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Authors: Jordan Castillo Price
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conjured in his own imagination, he still felt compelled to find some detail, however small, that would prove his attraction hadn’t been entirely off-base.
But the apartment was small, and dingy, and except for the sprawling homemade computer system, devoid of any sort of personal touches. Though he hadn’t seen the whole apartment, yet. There was still…the bedroom.
Javier glanced at the closed door. Tim was in the bedroom. With Nelson.
Marianne and Randy began arguing about how phone lines worked, but their voices dwindled, shut out by the rushing in Javier’s ears. Maybe he’d had it all wrong. Maybe Tim hadn’t seemed cold because Javier had gotten his expectations overinflated.
Maybe Tim had seen Nelson kissing him in the back of the truck.
***
It would have been more efficient to snap a picture: Nelson, face partially exposed by the wadded sheet, hair splayed on Tim’s pillow. Tim didn’t do it, of course. It would have been creepy. But he wanted to.
Tim would need to settle for etching to his memory the curve Nelson’s throat made where his Adam’s apple dipped when he swallowed in his sleep, the eyelash fringe, the faint dusting of freckles high on his cheekbone.
How many shots did we do? The memory of Nelson asking him that replayed, over and over, like a sound bite.Did Nelson actually see Tim as someone he would “do shots” with? Maybe drinking wasn’t as overrated as Tim had always assumed it was.
Voices rose and fell through the closed door, which made Tim more acutely aware that he and Nelson were most certainly not alone. Though if they were…he would never have worn such a conservative shirt. He’d always pictured Nelson as more of a computer techie, like himself. Never mind that it wasn’t even Nelson he’d been chatting with all along, but Javier, who was even less like Tim had pictured him. But if he’d known he was about to meet someone who managed to look cool even in a torn button-down shirt and tie, he would have worn something different. He glanced into his cramped closet. He wasn’t sure what, exactly. Suddenly everything he owned looked like it came with a matching pocket protector.
The black shirt, maybe. His last boyfriend, Phil (or was it two boyfriends ago? Sometimes they blended together. Whoever it was) had said it made him look pasty. But guys like Nelson wouldn’t let some conservative guy’s opinion stop them from wearing black.
Tim glanced back at the bed. Nelson rolled, hugging one of the pillows. The borrowed sweatpants rode low on his hips. It felt entirely wrong to stare. And yet….
More tattoos. Symbols trailed down the crest of Nelson’s hipbone. Tim felt like his suddenly-ugly shirt was strangling him.
The impulse to change his clothes was too strong to resist—and if anyone asked…well, why should they ask why he’d changed? Why would they care? It was Tim’s apartment. He was well within his rights to change his shirt without being interrogated for it. He began to pull off the shirt he was currently wearing (horrible thing—he couldn’t even imagine why he’d ever bought it) and as he did, the bedroom door opened.
Javier.
Tim acted as if he’d just been straightening his collar. “What?” It came out a lot more defensively than he’d meant it to. He could hear as much even over the pounding of his own heart.
“These people,” Javier said, “I didn’t plan to bring them.”
Tim nodded, fairly sure he looked fully clothed and normal.
Javier added, “I couldn’t just leave them behind.”
“No. Of course not.”
Javier’s eyes went to the bed, to Nelson curled on his side, clinging to the pillow. “Good. I’m glad you see it that way. As soon as things die down, we’ll get them to leave.”
“We can’t just…throw them out on the street.”
“Once it’s safe,” Javier reiterated.
“Well…right.”
Javier took a step closer. Tim did his best not to stare at the eye patch, but between avoiding that, and
But the apartment was small, and dingy, and except for the sprawling homemade computer system, devoid of any sort of personal touches. Though he hadn’t seen the whole apartment, yet. There was still…the bedroom.
Javier glanced at the closed door. Tim was in the bedroom. With Nelson.
Marianne and Randy began arguing about how phone lines worked, but their voices dwindled, shut out by the rushing in Javier’s ears. Maybe he’d had it all wrong. Maybe Tim hadn’t seemed cold because Javier had gotten his expectations overinflated.
Maybe Tim had seen Nelson kissing him in the back of the truck.
***
It would have been more efficient to snap a picture: Nelson, face partially exposed by the wadded sheet, hair splayed on Tim’s pillow. Tim didn’t do it, of course. It would have been creepy. But he wanted to.
Tim would need to settle for etching to his memory the curve Nelson’s throat made where his Adam’s apple dipped when he swallowed in his sleep, the eyelash fringe, the faint dusting of freckles high on his cheekbone.
How many shots did we do? The memory of Nelson asking him that replayed, over and over, like a sound bite.Did Nelson actually see Tim as someone he would “do shots” with? Maybe drinking wasn’t as overrated as Tim had always assumed it was.
Voices rose and fell through the closed door, which made Tim more acutely aware that he and Nelson were most certainly not alone. Though if they were…he would never have worn such a conservative shirt. He’d always pictured Nelson as more of a computer techie, like himself. Never mind that it wasn’t even Nelson he’d been chatting with all along, but Javier, who was even less like Tim had pictured him. But if he’d known he was about to meet someone who managed to look cool even in a torn button-down shirt and tie, he would have worn something different. He glanced into his cramped closet. He wasn’t sure what, exactly. Suddenly everything he owned looked like it came with a matching pocket protector.
The black shirt, maybe. His last boyfriend, Phil (or was it two boyfriends ago? Sometimes they blended together. Whoever it was) had said it made him look pasty. But guys like Nelson wouldn’t let some conservative guy’s opinion stop them from wearing black.
Tim glanced back at the bed. Nelson rolled, hugging one of the pillows. The borrowed sweatpants rode low on his hips. It felt entirely wrong to stare. And yet….
More tattoos. Symbols trailed down the crest of Nelson’s hipbone. Tim felt like his suddenly-ugly shirt was strangling him.
The impulse to change his clothes was too strong to resist—and if anyone asked…well, why should they ask why he’d changed? Why would they care? It was Tim’s apartment. He was well within his rights to change his shirt without being interrogated for it. He began to pull off the shirt he was currently wearing (horrible thing—he couldn’t even imagine why he’d ever bought it) and as he did, the bedroom door opened.
Javier.
Tim acted as if he’d just been straightening his collar. “What?” It came out a lot more defensively than he’d meant it to. He could hear as much even over the pounding of his own heart.
“These people,” Javier said, “I didn’t plan to bring them.”
Tim nodded, fairly sure he looked fully clothed and normal.
Javier added, “I couldn’t just leave them behind.”
“No. Of course not.”
Javier’s eyes went to the bed, to Nelson curled on his side, clinging to the pillow. “Good. I’m glad you see it that way. As soon as things die down, we’ll get them to leave.”
“We can’t just…throw them out on the street.”
“Once it’s safe,” Javier reiterated.
“Well…right.”
Javier took a step closer. Tim did his best not to stare at the eye patch, but between avoiding that, and
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