“You’re getting it wrong, we don’t have to be there yet.”
Lance said without glancing up from his book.
“Thanks for telling me.” I, Scott, said back limply.
“Well , don’t sulk.” My once and only lover for a brief and shining moment, cooed.
“Let’s just have a drink before we go.”
That kind of sums up our relationship now, on the 18th month track to the badlands. Unspontaneous, predictable, slouching toward Cheeveresque.
Shame I can’t say that he might laugh and we would actually have to decide to split.
I’ve suspected he was having an affair or at least anonymous sex, perhaps both, for about a year. Not that he doesn’t give me complete satisfaction as a husband and a lover, but lately there is a nagging vibe of a been there, fucked that, attitude.
“What are you reading?” I ask as I make our martinis, knowing that it is one of his pet peeves to be interrupted from reading to tell someone what he is reading.
“Nancy Drew and the missing dildo, smart ass. Actually, I’m bored with it so I’m not going to finish it, so you didn’t really get me.” Lance then hurls the book in the corner. He likes to throw things. It‘s his trademark actually. He told me once he would throw everything within reach as a child and that his nickname was ‘Chuck’.
On our first date we got out of the cab and he tossed his wallet to me and said “Can you pay him, you beautiful man. I’ll be busy looking at your ass.” Even though he could sound like a mutant member of The Rat Pack, he was actually very romantic.
How could that fire be going out so quickly? I ask myself, immediately putting it out of my mind when he switches on the tv and we have the safe zone of discussing the news. We are both broadband liberals and that has kept a lot of passion in our relationship.
Just as I was mind-munching on this, Lance, downing his drink with a flourishing ‘Ahhh’ said “Ok, Scott, let’s walk so we don’t have to talk. Great, now he was fucking reading my mind.
“You hate walking.” I said.
“Well, you hate talking, so we’re even.” he said.
He swept open the closet door and pulled out our between season leathers for the theater.
“Let’s switch them. Your coat goes half way over my ass which I think looks good on me.“
Lance said this without a hint of vanity even though it sounds completely egotistical. He actually doesn’t even think of himself as attractive, but has an very natural style about what looks good on his body. He could have been a model because of his bored attitude and neutral, read pissed off, leer.
“Yes but yours looks way too short on me.”
“Wear a sweater and it will look great. Anyway, you are always in my closet, so you can lend me your jacket.” He said, tossing it to me, like we were roommates now instead of lovers.
Another piece of evidence of his evolving decision. Transparent as cheap glass sometimes is a thought I’ve had before.
“Sure.” I said limply not noticing that he was actually having another drink.
When I turned back around Scott was crying. It was the very first time I saw him cry outside of a wayward tear during sex the first night we met. I never forgot it and over time thought that it was not the result of a sneeze, but that he was actually smitten by me in the first blush of love or lust or some emotion that he couldn’t really control.