Untitled: Part I

He had wanted more, I could tell. This craving was never satisfied and he continued licking his lips and staring, throbbing.

I stared through him so that his features blurred and his head became a brown blot blocking my view of an off white ceiling. The long jagged cracks dispersing from corners like skinny black fingers grabbing for the bare light bulb that sat in the center, protruding from a metallic double headed socket. Bare and ugly. You could see where it had been painted over, a coat of off white over eggplant over an avocado green. Those long black fingers still reaching for it from distant spaces.

There used to be a shade that covered the bulbs but it was long gone on account of he wants to see everything.

Belkis Ayón, No Title, 1999

“Cala…Cala.”

I lost focus and like that he rematerialized as deep set chestnut eyes.

“Did you?”

I shook my head, fidgeting some beneath his weight.

I shook my head and sent a hurricane across the room. The colors grew heavy and darkened. His expression shifted from a serenity to slits where eyes used to be and a thin, hard line where once was an eager mouth.

Ebbing further away. I shifted my arm so that the crook of my elbow dug into the mattress and with my hand pressed against his right breast, I pushed firmly. Pushed him away.

“Where do you go?” He was upset again but trying to mask it.

Rolling over, he created distance, hoisted himself to the edge of the bed and sat still; the length of his shoulders stretching, the brawn of his back apparent.

I didn’t like him. I should have, I felt…but I didn’t and I couldn’t figure why. Or I knew and ignored it.

“You’re always in your head…you live in there.”

The bed rocked with his mood, but I sat quiescent, my hands contrasting against the navy color of crumpled sheets.

It wasn’t enough that I gave my body to him, now he wanted my mind too. I had to be present, I had to participate in the ritual.

Part of me desired, had a hankering when I would look at him. The outline of his build, the clean trim of his nails, the strength in his chest and hands, how he would tower above, and could lift me with ease. Toss me, throw me, pin me to the ground if he’d like.

That part of me was much smaller than the part that remained unmoved by him or anyone else for that matter. Smaller than what could go wrong, diminutive when compared to what could be improved, and microscopic in the grand scheme of it all.

I think too much.

“You think too much,” the bed bounced as he lifted his bare body from it and made his way out of the bedroom into the small hall leading to the restroom “You’re killing me!” He shouted as he slammed the door.

“Fuck you…” I said almost inaudibly to no one, my legs writhing beneath the feel of damp sheets on my skin.

I tore the fabric off and remained on the bed, staring at the light bulb on the ceiling.

When he had introduced himself the first thing I noticed was his stature. He was taller than me, noticeably, and there was a joy in the corners of his eyes even when he wasn’t smiling; he always looked like he was on the verge.

Not particularly handsome, there was something alluring about this man that went beyond contemporary beauty. I was drawn to him and the way his slim upper lip dipped into a fuller bottom, I listened to him talk and wondered what they felt like, how they’d taste.

“It’s probably too forward to ask for yours, but do you want to take my number?”

I probably wouldn’t call.

I nodded.

He gave it.

“What’s your name?”

“Cal.”

A metallic scream and water was gushing from the shower head. He’d be in shortly to ask if I’d like to shower with him. Instead of sharing the predictable dialogue that may or may not escalate into something combative, I pressed my head deep into the pillow. My eyelids slid slowly until everything was fuzzy blackness. I’d feign sleep and hopefully doze in the process.

It was six in the morning when I opened my eyes and he was standing in front of the small, circular mirror on the wall across from the bed, rubbing lotion into his face and smoothing the sable colored scruff that was his beard.

I wanted to call to him but I knew he’d ruin the moment so I continued watching silently until he was gone. He hadn’t even kissed me goodbye. Yes, he thought I was asleep, but still…

Anyway, I waited until I heard the lock of the front door before I hopped up and scurried to the bathroom wanting desperately to wash the remnants of last night from my skin, from my tongue and hands.

I didn’t think much of sex. Of or about it. Sex. Feelings others painted, the sensations they spoke of all seemed elusive to me. I couldn’t recall if this was always the case or a newer development, but I knew I didn’t think much of it yesterday or today.

In high school, of my small social circle, I was the last to lose my virginity. One by one they abandoned the lunch table of naïveté we shared, in lieu of budding curiosity. Almost as if there was some underlying thirst they all had to satiate.

I was focused on school because it was all I ever focused on. Not just because I naturally excelled or had the aptitude but mostly because it was my means of escape. I had to. It was a goal.

While my friends were daydreaming about hands in warm places, soft, squishy romances, and being covered in lips, I was wrapping myself in reveries of attending a university considerable distance from home.

You can imagine my genuine surprise when summer before my senior year of high school, I met, what I thought at the time, to be my first love.

Nothing about it felt like I thought it might or should. We knew little more about one another than what could be snatched up from the surface and analyzed quickly. But it was love, because what did I know? It had to be. I looked around and everyone my age was in love, or loving, or looking for that loving feeling. I realized the feeling was fleeting, but I halfheartedly joined in the search because having something to dote over was better than trapping myself in a bedroom with school books, confusion, and despair. It had to be love.

Anthony was going to save me, I had decided. Somehow he would. No matter his part time role at a fast food restaurant, the fact that he lived at home an entire city away, that his car was as old as I was, or his lack of real world experience– you see, he was 19 going on 20 and preparing to put himself through his first semester of undergrad. Sixteen year old me looked at the rusted Hyundai he pulled up in as some sort of white horse that day I sat downtown waiting for the bus. A white horse he would come galloping in on, arms extended to reach down and scoop me up; my rescue in waiting.

I recall the skepticism with which my mother met him. Who was this boy–no, man? When I had never had another male friend to the house for the four years we had called it home. I could see it clear as a tornado sky. Her small eyes shrinking to analyze closely, from head to toe, like he was an unwelcome intruder. I hadn’t understood the subtle scrutiny or its purpose as I was still huddled at the table of naiveté my friends had abandoned.

He won her over, though. The two of them saw eye to eye more than he and I did and he quickly blossomed from prowling stranger to a responsible, young man in her mind.

They’d bond over their traditional values and strong work ethic. How Republicans were crooked and how chivalry was dying a slow agonizing death. Usually though, they liked to discuss me.

“What are your plans?”

“To make Cala happy.”

I peeked from around the corner just in time to see my mother’s brows get heavy and her pink mouth tighten.

“Anthony…”

“I’m not rushing anything. I love Cala, Mrs. King and I want to do everything right.”

Softened, she smiled.

I didn’t like that she talked to him about his plans for me. As if I was this fragile item that needed care, that couldn’t and wouldn’t think about these things on my own.

She wanted to know so much about him and where his head was. We lived together but she had never asked me these sorts of questions. Perhaps because she already knew the answers, but at the time it felt like she didn’t care. As long as I kept my grades high and my eyes on attending university, all was well. What more did she need to know about the person I was and was becoming.

“Cala has been going through this,” she hesitated “rebellious phase..the last few years.”

Rebellious stage. As if my sorrow and angst were a kidney stone that I would soon pass, any day now. As if the feelings came to be of their own fruition.

“I can tell.”

Anthony chuckled.

“Cala was such a happy baby…a happy child,” Her expression was vacant as for a moment, she gazed into the distance and transported herself somewhere out of reach “I… I don’t know what happened. I can’t break through, but…You’re a good man, Anthony. I can tell. I trust you, now…don’t ruin it.”

On paper, he was. Truly. He worked as much as he could, he was pursuing his education (he wanted to do something in computer science, but what…I don’t recall), he was respectful more or less and he wasn’t lying about taking it slow. Unlike the young men and boys my friends had been dealing with, he had not once pressured me to do much of anything more than kiss, and though, this too was new to me, I enjoyed it.

The first time he pressed those big round lips to my mouth, out of the darkness an ember bursted where my heart should have been, and I could feel its warmth. It radiated within my chest, throbbing to extend further, burn stronger, consume completely.

I wanted his hands on me in that instant.  Hot yellow palms pressed firmly, umber fingers gripping my skin, but I was reluctant to ask or imply.

You see, as that flame sparked and dazzled my body, my mind was an echo chamber filled with Sunday school scripture: purity, chastity, morality; voices of a mother and stern nuns warning against that little fire that had not materialized yet. While I did not smother it, I knew not to speak of it and I tried, I tried so desperately to keep it from becoming an inferno. To keep it from being seen and more importantly being felt.

Johnny trudged sticky streets of the city, cloying and pungent stenches wafting with little notice as his thoughts swirled, endless.

It was the hour where blue moon greeted golden sun and light was just dripping over the city’s skyline, preparing to cloak its buildings and skyscrapers in a buttery glow.

He wasn’t sure how much more he could endure. Work was hard enough and it was so hard to find a soft place to land, and that’s what he wanted. Sanctuary from the hardness of the city and the troubles that followed him from yesteryear, that he would not turn to face. Or didn’t want to.

Cala.

That face flashed and disappeared and he smiled impishly. Still that warm feeling when Cala came to mind but not a burning red the way it used to be; a dark orange, still powerful, but not as much. He was growing weary of the walls and banging his head against them both gently and maniacally but to little avail.

But this was, for Johnny, an opportunity he was hesitant to discard for never in a thousand years had the idea of being with someone as breathtaking and alluring as Cala come to him and for that alone, he could not let go. At least not now while those pitch black eyes held galaxies and stars for him to fall into. Still, he had never felt such disconnect. Such closeness followed by immediate and staggering distance.

Every week day he would stop at a two floor shop on 34th street and have his breakfast. Bacon, three fried eggs, mozzarella, on a white bagel. Today, however, he didn’t. His appetite had not been present in days since the news of his younger brother reached him.

Their mother called, a little frantic in her speaking but none too alarming:

“It’s your brother, he– h, he’s lost his mind.”

“What’chu talkin’, ma?”

“He went missing for three whole days. Jean hadn’t seen him, I sure didn’t, ain’t nobody seen him for three whole days, Johnny.”

“Alright…”

“An, an, and then he shows up out of the clear sky hollering and breaking things! I think somethin’ really wrong with him.”

He could envision the deep set lines forming in her forehead, covered by wisps of strawberry blonde, the chill of her slate eyes as she squinted while saying the last of her statement.

“I think he needs medication.”

“He won’t go see a doctor.”

“He has to. He’s a grown ass man and has a kid on the way, stop babying him, ma.”

It wasn’t until he found out his brother had slapped Jean that Johnny knew his mother was right. He had lost his mind.

Johnny didn’t have enough money for a flight and neither did his mother; he knew that without asking. With his youngest brother still at home and many of the job opportunities in Choctaw, Oklahoma not plentiful or prestigious.

So he had lost his appetite, which was rare. Skipping meals saved money as well and though he wouldn’t admit it to himself , that contributed. He only needed a couple hundred more dollars for a plane ticket but he wasn’t getting paid until the following week.

Walking along the pier his sight drifted from the boats in the distance to the water just beneath him; gentle ripples cascading across the top, reflecting light along the patterns of movement across the surface.

The water resembled gleaming fish scales to Johnny and he thought about diving in, head first, and swimming all the way to the bottom just to lay there in peace. Forever.

Continuing on his way he passed an encampment of homeless people clustered atop one another, a necropolis of shattered glass bottles scattered around them like a barrier.

He had seen them before, not here, but in the area, passed out just the same. Sometimes not. Sometimes they smiled and spoke, sometimes they slouched back drunk off some cheap liquor or beer, regardless, Cala scowled viciously.

Johnny thought about leaving a few dollars by them but decided against it. He wasn’t really in a financial position to contribute, he justified with himself. Hesitating before he kept on, he stared at their dirt smudged faces and tooth-missing mouths agape, noticing how there was, despite intoxication, a tenderness in their body language as they slept. He felt for them. He pondered briefly on if Cala saw people when they had to walk by them or individuals in the same situation.

He thought about how his life and Cala’s had differed as he moved along the sidewalks and squinted when sunlight slid into his eyes. A little rage rumbled and he quieted it with the gentle reminder that he  was in love. He did love. 

But Cala complained. Not for sake of complaint, but because things could always be improved upon; be better. Johnny didn’t understand what was so horrible about sitting back to relax and bask in yourself, in your journey.

When Johnny would watch Cala, staring at the way bones formed face structure and the dips in the dark waves of hair; the softness around the eyes and gentle way lips sat, he didn’t see struggle. He didn’t recognize a face that knew hardship and usually, you recognized those things as far as Johnny was concerned.

He always reminded himself that he did not know everything if he even knew much of his beautiful lover. Cala had a way of eloquently saying not much of anything or humoring playfully out of a subject at hand.

Nearing the building in which he worked, Johnny spent a few minutes trying to shake his previous train of thought. The same thoughts that kept leading him to stack his past lovers against Cala, ranking them like precious, collectible cargo he had loaded and unpacked over the years and those big, black eyes that dipped fiercely in the corners, with lashes that wrapped around and pulled you right in were always on top.

“Morning Johnny.”

“Morning Carla,” he replied pleasantly, passing the receptionist and security before swiping his work badge and making his way to the elevator banks.

Normally he would stop and chat, indulge her in telling tales of her weekend and exchanging a few of his own in turn. With a heavy mind, it was difficult to give that much of himself sincerely so he chose not to at all.

Standing in the elevator, bodies within centimeters of one another, he pressed into the wall to the right and placed his hand on the cool, sleek railing as he eyed the numbers light one by one, stopping every few to let a few off.

Most wore suits, some tailored some not. Button up dress shirts, ties, and high heels the women would change into once inside of the building. He could tell the higher level employees apart from the juniors as they often wore cuff links and their suits weren’t as ill fitted– not the more senior people were fashion savy; but they were seasoned. They carried themselves with a feel of assurance and this was as obvious as the quality of clothes.

John wore coal colored slacks that were not creased, and well-worn white running sneakers, his white and orange polo untucked in the front but bunched up in the back. He shifted his weight, adjusted the neon orange cap covering the tight coils he couldn’t be bothered with that morning and thought hard about not thinking. At least not personal thoughts, especially when he knew he would be checking out property locations well into the evening.

Liquid beads dripped across me as I stood beneath running streams. I splashed my face with cupped hands full of water before turning the knob and gradually the streams ceased hitting my skin and I suddenly became cold.

On my tippy toes I stepped out and wrapped myself in an oversized towel. I whipped my head a bit and my curls fell loosely and lay damp on my scalp.

I still slept lousy when I was here, waking up every couple of hours startled, sometimes peering out of my sleep to make sense of what I saw hiding in the dark until I remembered where I was. Figured out it was just the edge of a dresser drawer or one of John’s shirt’s hanging from a doorknob.

Some nights I sat in the kitchen and tried soothing myself with Bailey’s Irish Cream and Benadryl but it only worked half of the time. The other half, my thoughts became unbearable but I sat with them silently, allowed them to torment and taunt and tug at the tender parts of me until they would settle and eventually pass. Leaving me there trying hard to love all of myself as a whole.

“I gotta get me some sleep,” I would sing quietly to as I crept back to the big, bold warmth waiting beneath an aged maroon comforter.

He’d roll over and wrap his arm around me with a lazy possessiveness and I accepted it, wrapping my fingers around his forearm and wanting to feel anything, anything at all that did not hurt. Some nights I wept without making a sound. 

I’d go to my own apartment sometimes but eventually he’d complain about not seeing me or I’d realize I had forgotten something of mine that I needed. My portfolio or a favorite pair of jeans. Then I was back in that bed, bundled beneath those big arms. Privately hunting for a feeling to change my mood.

Walking out of the bathroom I entered the bedroom, carelessly tossing my towel in the hamper before slipping into underwear.

His apartment was a smaller size than mine but had a much homier feel and was better decorated. The living area had a chocolate leather love seat and sectional, a polished oak coffee table in the middle of the biggest room of the apartment, and on the wall was a large flat screen surrounded by old records and their covers he had hung up (there were some that dangled from the ceiling of his bedroom too). There were deep ruby throw rugs that matched the throw pillows on the sofas and vibrant houseplants scattered about in earth toned clay pots and glass vases. Obviously a lot more thought put into it than into my own where the off-white rooms were barren of all but the essentials. I hadn’t even bought curtains for my bedroom until recently.

One of his roommate’s is crazy, or so he says. The three times I had interacted with him, he was nothing but polite and John likes to lie. Or rather, to ’embellish some’ as he likes to frame it.

The previous roommate he had, when we first had begun dating, was also crazy. She would do peculiar and bizarre things and eventually flat out told him she wanted him to move out. I wasn’t present for any of this, it was well before I spent so much time with him.

He would tell me about how she had locked him out before, didn’t pay the electric bill one month because she knew she’d be away, and how he didn’t want to move based on principle. My response, I don’t recall at the moment but knowing myself, I probably told him to start looking for another place. Which, eventually he did. But not until the lease was up.

He’s stubborn about all the wrong things and gives in at all the wrong times. But he’s sweet…and caring, and patient. So patient…however, I’m thoughtful, and I believe that to be more important than all of those qualities.

The crazy roommate he currently lives with travels a lot for work so he’s often not around, and the third roommate spends most of her time at her boyfriend’s place. I myself am unsure as to why I pay rent when I’m only at my place half of the time but I need to know I always have an escape. Somewhere to get a break, even though I have a roommate too. I have my own bed, half dented with the imprint of John’s frame sprawled on the right side, my own books, my own scent of vanilla bean and vetiver oil. I can be unseen, nobody there to study me or interrupt me from my thinking.

I never thought of myself as the sort of person to do this kind of thing. Spending so much time at someone else’s home but I was growing weary of routine and small talk with my roommate. And I didn’t like the idea of someone I lived with hearing me… I knew he’d want what every man eventually wants. I’d rather that be happening at his place when it had to happen; where the walls were thicker and the people less present all of the time.

I had decided I would have sex with him when he approached me. What I mean to say is…I was physically drawn in though my body repelled when he stepped into my already limited personal space.

He noticed me step back and so he did the same.

Tall. A sort of russet color, his skin glistened without a blemish or scar, and it wrapped around that big, brawny body that towered over everyone standing nearby. A plump, pink bottom lip and slim upper that dipped into a cupid’s bow, when he grinned he revealed large, white canine and front teeth; and the pinched corners of his deep ochre eyes made it look like a laugh was ready to escape him.

We didn’t look alike, as in, we didn’t share the same features or build, but I saw something of myself in him or he in me.

“Hi.”

“…Hello.”

“I saw you waiting in line and then you came in here. At first I thought you were part of the band…because of how you’re dressed.”

I looked down at my feet and the black and red leopard print shoes I opted to wear earlier that day. Black leggings, no underwear because they give me wedgies under leggings, a longline, white short sleeved shirt whose fabric thinned the further it draped reaching my mid-thigh, and my hair I bleached a screaming platinum blonde six weeks earlier, was meticulously combed over to the side revealing dark brown roots. He complimented my look, then my hair.

“Thank you, but this is just me not taking care of my roots,” I retorted with a smile in my voice, the corner of my right lip curling upward.

“You look nice unkempt then.”

I surprised myself when the chuckle slipped out.

“I know the show is about to start..and I came up to you because my friends said that I wouldn’t. I saw you when you came in by yourself.”

“You said that already.”

“Right..right,” he finally let out that life his eyes were holding in and I expected it to sound nervous but it didn’t “It’s probably too forward to ask for yours, but do you want to take my number?”

I paused.

“We can maybe…get coffee sometime?”

A heavy gaze, I almost felt as if is he was trying to look through my surface and figure something deep out.

I broke eye contact and glanced to the right where his eyes followed, giving me enough time to eye him head to toe.

He had a head full of thick, coarse, jet black curls and some scruff connecting to the thick sideburns that matched the thick, expressive eyebrows of his.

The shirt he wore didn’t flatter him but you could tell his build was solid aside from the tummy he had, and he had on track shoes. I wondered where he was coming from before getting to the concert.

I could feel his eyes on me so I looked up at him from below the bridge of my eyebrows and smiled softly before I nodded.

He asked what my name was.

“Cal.”

“Cal?”

“Cal, but I don’t drink coffee.”

“Well, Call but I don’t drink coffee, maybe we’ll do tea instead.”

His number was etched in ink on my forearm and I was still stuck on how as his fingers, gentle, slid across my skin and sent a jolt through my limbs that sat briefly in the pit of my stomach before mellowing into something warm and velvety.

Suddenly the crowd standing in the general admissions area started to fill in more, as bodies began to press closer to one another and the body heat grew more noticeable; he stood for a moment just smiling brightly and staring deeply again. This time I stared back, and without a word he took a few steps back while still looking, before he turned and cleared a way for himself.

Now we were building something together. I wasn’t sure what exactly, but that was November of last year and now it was reaching the end of June so we had to be working towards something. That’s what I tell myself.

I inspected my face in the small mirror hanging on his bedroom wall, glints of sunlight breaking through the blinds made me squint as I analyzed my hairline and the way my hair lay, the imperfections in my skin stood out the most but no one else ever seemed to notice and I was more or less comfortable with my appearance. There were things I would change if I could but to me they were minor.

I remembered how John had been looking in the mirror this morning and how beautiful his skin was, gleaming even in the dimness. The strength in his bone structure just as prominent in the darkness; How handsome I found him at times. Until he’d do or say something off putting.

We met up two weeks later. He suggested a diner that was conveniently four blocks away from my apartment. There had been a chill in the air but still no snow and it was warm enough that I could wear my leather jacket.

John saw Cala enter the diner with a force, his presence was immediately noticeable as it had been weeks ago as he waited for entry into the concert. An independent artist with a genre-less song that John wouldn’t have even gone to had his friend not afforded him a free ticket. He was grateful for the chain of events, however, and reminded of this when Cala’s eyes met his from the entrance.

Bypassing the host, Cala went directly to the table where John sat, sipping water from a plastic cup, unzipping and slipping out of his jacket with ease before even getting near his seat.

“Hey,” John was grinning ear to ear.

Cala gave a wry sort of smirk, draping his leather over the back of his chair.

“Hello there.”

John stood and reached to hug, with an initial resistance, Cala leaned into him and they briefly embraced before taking their seats.

“I haven’t ordered anything, there’s the menu,” he pointed “have you eaten?”

“A couple of hours ago, but..I should probably eat something.”

“I could eat.”

Browsing through the options, Cala would occasionally glance upward from the menu that lay on the table, to John intently looking at his own as if trying to solve a puzzle.

“I’m surprised you called me.”

“What?”

“I’m just surprised that you called me.”

“Why?”

John shrugged.

“I took your number, didn’t I?”

“I know…you’re very beautiful.”

Cala paused and then said thank you with as so much graciousness and a delicateness that John could tell Cala heard this often.

“So I’m glad you did,” there was that bright smile again, lighting up the room.

A server with her hair in a tight bun and shoes that squeaked as she approached, was suddenly standing beside them, setting an identical plastic cup full of water before Cala, and extending a tepid salutation.

Ordering tea, John requested coffee and Cala sat back with perfect posture as the server walked away, as neither of them had decided on what to eat.

“I thought about you some, since the concert.”

“Did you?”

“Mhm. I was nervous when I walked up to you.”

“Couldn’t tell.”

He chuckled softly “I tried to be smooth. Did it work?”

“I’m here,” Cala said with a laugh.

“Yes, yes you are. So…Cala. What do you do?”

“I hate that question.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Well, I do a lot of things. I go to the gym, I sing, I hate going to the gym, I paint, I play some piano. But what people are really asking you when they ask what you do is ‘what is your job?’ which is really ‘what is your value?’ in disguise.”

John digested the response that he had not expected. Questioning if that was truly his intent when he asked the question, he was hesitant to challenge the reply.

“I really just wanted to know what you did. It’s just something people ask, I guess…but you’re right.”

“I understand,” Cala chimed, trying to lighten himself up a bit “It’s just something I think about…anyway, I guess I model. I also work as a freelance project manager..which sounds more important than it is.”

They both laughed lightly and Cala returned the question because it was etiquette, despite challenging it moments earlier.

“Right now I’m acting and trying to get an EP together.”

Cala didn’t show it, but the flinch inside was real and sudden.

“You’re a singer?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you play?”

He shook his head.

“A few chords on the piano, a few on guitar.”

“It helps when you play or write.”

“Maybe you can give me lessons.”

“Oh, I’m not Mozart or anything. I play well enough to sing along.”

Their beverages arrived.

“Are you both ready to order?”

John looked at Cala who nodded; John gestured for Cala to order.

“Yes. I’ll just have the mesclun salad with grilled chicken.”

“Mhm, and you, sir?”

“A cheeseburger please, medium rare.”

“Fries or onion rings?”

“Onion rings.”

“Food will be out shortly,” she said with a dry smile and pivot, before walking off.

“I’d love to hear you sing.”

“You’re the singer.”

“You said you sing, though.”

“Yeah..you said you’re working on an EP.”

“Alright,” John conceded with a smirk “I never said you were a singer…I said I’d like to hear you sing. Not right now, but in the future.”

“Hm…we’ll see.”

There was a challenge to essentially everything John said and for whatever reason, it intrigued him. Almost fascinated him. It wasn’t combative, he thought to himself, more inquisitive if anything.

He hadn’t really known what to expect of Cala’s intellect or personality. The two had only had the brief interaction before the concert and an even shorter telephone conversation setting up a place and time to meet.

In the back of his mind, expectations were low. He hadn’t outwardly stated but had inwardly assumed Cala’s interests would lie in more frivolous matter; popular culture, current trends, appearance, but so far that hadn’t been the case.

“Who are you into?”

“I like everything.”

John was trying to get a read of the peculiar creature before him but kept coming up empty. At moments there was an allure then suddenly nothing, an icy sternness. So he continued to poke with questions, but mostly, he wanted to see those dark eyes glisten.

They went to Cala’s apartment later that night and after much internal struggle, Cala accepted that they would not have sex but stumbled upon the realization while John’s face was buried in backside. Uncertain as to how they had even gotten that far, Cala was unable to stop pondering and wondering the entire time.

An inner dialogue of why and why not weaved itself so tightly around thoughts that loins were left paralyzed at times. Every so often, however, a surge that was so intense even thinking could not stop it.

Overwhelmed by the sensations, there was a momentary submission to the intensity. Then Cala pulled away.

“Wh, what’s wrong?” John slid a hand over his wet mouth.

“I don’t know you.”

“We’re getting to know each other.”

“…That’s not the same as knowing each other.”

“So?..we’re adults. I really like you.”

Was he not listening? They never listened, Cala thought.

“You think you do, but you don’t because we just met,” there was a chuckle of disbelief “I know what you really like.”

John was quick in pulling himself up from the black sofa and his face tensed; grew stern.

“If you don’t want to do anything, we don’t have to. You ain’t gotta be mad about it.”

“…I’m not mad.”

“Mad because you liked it?” He asked slyly.

“I’m not mad, I asked you to stop.”

“You were enjoying it.”

The glare Cala threw, stunned him ever so briefly as he had not prepared for this sort of reaction; had never encountered this sort of reaction.

“I’m sorry. I should have stopped…you’re just so -“

“If I tell you to stop, you need to stop.”

“I will.”

Just beneath the softening glare was what looked like fear to John and he found himself being overcome with a guilt and curiosity.

“May I hold you?” He asked, watching denim slowly cover supple flesh that he had just explored moments earlier.

He sensed the pull and could see Cala stiffen before gradually becoming diffident and falling into strange arms.

It was June when we moved in with my mom’s fiancé. I remember how foreign everything in this unfamiliar space read, how the black and white tiles in the kitchen clashed with the teal colored walls. When my mother offered my brothers and I a beverage, I could see that there wasn’t anything in the refrigerator but beer cans, bottled water, a few bottles of salad dressing and a crumpled McDonald’s bag with leftovers in it, I assumed.

The three of us; Luca, Nico, and I stared at the painted pictures of dark, black figures stretching themselves across canvas and colors, the deep red and gold pottery that sat dust-laden on empty book cases and small coffee tables.

Looking out of the window I could tell this neighborhood was nicer than the one we would be moving from.

I looked to Luca and Nico, their identical olive colored faces gazing about.

“How are we going to get to school?”

“We’ll start at new schools, Nico,” I answered as I squinted to read the nearby parking signs and read the name of the street we’d be living on “White Pine Boulevard,” I read under my breath.

My mom’s fiancé was not a handsome man to me, was not as good looking as my father was, though, I knew his character far exceeded my dad’s. I knew that even without knowing the man, but I thought my mother could do better and struggled to see what it was she saw in this aged man who did not speak much and often spent his days silently doing work around the house before retreating to be a recluse in the bedroom he shared with my mother.

He walked into the living area, his pace slow and as he approached the center of the room he turned to face us, my brother sitting on the sunken spots of the dated sofa, and I by the window.

“Hey, we met a few times before,” His words dragged into each other ” I’m Randall, you can call me Randy.”

I glanced to Nico and Luca who were exchanging subtle looks before tossing their eyes towards me.

“Yeah, hey Randy…I’m Cala…my brothers, these are Nico and Luca. Luca’s a little taller, that’s how you can tell them apart.”

Just then my mother entered and walked to me, extending a bottle of water. I accepted and she quickly turned to my brothers and did the same.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said cheerfully as she walked to her fiancé and gingerly leaned into him “you guys been chatting?”

My eyes met with Randy’s and I immediately noticed his right eye staring oddly. Instead of looking away, I squinted and that’s when I realized it was made of glass.

Averting my attention, I immediately dropped my vision to the water bottle in my hand, gripping the cap tightly and twisting.

I could feel how badly my mother wanted me to like him, wanted all of us to blend into the image she had painted as a mural in the background of her everyday thoughts. But I could already tell that we would not get along.

The first summer had been long and strange. The handful of friends I had, had to be abandoned as we moved from one city to a distant suburb two hours away. I couldn’t drive and we weren’t close enough to talk on the telephone. I wanted to sit alone in my new and empty bedroom, eating my feelings and then writing about them after puking them up. Practicing on my keyboard that sometimes did not turn on, on account of how old it was.

My voice was changing so I couldn’t reach notes I used to be able to, but I persisted quietly, letting melodies sweep, however cumbersomely, into and out of me; stringing words I had just learned the meanings of into songs. Sometimes strong, sometimes shaky. Always about escape or the thoughts and memories that followed me. Even when I did not look back to see them, they were always there whispering to one another or shouting at me.