The idea of a letter struck me sometime close to midnight and I began with a wild abandon, pouring my thoughts awkwardly onto paper with inaccurate epithets and clumsy descriptions. It was concise, in a way solicitor’s letters usually are, and I thought, quite humorously, about substituting my mental label of “love letter” with a “legal notice” and leaving it at that. I solemnly declared that my notice did not require a response; I quoted from my journal and gave a full citation. I had great fun imagining Jonny’s humorless response to my scribal antics; laughing to myself I turned purposelessly to look out the darkened window and realized with a start that I was quite alone.

It was clear now that the letter had to be edited. With unnoticed sweat cooling off my forehead I stared at the four neat paragraphs on a page; it was quieter now, the hours ticking off into the morning. The unmade bed beckoned me and for a second I thought of the delightful feeling of pushing my face into the pillow with the thought of him; sliding softly into a swift current of musings, tracing leisurely along the familiar routes of imaginings. I did just that; and with my eyes closed and my mouth open with a breathy sigh, I quoted a few lines from my letter into the gentle darkness around me.

The spell must have worked, for I remained in the state of half-wakefulness for the whole night. My thoughts turned into dreams and dreams into thoughts, and I conversed with Jonny while turning over in my bed in a search of a more comfortable spot. I sweated, too, and smiled at the sound of rare cars sloshing rainwater on the street; mostly, I smiled at Jonny, who was rather quiet.

“Jonny,” I breathed at him, while he sat on my rather shabby sofa, his hands on his knees and his jaw set. His hair was bathed in the cold light that came from the window; I trembled with delight, looking up at him from my place on the floor. I loved him then, distant and mute as he was, and I thought – perhaps when he answers my letter, this Jonny of mine will speak. For now I was afraid to touch him, for in my writing I promised not to allow myself any liberties. And yet, as the night held its last breath before giving in to the soft light of the morning, I pressed my lips against his clothed knee in silent admiration. 

_____

Well, I had to post something for the (almost) four-year anniversary (-: 

J.
The brief pockets of time they shared together were always full of people. They were not visible to Thom, exactly, he was reminded of their existence when Jonny’s gaze strayed away from him to rest on some unseen person, briefly, then come back to Thom’s face. At first Thom’s breath hitched and he stumbled over his words when something like that happened; then he grew accustomed to it, continuing to speak, while some part of him studied Jonny.

They were walking now and Thom could not guess if Jonny were looking at people around them, or if he were busy with the logistics of dodging the oncoming bodies; one of them was talking, excitedly, and Thom wondered briefly how they knew where they were going; perhaps they relied on each other for direction, like fish following their neighbors blindly. Nevertheless they reached the point where they were to separate, and Jonny, who was walking ahead, turned to Thom with a precursory smile. They stood smiling for a second, because there were no appropriate goodbyes on their tongues.

“Want a hug?” Thom said, low in his throat, spreading his arms slightly, and leaning forward when he saw a small nod from still-smiling Jonny. Thom’s hands landed on Jonny’s spine, and as he allowed them to stroke lower – the first inclination of exploration – he felt Jonny twisting, following the movement of his hand, responding comfortably and naturally. It was, really, a moment of mutual movement, of flesh connecting with flesh in a mysterious dance of bodies; a lever raised or a switch flicked or a button pushed, and it occurred to Thom how easy it would be fit his body against Jonny’s.

Dragging his hands over Thom’s shoulders and down his arms before separating, Jonny straightened with an enigmatic smile.

The cigarette was dangling loosely between Colin’s fingers, and it might have indicated that he was tipsy, or unfocussed, except his sharp eyes noticed everything and his biting mouth was forming precisely accentuated sentences. Jonny was hanging on to each word, mute with respect, and Thom was fidgeting with no idea how to break into their conversation, or rather Colin’s monologue, at least to say his goodbyes.

Finally he reached out a cold hand and laid it briefly on Jonny’s shoulder, figuring that his physical stimulation would interrupt Colin’s conversational for just a needed second. It worked – Jonny turned to look at Thom, his dark eyes blank and sad at the same time.

“I am going to go,” said Thom with a warm smile, because he hated to be a bad loser. He wasn’t sure what Jonny said to him, but Colin cast a sidelong glance at nothing at particular and said his goodbye with an even voice as Thom was already walking on. There were some steps in front of him and he overtook them in just two strides, free at last from the various constraints that were thrown on him by Colin’s and Jonny’s presence.

The dream came to him while he was dozing in the early morning and the dream was rebelliously filled with sunshine. He was stretched on his side on the floor rearranging some wires while Jonathan was laughing on the sofa, and Jonathan’s coarse-clothed knee was so close that he could touch it with his lips, which he did. Jonny’s long limbs were concealed with layers of clothing, and the cold sunshine filtered through his hair and made his skin look pale. Thom kissed his cheek, traced the lines on his palm with his finger, and pressed his hand – the things he thought of doing for months, and Jonathan received them with caresses of his own, humble, localized, light.

“‘…a spirt of my own seminal wet,’” Colin was saying, cigarette between his fingers, leaning against the building to escape the rain, “There was a discourse between the artistic queers at that time, they were figuring out how they were to proceed with their lifestyle.”

Jonathan was looking at Thom’s chest when Thom turned to him, and yet the younger man did not blush or avert his eyes, for he had been caught numerous times before and knew that there would be no confrontation. Thom’s breath hitched from his own impotency to say anything and he almost reached over to grab Jonny’s cold fingers and rub them till they were prickly with heat. Nothing happened, though, except a lame walk they shared together as Thom delivered Jonny into Colin’s hands, and imagined that the latter looked at his receding back for a short second with disapproval.

Thom thought that Colin knew everything and refused to participate in the charade, preferring to continue with his lascivious descriptions enunciated with just a hint of boredom, punctuated by languid gestures. Thom wanted to stuff his fists in his pockets and tell Jonny that he had somewhere else to be; and yet, when Jonathan half-mumbled the tired and tortured invitation for coffee Thom agreed in a beat.

On the park bench they slowly melted against each other as Thom pulled Jonny into the neutral topics and Jonny’s thoughts poured out of him without restraint, and yet, once they were walking back, Jonathan’s speed increased and Thom had to play constant catch-up. It was impossible to know what Jonny was thinking, and Thom did not start a conversation lest it would distract him from walking. Thom was also unsure if Jonny would listen to him. And so, as the younger man missed their turn, he stood at the intersection not knowing what to do for a desperate second.

“Jonathan!” he shouted finally, and waited for Jonny to turn around, to look back at him.

The Thing (For the Lack of a Better Title)

Jonny was just signing the receipt when he cared to look back and stop Thom on his tracks.

“Don’t kick it – you’ll break your toe, or worse.”

“I wasn’t going to kick it,” Thom gazed curiously at a medium-sized box on the floor by Jonny’s feet, “What’ve we got?”

“You’ll see,” Jonny thanked the postman and closed the door, “Give me a hand?”

“A hand? I’d rather give you an Ed instead,” Thom smiled crookedly, “I thought of that one a long time ago. You never ask me for a hand, do you?”

“Well, I am not as full of double entendres as you are of bad puns,” Jonny nudged the box with his foot, “So let’s just get to this.”

Colin threw the newspaper on the table when he saw Thom and Jonny entering the room awkwardly, the box cradled in their hands.

“Finally,” he got up, “I wonder if it’ll leave scratches on the veneer. Just put it on the floor for now.”

Ed wandered in from the kitchen, a cup of tea in hand. “Is that the thing, then?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe.

“I am surprised it took just a couple of weeks,” Phil popped up behind him, looking over Ed’s shoulder.

“Yeah, act like you know what is going on,” Thom dismissed them with a wave of his hand. Phil and Ed chuckled.

“Scissors,” Colin looked around the room, “Do we own scissors?”

“There is a knife in the kitchen,” Ed looked back over his shoulder, encountered Phil’s face, “Hey, mate.”

“Hey,” Phil laughed, going back to pick up a knife. He returned in a couple of seconds, handing it over to Colin.

“Shall I get the camera?” Jonny asked, his voice high.

“Sure, put on your Sunday dress, too,” Thom cackled. “I mean no harm,” he raised his hands defensively when he saw Jonny’s impression.

Colin worked his way through the layer of cardboard, then through the bubble wrap. Thom watched closely as a monolithic and irregularly shaped object emerged from plastic.

“Is that a new instrument?” Thom looked at Jonny “Because you should really limit your ambitions to a laptop. All the cool musicians are doing it.”

“It is not an instrument,” Jonny went down on his knees, putting his hand on the object, “It is one of the earliest art forms.”

He turned the thing – which turned out to be a slab of rock – so that Thom could see an ancient handprint on it.

“That’s a cool paperweight,” Ed said, “Is Marks and Spencer selling them now? A prehistoric paperweight – it will save your novel from a tornado. ”

“Come on, Ed, this thing is much better than a paperweight. A doorstop, maybe,” Phil and Ed laughed.

“Laugh or not, it is staying here. I like the idea of having it close while we are working on songs,” Colin said, looking around.

“What do you think, Thom?” Jonny asked.

“Um. I thought Stanley’s work was doing the trick,” Thom gestured around the room.

“Don’t you want something monumental?”

“Is that monumental?”

Everyone stared at the rock. In a couple of beats, Ed started humming Thus Spoke Zarathustra. Phil laughed, Colin and Jonny smiled in spite of themselves. Thom appeared annoyed.

“How is that connected to…this?” he asked, exasperated.

“Well, that rock did inspire the cavemen,” Ed said with a smile.

***

Thom lingered inside while the others were already making their way to the pub.

“Come on!” Ed yelled, and Thom cursed, looking for his wallet.

“Just go on, I’ll catch up with you,” he said, dropping his coat on the floor and heading quickly into the room.

He didn’t bother to switch on the light, but when he turned, looking around, he saw the outline of the rock. It was settled on the bureau, its reflection partially visible in the mirror behind it. The hall’s light softly cradled its irregular edges. Thom studied the alien object for a long moment before coming close to it and resting his hand on it. It felt cool to the touch.

“You know, they say it is always cold in caves, even during the summer,” Jonny emerged from the dark, approaching from behind. Thom raised his eyes, watching Jonny in the mirror; his hand was still on the rock.

Jonny slowly made his way toward Thom, stopping behind him and laying his hand on the other man’s shoulder. Thom watched Jonny’s lips touch his hair, without feeling it.

“You are probably feeling the same sensation that man felt when he made this,” Jonny whispered in Thom’s ear, brushing it with his lips. “I thought that,” he leaned in, brushing Thom’s cheek with his lips briefly, “would interest you.”

“Imagine a sensational constant that transcends time,” Jonny’s hand slithered from Thom’s waist onto his stomach, “Sure we get a lot of those. Hunger, thirst, fear, lust,” he smiled in the dark, sliding a little closer, “But this is much more personal, isn’t it? This is not just some universal feeling that you happen to experience. This is you, touching the same matter and receiving the same sensation, thousands of years into the future.”

“Of course it is just a little part of you,” Jonny’s hand slid underneath Thom’s button-up shirt, resting momentarily on his stomach, “I don’t think that he was having absolutely the same feelings as you are now.”

Thom closed his eyes, leaning his head against Jonny’s shoulder.

“Consider this your little hook that connects you to others,” Jonny kissed Thom’s neck slowly. “Something to think about when you feel like you are drifting away. When you are that little piece of Europe ‘washed away by the sea,’ so to speak,” Jonny laughed lightly, his hot breath tickling Thom’s ear. Thom sighed.

***

Thom was staring at the rock again, only now in bright daylight.

“How much did this thing cost, anyway?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Jonny paid for it. Does it matter?” Colin answered from the couch, not bothering to look up from his newspaper.

“Yes. No. I just can’t imagine desecrating some cave, where others could view it, just for our personal pleasure. If that thing is all about humans and…universality, then how come we get to enjoy it in the privacy of our house?”

“Thom,” Colin looked up from his newspaper, “You do know it’s a replica.”

______

I was watching “Mad Men” and the subject of cave men handprints came up. The character in the series described it as prehistoric men reaching into the future. I thought it was nifty and - Voilà!

I was in a foolish mood and this came out. I think it's nice to break up the overall gloominess of this place.

______

“So, it is two glasses of wine with every lunch and dinner now,” Thom said, grinning briefly over his plate.

“Between one and two, I’d say one and one quarter, why do you ask?” Jonny answered, handling the knife methodically.

“You popped a pill yesterday.”

“It was just to concentrate,” Jonny said, off-handedly.

Thom gave up on his food and leaned back against the chair, crossing his arms, “You said the same thing to me 20 years ago.”

“Yes, and you were kind enough to let it slide,” Jonny noticed.

Thom cackled, amused. “I didn’t let it slide, I researched the thing.”

“Did you now?”

“Well, yeah. I found it in your Mum’s medicine cabinet. The words ‘Highly Addictive’ stood out nicely.”

“And I thought you were a cool bloke who’d jump off a bridge without a shirt on, with jeans riding dangerously low on your hips.”

“What now?”

“Just one of the images I had of you back then.”

“I’d never do such a thing. With jeans riding dangerously low on my hips? Is that a quote from a diary of yours?”

“I’d read it somewhere. Point is, you seemed cooler.”

“I was cool. I was drunk on your self-destructiveness. It was like a step stone for my entrance. I could see the headlines: Jonny Greenwood on the slippery slope to oblivion; Thom Yorke saves his tortured band mate.”

“Nobody knew us back then. And that wouldn’t be cool. Dual suicide – that’s cool. With jeans riding dangerously low on our hips.”

“What is this obsession with jeans?”

“I admire protruding pelvic bones. Anyway, you seemed that kind of cool. Remember when we bumped into each other in a pub? By the bathroom?”

“The most romantic memory I have. Remind me?”

“You said ‘Hullo.’”

“Classic.”

“No, it’s the way you said it. It was so… low.”

“As in ‘Jeans riding dangerously low…’”

“Shut up, no. It was a growl, almost, and you were smiling that cool smile of yours.”

“Oh yes. My ‘I have got to piss smile’ is the most charming of all.”

“No, it wasn’t that. I still didn’t know you that well back then, so it seemed that you were always like that – nonchalant and suave.”

“Suave! I had a stain on my shirt and I am quite sure I smelled a bit from being in the pub for so long.”

“So you remember it then?”

“Of course I do, I thought I looked like the biggest idiot on the planet.”

“Well, it’s all rose-tinted now.”

“Were there flowers blooming in the urinals?”

“At least I wasn’t the one who was ‘drunk on your self-destructiveness.’”

Thom blinked a couple of times. “I was your knight in shining armour.”

“You didn’t do anything.”

“I thought I’d do something if I caught you again.”

“Ah. A hesitant hero.”

“Well, nobody loves a nag.”

“An uncool nag, I should say.”

“Shut up, I am throwing away the pills.”

“Suit yourself. Though you need aspirin more than me.”

“Goddamit.”

Ghost, Ocean

There was a ghost dancing to the left of the stage, immersed in the sea of people, moving in the same rhythm with them for three hours; he was sharing their air and sweat, the words their lips formed, the thoughts that floated around their heads. He shuddered into consciousness whenever someone bumped into him, like a person gasping for air before plunging back into the murky depth, only to be absorbed back into the crowd in a couple of heartbeats. And yet – he was an alien part of the crowd, a piece waiting to be rejected by the whole; a fish jumping out of a bowl, a whale throwing himself on the beach.

I noticed him because he was collected from different memories. The toss of his hair was infused with longing; the curve of his hips sent a surge of lust through me. I imagined his lips were whispering old conversations into my ear; I thought his hand was resting on the small of my back, nudging me forward. A ghost, I thought, who was perfectly calm to be here, not afraid of my awareness. Perhaps he knew that I was not going to reach for him, grab the hem of his jacket and pull his ethereal body toward me, feel it melt in my fingers.

On the way home I watched the sky and the fields out of the cab’s window. Storm was coming, I thought, and the sea of tall weeds was dancing with the wind, slithering mutely in the air, enticing me with its licentious dance. It invited me to exit the cab and join it, walk among the dancing weeds and trail my hands over them, to feel their elastic stems caressing my skin; to be an alien body within a larger organism.

It was a pleasure to feel the cool wind on my skin, in my hair, reaching inside my collar, playing with the hems of my shirt. The cab sped away on the empty highway toward the city, a particle moving against the body of wind. My house was in its way, too; curving around it, the wind howled and moaned.

Jonathan met me with a smile, stroking my wind-caressed face with his hand, while my eyes traveled to the window where weeds were dancing; I wanted to take him to the field, but his hand seized mine and he led me upstairs, where murky blue spilled from the window onto the bed and the curtains were floating with the breeze. His stomach moved slowly under my lips; his fingers brushed me slightly, mixing with the caresses of the wind. His mouth was that of a ghost, reaching for me, or for this world; like neurons in our spinal cord, we connected to join separated parts, to be a part of the whole.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw shadows dancing on the walls; their sinuous bodies enjoying my distracted attention, disappearing once I became I aware of them. Jonathan’s hand was moving over my body, mine over the curve of his hips.

_____

This is, perhaps, the most sexual thing I've ever written.

“So what happened?” Jonny asks, sitting on the bed. His legs are stretched on the duvet and his hands are locked on his stomach; he looks attentive and sober. I realize that this is a start of a long conversation.

“Nothing happened,” I shrug. I walk around the hotel room because there are a million things that need to be done. The unpacked bags are standing by the door and I dread going through them; perhaps we can make it until tomorrow without opening a single zip.

“Something happened,” Jonny says. He is wearing his green sweater because he is always cold on the planes. Today we were out of our luck and the flight was canceled. It is hot and rainy and there is absolutely nothing to do.

“We met at the train station,” I start a 25-year old story, “Your brother was a little late.”

“So you had to wait for him?” he asks and I remember standing awkwardly by the ticket windows, “You were standing next to all other people waiting for their dates.”

“I wasn’t standing,” I say and open the only closet, stare at wire hangers, “Well, I was standing first, but then the ticket lady asked me what I was doing so I had to walk around, check my watch, stare at the schedules.”

Jonny laughs delightedly, then prompts me to go on. I tell him that Colin wore all black and we couldn’t find what to talk about for some time. I tell him that it was murky when we arrived.

“Tell me if your hands brushed when you were walking,” he asks and I sit on the duvet, stare at his feet.

“Not when we were walking. But our shoulders touched a couple of times when we were standing in the crowd,” I say and take off one of his socks. For a moment I gaze at his foot, unsure how to caress it.

“Was it awfully loud?” he asks and nudges my hand with his foot.

“Yes,” I say and fall back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. It was awfully loud and we had to speak into each other’s ears. Do you know how hard it is to sound sweet while screaming into someone’s ear?

“Yes,” Jonny laughs and rolls on the bed until he is parallel with me. His hand rests on my chest and one of his legs nestles between mine, “Did you kiss?”

“No,” I say, and Jonny’s cold foot tries to find its way into my sock. Colin surprised me when he went in for a hug when we were saying our goodbyes and I patted him on the back a couple of times.

Jonny laughs again and I am delighted to see a thin film of perspiration covering his forehead. It makes his pale skin look smooth; he looks like Colin 25 years ago and it feels wrong to have him like this. He does not mind it all, his hand slides to my stomach and he brings his face closer to mine.

“You should have taken me,” he says, whispering like a boy, loud and eager, “Nothing happened. You should have taken me.”

“I did take you,” I say, staring into Jonny’s dilated pupils, “I didn’t know. I did the best I could.”