Story 5 (which is mellow and oily)
L?1R
I ought to kill the boy. The curious inhabitants of our house are questioning me about the code appearing on our fridge with high frequency, and all I can do is wink and change the subject or pretend I didn’t hear them.
I find it there, lined up carefully, on most of the nights I get home. I sigh out and head upstairs, then quietly through the hall and into our hiding room to find him sprawled on the floor with his headphones on, fast-asleep. I wake him up with a light scratch on his shoulder and he jerks like a kitten, then looks me in the face and takes a few seconds to recognize the features. After that his long arms wrap around me neck and he grins widely, bringing his buttery face close to mine. His lips are salty and his forehead is slightly damp. I tangle in his limbs like a fish in the net and there’s no coming back without suffocating and writhing madly.
I understand he is confused and I am so, too. Right now it’s innocent and doesn’t go too far, and I’m content not to implore while he is content not to risk. Every advance we make is a conquest; every new bit of skin we are presented with is cherished and carefully explored. Sometimes we forget everything and go back to being friends, drinking out of the same bottles and fiddling with the guitars, playing cards and laughing, however soon enough his arm finds its way around my shoulders and he pulls me closer and we transform into lovers in just a click of the tongue. I catch his thorny gaze now and then – it climbs up my torso and it creeps down my hips, it gets tangled in my hair and it scratches my neck as it slides down until it is met by the collar.
We kiss all the time, it seems. Colin glances at my lips now and then, and they are red and dry from him kissing me in the cold (when we sneak out before everybody else and spend several seconds together); he raises an eyebrow at me and says nothing, too preoccupied with his own thoughts and affairs (Ed enters the room, running a hand through his hair). Ed is oblivious, of course; Phil is calm and it is a pleasure to talk to him in those rare afternoons when I’m home and we sit on the front porch, our bare feet on the warm stones – not for too long though; a gentle hand on my shoulder and I raise my head to meet the brown eyes as he sits close to me, and my peaceful conversation is crushed. I gaze down at our feet, resting side-by-side; judging by them, he’s the one in charge.
In the lair he slouches on the armchair casually, watching me, his lips pouting a bit. It’s been some time now and by his body language I understand that he wants me to come closer. He’s got lots of those gestures, really; when he is fidgety and irritable he wants us to be alone that exact minute, and when I lead him away from others our teeth clink because he dives in too eagerly; when he plays the piano and looks at me with his eyes half-closed he wants me to stay where I am so he could watch; when he is laughing too loudly and is a bit drunk he most likely wants to cuddle, however he can’t stop moving and we end up roughhousing.
“Nice pose,” I say to him and he grins, his eyes warm and calm, “I like the way…your knees touch. And the way your shirt is wrinkling around the waistband of your jeans…is lovely.”
In that position he looks like a nymphet and I’m Humbert Humbert. But soon he sits upright, clears his voice and tucks the loose strands behind his ears and when he speaks his voice is calm and soothing, and at least 7 years older.
“I like every concept of you,” he says, “But you know that, I sent you enough notes…”
I smile and his eyes are beckoning me to come closer. I do and stand on my knees in front of him, while he sighs and glides his flat palms down my shoulders and underneath my shirt.
“I like the fact that we can talk about this,” he says, kissing my temple, closing his eyes momentarily, “But I hate the fact that once we are apart I can’t recall your smell. It should be unspoken,” he chuckles, taking one of his hands off my back and rubbing his eyes, “But I hate not talking to you. All these couples that claim they don’t need to speak of things, because they understand each other without words…I don’t understand. I can’t wait to talk to you, and each time we do talk – it’s just the continuation of one giant dialogue, don’t you think?”
“Yes.”
The house creaks and the walls murmur, and everywhere it is cold and blue; in our lair, there’s soft light and quiet music, the air stays still and the clock always shows the same time.
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