself,¡± I say. ¡°It was a stupid question.¡±


    ¡°We want to monitor your response to the medication,¡± she says. ¡°The effects can be vastly different for each patient at the start, but the first twenty-four hours will give us a good idea whether we¡¯re on the right track.¡±


    ¡°Will the attacks stop?¡± I ask. It¡¯s really the only part of this that matters to me.


    ¡°They should,¡± Doctor Allende says. Then she adopts a more serious demeanor, all traces of her smile gone in an instant. ¡°I want you to know that I¡¯m here to help you, Felix, but there¡¯s something I need you to understand. There is no cure for Lacrimosus, only treatments. And those treatments will have to change over time as your condition evolves. If all goes well, we¡¯ll see that your condition clears up and you¡¯ll be better than ever soon. But there¡¯s also the possibility that you might struggle with this for the rest of your life. You¡¯ll go through periods where the medication works wonders, and sometimes the attacks might return.


    ¡°Whenever that happens, I ask that you remain open to treatment. That you¡¯ll let me know so we can adjust to whatever works best for you and your mental state. Some people turn away from treatment when it¡¯s a been a while since their last bad spell¡ªor if they don¡¯t think the treatment is working and they get discouraged. The idea of a battle without a definitive end can be daunting. But please remember that there are always people who want to help you.¡±


    She looks from me to Brian and then to Milo, her smile returning. ¡°It looks like you have some great family members to back you up already.¡±


    Just then, a harried woman comes shuffling in from the hallway. All heads turn as Aunt Evora enters, her Louis Vuitton bag swinging from her shoulder. She looks utterly windswept and unkempt, her hair disheveled as if she¡¯s just power walked through a fucking hurricane. Wiping her bangs out of her eyes, Evora looks around at everyone before settling on the woman beside me.


    ¡°You¡¯re the doctor?¡± she asks.


    ¡°Yes, Mayra Allende.¡±


    ¡°Oh! My niece used to work with Yesenia Allende. Do you know her?¡±


    I roll my eyes. When it comes to doctors and nurses, Aunt Evora¡¯s first instinct is to establish a connection. She says they treat you better that way.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think so.¡±


    ¡°Maybe your cousin?¡±


    Doctor Allende laughs. Luckily, she¡¯s good-natured. ¡°Not that I know of.¡±


    ¡°Oh, that¡¯s too bad.¡± Evora whips out a handkerchief from her purse and starts blowing her nose. Everyone but the coma patients hears it. ¡°I thought maybe you knew her. Sorry I¡¯m so late, I didn¡¯t get my messages until this morning. I thought I lost my phone.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s alright,¡± Doctor Allende says. ¡°Are you Felix¡¯s mother?¡±


    ¡°Auntie.¡± She stuffs the cloth away and straightens her blouse and jacket.


    ¡°Will your parents or other immediate family be joining us?¡± the doctor asks, turning to look at me.


    ¡°You can talk to me,¡± Aunt Evora says without missing a beat.


    Doctor Allende continues to look me in the eye, but when I don¡¯t add anything, she nods.


    ¡°Has anyone talked to you yet about the situation?¡± she asks Evora.


    ¡°Milo left me a message informing me of his diagnosis.¡± Hearing Aunt Evora say Milo¡¯s name feels strange. Even stranger still is that she does so without any hint of negativity to her inflection. I look to Milo, but he¡¯s busy watching the two women converse.


    ¡°Okay, well I just went over the information with Felix, Brian, and Milo. If you have any further questions, I should be back one more time this evening. Otherwise, Felix, you can send me an email through the patient portal. And if there¡¯s anything urgent, the nurses in this wing are amazing.¡± Doctor Allende smiles one last time and nods farewell to all of us before leaving. When she¡¯s gone, Evora immediately turns to me.


    ¡°Look at you,¡± she says, coming over to straighten the sheets. ¡°You¡¯re all covered in bruises.¡±


    ¡°Auntie, I¡¯m fine,¡± I say, wishing she wouldn¡¯t hover.


    ¡°He has stitches on his back,¡± Brian says, ¡°so don¡¯t make him move too much.¡±


    ¡°Honestly, I can barely feel a thing,¡± I say. ¡°Mostly, they just itch if I think about them.¡±


    ¡°Are you thinking about them?¡±


    ¡°Well, now I am.¡± I resist the urge to rub my back against the mattress.


    Aunt Evora tsks. ¡°You probably haven¡¯t eaten.¡± She pulls out a few plastic containers from her bag.


    ¡°Did you bring food into the hospital?¡± I ask. ¡°I don¡¯t think you¡¯re supposed to do that.¡±


    ¡°Why not?¡± she says, genuinely confused. ¡°It can¡¯t be worse than what they¡¯re bringing you.¡±


    ¡°Actually, lunch wasn¡¯t too bad.¡±


    She raises her eyebrows. ¡°Oh, so you don¡¯t want my food?¡±


    ¡°No! Auntie! I just don¡¯t want you to get in trouble.¡±


    ¡°So don¡¯t let them see.¡±


    Despite it not being a mealtime, I decide it¡¯s better to comply for all our sakes. She opens one of the food containers, then pulls a fork sealed in a sandwich bag out of her purse. Behind her, I catch Milo hiding his smile with his hand. This is his first glimpse into my larger world. When she tries to feed me, however, I draw the line.


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    ¡°I can still use my arms,¡± I say.


    ¡°Okay, okay!¡± She sets the fork down and throws up her hands in surrender. Then waits for me to start eating. I take the first few bites in silence, aware that everyone in the room is watching me.


    Thankfully, Aunt Evora is never silent for long. ¡°I called Father Griffin on the way over here. He told me he wrote to the diocese about fixing the church,¡± she says.


    ¡°Does he still think I did it?¡± I ask.


    ¡°No, I don¡¯t think so. He reasoned you couldn¡¯t have gotten up there to cut the wires without a ladder. And Saint Anthony¡¯s doesn¡¯t own one. Since you didn¡¯t have one with you either¡­¡± She lets the sentence hang with a shrug. ¡°He doesn¡¯t think the bishop will argue with him much. They¡¯ve dealt with vandalism before.¡±


    I nod pensively while I chew.


    ¡°A statue like that can¡¯t be cheap to replace,¡± Brian says, crossing his arms over his chest. ¡°Or that wooden altar. Maybe we can set up a drive to raise the funds.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ll find replacements,¡± Aunt Evora responds, then clears her throat. ¡°I told Lenae you¡¯re here.¡±


    I set the fork down, perhaps more forcibly than was necessary. Evora straightens up in surprise. My initial instinct is to apologize, but I quell the urge after sharing a pointed look with Milo. I don¡¯t really want to say I¡¯m sorry¡ªbecause I¡¯m not. And I need to exemplify that.


    ¡°Brian, Milo,¡± I say, turning to the two men standing against the wall. ¡°Would it be alright if I spoke to my aunt alone?¡±


    The both of them nod.


    Brian wanders through the doorway, but before Milo leaves, he leans in to give me a kiss on the forehead.


    ¡°Don¡¯t leave the sentence hanging,¡± he whispers. ¡°Say all the words aloud.¡±


    Aunt Evora eyes me warily while he leaves the room. I can tell she knows she did something wrong. It¡¯s not guilt, per se, but discomfort at the very least. ¡°You don¡¯t need to do all that. Anything you need to say to me, I¡¯m sure you could have said in front of them.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m gay, Auntie.¡±


    She scoffs. ¡°You¡¯ve already said as much, Felix. I don¡¯t know why you need to repeat these ideas¡ª¡±


    ¡°Because it¡¯s the truth. I. Am. Gay.¡±


    The silence that follows is rife with tension. I can see her jaw clench as she stares down at the bed sheets.


    Unfortunately, the guilt does get to me, and I soften, lowering my voice to a less aggressive volume. ¡°Look. I appreciate all that you do for me. I appreciate that you bring me food and you¡¯re always checking up on me and letting me know how my parents are. I appreciate that you stuck around. And I know that you¡¯ve been lonely ever since Uncle Joseph died. It¡¯s why I never tell you you¡¯re unwelcome even if you call at a bad time.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re¡ª¡±


    ¡°Please, let me finish.¡± I pause, giving her the out if she wants to take it, but she doesn¡¯t say anything more, so I go on. ¡°I can¡¯t keep doing this if you¡¯re going to keep making comments though. I understand that the idea of me liking men is foreign to you¡ªand maybe you disapprove, and you think it¡¯s sinful. Whatever. I get that. But please, stop making comments about women being interested in me, or trying to set me up on dates. It just makes being around you unpleasant.


    ¡°I¡¯m not asking you to befriend Milo or any other man who might enter my life, but if you can¡¯t accept that, then at least let¡¯s not bring it up. Otherwise¡­¡± I hesitate, not wanting to be harsh. I¡¯m feeling bold at the moment though. ¡°Otherwise, I don¡¯t think I can be around you anymore.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just saying, I don¡¯t see why you have to act on it,¡± she says quietly, lips pursed.


    All I can see in my mind is a cold night out on the streets of a suburb. Dores crying in the corner while my dad repeatedly shoved a bible in my face, rapping his knuckles against the cover over and over again. Inches away. All I feel is that fear that gripped me as I looked up and down the empty block, knowing the soft glow behind curtained windows was out of my reach. But then I think about the way I felt holding Milo¡¯s hand for the first time, the way I feel any time he¡¯s in the same room as me. That happiness. That effortless joy. ¡°Being gay is not a choice for me,¡± I say. ¡°But choosing to be happy is, and I don¡¯t want to deny myself that anymore.¡±


    Evora adjusts her coat, even if it hasn¡¯t wrinkled.


    ¡°Not even to reunite the family?¡±


    I don¡¯t have the energy to be anything other than honest. ¡°I¡¯m not the one keeping them at a distance.¡±


    At first, there¡¯s no reaction. She stares into me with blank eyes. Then she nods¡ªit begins in reluctance but transforms to defeat.


    ¡°Okay,¡± she says. ¡°I won¡¯t mention it anymore.¡±


    Part of me wants to feel disappointed that we¡¯re going to adopt a mode of silence rather than acceptance concerning my sexuality. But I remind myself that even one step forward is better than standing still. That she¡¯s willing to do that much is a hopeful sign. And who knows, maybe it¡¯s just the beginning of things to come. I¡¯ll be chauffeuring her to a fucking pride parade any year now.


    I¡¯m desperate to hide my smirk.


    Luckily, I don¡¯t think Aunt Evora sees. She¡¯s rummaging in her purse for something.


    ¡°You should finish eating,¡± she says. ¡°Where did I put my lip balm? Boys! You can come back in now!¡±


    ~


    By the time only ten minutes of visiting hours remain, it¡¯s just me and Milo in my room. I¡¯m completely exhausted¡ªhaving not slept last night and given everything that¡¯s happened the past few days¡ªbut I can¡¯t bring myself to let Milo leave. To his credit, he¡¯s not putting up a fight either. It may be down to the nurses to kick him out.


    He sits in the only chair in the room, leaning over the side of my bed, his hands resting on mine. I¡¯m thankful that he¡¯s here for many reasons, but the most prominent is that I¡¯d have probably gone mad already with boredom from being here alone. For Chrissakes, they won¡¯t even let me turn up the TV loud enough to hear anything. So he keeps me busy with stories about his past and the mundaneness of his work (he¡¯s taken today and tomorrow off), and we do a few crosswords on his phone. By the end, he¡¯s just humming to me and I¡¯m listening in silence, wondering if my exhaustion will turn into sleep or if that¡¯ll prove impossible for the umpteenth evening in a row.


    Abruptly, he stops midway through a classic Britney Spears number, maybe the only song of hers I know.


    ¡°I¡­want to apologize,¡± Milo says, folding his arms on my mattress and resting his head on top.


    ¡°What the hell could you possibly be apologizing for?¡± I ask, bewildered.


    He chooses his words carefully. ¡°I feel like I should¡¯ve recognized you were going through something and pushed a little less. I wanted a full-blown relationship from the start, and I think it¡¯s pretty obvious now you weren¡¯t ready for that.¡±


    I don¡¯t know how to respond, completely floored that he¡¯s attempting to siphon any blame for what¡¯s happened.


    He says, ¡°I just wanted to be around you so much. I thought I could help.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s my raw sexual magnetism, isn¡¯t it?¡± I say, eyebrow cocked.


    He smiles¡ªall I might ever need emotionally¡ªand rolls his eyes. ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s about the sum of it.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m hard to resist, but you¡¯re going to have to try and control yourself.¡±


    ¡°Someone¡¯s feeling better.¡±


    I make a face at him and he laughs, adjusting so that he¡¯s in a more comfortable position. I¡¯d offered for him to hop up on the bed with me, but he refused, saying it wasn¡¯t large enough for both of us. I accused him of being a Jack Dawson, which made him throw his head back with laughter.


    ¡°Can I ask you something?¡± I say, figuring that my defenses have been so lowered all day that there¡¯s no reason to raise them now. We¡¯re in a confessional state of mind.


    He nods.


    ¡°Why do you like me?¡± I ask. ¡°I feel like I¡¯ve made the last couple weeks a hellhole for you?¡±


    He smiles sheepishly, and the word ¡°love¡± crosses my mind.


    ¡°Well,¡± he says, ¡°I won¡¯t say it¡¯s your optimism.¡±


    ¡°Hey!¡± I slap his arm. ¡°I¡¯m being fucking vulnerable right now, you cunt bag.¡±


    Milo giggles. ¡°Okay¡ªokay, sorry.¡± His expression goes serious. ¡°I like you because you are so concerned with how comfortable and happy everyone around you is. Whether you realize it or not, you want to make sure everyone feels heard, and I think that¡¯s really admirable.


    ¡°You are also one of the funniest people I¡¯ve ever met, although I think your brand of self-effacing humor may need a little tweaking given the recent revelations.¡± He glances up at the IV stationed beside my bed with raised eyebrows, and I deliver another slap to his arm. Milo¡¯s tongue pokes the inside of his cheek. ¡°It also doesn¡¯t hurt that you are very, very cute.¡±


    ¡°Okay, now I know you¡¯re full of shit.¡±


    Milo sits back, shaking his head.


    ¡°Look,¡± I say, deciding to fight my instinct to avoid serious topics for once. ¡°I¡¯ve wanted to be with you since the moment I laid eyes on you. If anything, I¡¯m grateful that you¡¯ve been persistent, because otherwise I would¡¯ve let you slip away. I think you¡¯ve started to realize that about me now¡ªand if you haven¡¯t, perhaps you¡¯re not as observant as I¡¯ve given you credit for¡ª¡±


    He sticks his tongue out, but I couldn¡¯t resist taking one teasing shot at least.


    ¡°The therapist they had me talk to earlier said I have a lot of learned behaviors that are going to need undoing. So maybe¡­keep pushing, but maybe don¡¯t push very hard?¡± I grimace, knowing that I¡¯ve put him in an impossibly uncertain situation. ¡°I really like you, and I¡¯d like to not fuck that up.¡±


    ¡°Can you tell me when I¡¯m pushing too hard?¡± he asks. A reasonable request.


    ¡°No. That¡¯s giving me far too much credit.¡±


    Milo shakes his head again. ¡°Then how about a safe word?¡± he asks. ¡°Or maybe a phrase? Something indirect to tip me off?¡±


    ¡°How about ¡®Let¡¯s go for a hike,¡¯¡± I suggest.


    At this he laughs, sitting up to throw his head back. ¡°Alright. I think I can remember that.¡±


    When he lays his head back down beside me, I run my fingers through his hair and simply appreciate his welcome presence. I¡¯m still not sure what I did to deserve him, or what he sees in me, but I¡¯m happy to have him around. And I believe that to some degree¡ªthough the magnitude can be argued¡ªI might deserve some of that happiness. I make a promise to myself that I will find ways to show him how I feel. Romantic, intimate, and frivolous ways. Large, emotional gestures that require thought and planning, as well as simple things that any normal person might do on a daily basis with their significant other. Maybe things won¡¯t always feel as sunny as they do in this moment¡ªI¡¯m sure I¡¯ll have my ups and downs. But I want to try sticking around during those moments instead of leaving.


    Staying has gotten me farther than running away ever did.