Read Online The Butcher's Son by Dorien Grey - Free Book Online

crotch. He sat on the bed to remove his shoes, socks, and pants, while I finished stripping, standing up.
    He lay back on the bed, and I joined him, wra pping my arms around him and pulling him close. After a couple of minutes, he scooted up on the bed, and I followed; I heard him open the nightstand drawer to get out the Albolene. I straddled him on my knees. When we were ready, Chris pulled my head down and kissed me.
    “Remember,” he whispered.
    *
    Saturday morning we fixed our usual breakfast, and did some casual talking about the move and the party. There were far too many details to try to go over all at once, so we stuck to generalities.
    Chris planned to find a furnished place for a month or two until he knew what was going on and had a chance to look around for something he really wanted. He might even consider the possibility of a roommate in the interim, if such an opportunity presented itself, but he wouldn’t specifically set out to look for one.
    We could discuss the furniture issue later—he had been offered a generous moving allowance, which he planned to put aside until he knew for sure what he might need.
    Almost all of the furnishings in our apartment had either been bought jointly or was handmade. When we first got together, we’d spent lots of time in thrift shops and secondhand stores, picking up things in which we saw promise and refinishing them ourselves. The sofa we’d built from a slab of plywood we’d lacquered ebony and topped with an upholstered foam pad and bolsters. Sounds ugly as sin, but it really turned out kind of nice, and was actually quite comfortable.
    Of course, we liked it mostly because it was ours, and we’d built it together.
    Chris had some favorite pieces I knew he’d probably want, and there was a lot of little stuff, and all the birthday gifts, and anniversary gifts, and Christmas gifts…
    He would leave the car—he wouldn’t need it in New York, whereas I had to have some way of getting around. I used it more than he did, anyway, since he preferred taking the bus to work. Although neither of us mentioned it, it was understood I’d offer to buy it at some point.
    It’s amazing how much can be communicated without actually saying anything.
    The day passed in five-year routine—grocery shopping, dry cleaners, emptying ashtrays, watering the plants, doing dishes, changing the bed, picking up the living room. Stuff you never, ever think about doing until you realize each action is now being performed within a box of limited time. And then you are aware, and there’s a sad little pang of loss and longing as you do each one.
    We talked to several friends during the course of normal Saturday informal phone calls and mentioned casually to each one that Chris had been offered a fantastic job in New York and that I would be staying here, and inviting them to the party in two weeks. Most of them, although clearly concerned and curious to know more, simply followed our casual lead. A few asked discreet questions, which we discreetly deflected or answered as briefly and simply as possible, assuring them this wasn’t a breakup, merely a loving separation.
    As evening approached, and we sat down with our usual cocktails, Chris said, “Should I ask if you want to go out tonight?”
    “Haven’t we gone out almost every Saturday night for the past five years? Why shouldn’t we go tonight? If you want to, that is.”
    “Yeah, I’d like to.”
    “Then done and done.”
    *
    We decided to do something special for dinner and went clear across town to Villa Milano, a straight place but with the best pizza this side of…well, Milan. We loved the place but seldom went there simply because of the distance. This night, distance wasn’t a factor.
    “So, where to now?” Chris asked as we signaled the waiter for the check and a box to carry home the few remaining slices of pizza.
    “I know this might kind of surprise you,” I said, “but I feel like going back to see Judy at