positanos

[positanos]

these velvet nights

“You do know, of course,” Maria says, careful while combing through braids in Isolde’s hair. “That you are an awful lot of trouble.”

“No,” she says, smiling because they both know it’s a lie. Her legs crossed on the bed — fingers, lips and tongue sticky with Guava. (A gift, in truth meant for Mama and Maria for the safe delivery of twins days ago. But no one did say to keep away, so how was she meant to know to?)

She, the youngest of the daughters, takes another bite. Chews as slow as she can, and flinches on a hard tug of her hair.

“I know the capitals of most every country, I would bet you my best stockings. I can dance better than anyone in this apartment block, since Blanca and Ricky moved away. I know all my verses and Abuela would smack you for saying so mean. I do not know anything like that. Trouble, me?” She’s not a liar, doesn’t see the use of it, but sometimes she wishes she was — what a waste of talent. Isolde lowers her voice, as if to copy Maria’s, but she’s not so easy to provoke.

“No?” The brush catches on a knot of hair, behind her ear, where she’d braided it too tight. She swears at the pain, but then continues chewing on the fruit — too long, now, since she had it last. It’s so sweet her stomach already aches from it, but she’s happy for it. It's a luxury she's a stranger to, and in her mind it takes her away — to the Plaza Hotel on the harbour, breeze in her hair. Like paradise has arrived in Havana at last, all for a basket of fresh Guava.

Juice drips through her fingers, falling into the hand—painted bowl in her lap. Isolde licks what she can from her hands, and will drink the rest from the bowl for dessert.

“Innocent little you.” She thinks she can hear the quiet affection in her voice. “Miss Virgin of Guadalupe 1920, little Isolde Espinosa.”

“Don’t I do all my chores, and yours too, with no complaining? And all my schoolwork, and all the cooking?” No, no, never, of course not. In truth, Maria has a long list of charges to accuse Isolde of, if only she wanted to.

Maria laughs, gentle and low and sweet, and rests the brush in her lap. She begins to tug the braid apart with her fingers; Isolde's handiwork is confident but lousy. “Oh, you’re right. Dear little sister, you know I’m only jealous.” She gives a loud, quick kiss to the back of her head. It's not true, or at least it's got no right to be. Isolde is often asked to sing at church, and she's a hell of a dance partner, but Maria is better at everything else. Kind and good, where Isolde is selfish and thoughtless. The both of them know it.

She chews louder, hums as if to say compliments to the chef, and smacks her lips together too loud.

Maria picks up the brush only to hit her on the back of the head with it.

Isolde swears, and Maria gives her another hit for it. “Abuela,” she hisses.

She shuts up, finally focusing enough to hear Abuela talk to the radio.

Isolde shuts up, and chews the fruit down to the rind.

By the time Maria is finished pinning Isolde’s hair into place, outside their bedroom is the sound of the radio. Quitier are Abuela’s snores.

Maria gives her a pat on her hip, to tell her to skedaddle.

“Where is Luis taking you tonight? Sazerac? Orleans?”

She’s already across the room, wiping sticky fingers off on the towel hung over the end of her bed frame. Maria moves the bowl to her bedside table and lays down, stretching her fingers and hands. She lays down, book open in her lap in a second. Not a book for the thrill of it, like the ones piled up beside Isolde's bed, but for learning.

“No, Sazerac is all Americans now ���”

“Don’t you like Americans? Or doesn’t Luis?”

“I don’t not, but hardly any of the bartenders even speak Spanish anymore.” She pulls her nightgown off over her head, tosses it to Maria's side of the room, and pulls on her very best slip.

“Is that so bad? Don’t you know how to say rum and lime in English?”

Isolde scoffs instead of paying it any mind. “Last time we went, and the time before, too, we spent twenty minutes yelling at the bar for someone to get us drinks. All the dancers, too — all Americans. Have you seen them dance? Like that dog you and I used to feed plantains, near auntie Luisa’s, the one with only three legs. Worse than that, even — at least it the mutt some spirit.”

She sits at their shared desk, makeup and papers belonging to them both strewn across it. “Luis only ever wants to go to the real American joints, and that's what he's doing, so I'm going with Benicio instead. Who is a better sport, anyhow.” Isolde pushes rouge into her pale cheeks until she's blushing. She drags lipstick across her mouth, over and over until they're redder than an apple, as red as a doll's. Maria says something she doesn't quite hear, about Benicio having an ulterior motive. The idea is so foolish Isolde doesn't ask her to repeat it; he's not the one Maria should be worrying after.

Isolde watches herself for a moment, turning her head to the side, smiling and then pouting. Trying to see herself the way a man or woman might — she's pleased, but swipes another layer of red on her lips.

She's up again, lipstick stuffed away in her small bag, next to a half—full cigarette case. Silk stockings pulled up her legs in only a second, and then she's pulling the dress over her head, careful and slow. It's beautiful, the dress, the very best thing Isolde has ever seen, let alone owned. Red and silk, a layer of beading falling over the fabric. And with some casual bribery, she'd even managed to convince Maria to sew the neckline lower. Caught her on a good day, to be sure — usually Maria is of a stronger conviction. She smoothes her hands over it, fingertips catching on beads and the softness of the silk. Isolde feels her heart collapse under the weight of her happiness.

It’s not hers in any sort of lawful way, but must be hers by right. She’d found it pinned on a clothesline between two houses, halfway between their apartment block and the market. Isolde had seen the bright red of it and stuffed it in the paper bag, between rice and wrapped candies, calm as she threw a caramel to the ground as payment. Too quick to think to do otherwise. (It wasn’t in Isolde’s nature to warn herself against much, but if another minute had passed, maybe she would consider how to explain it to Maria.)

She’d run the rest of the way home, heat of the Havana summer no matter, only the wild, pounding beat of her heart, more alive than she could remember it ever being. Knowing it was hers. That she wanted it and took it, and deserved the dress because of it.

Isolde is climbing through their small window onto the fire escape, when Maria speaks up. “Be careful. Don’t be so late tonight — I’ve got to be up early tomorrow.”

“I won’t promise you that, just like I know I shouldn’t make a promise I know I won’t keep.”

“Just be careful, then.”

She blows Maria a kiss, and climbs down the ladder quick as she can without risking life or limb.

Benny’s car waits in the street below — his family has more money than hers, though that isn’t saying much. He pushes the door open for her as she approaches.

“You look like a sister of the moon,” he says, and pulls the door shut for her. He holds her hand to kiss it. “This is the new dress, then? Better than you said.”

She nods, happy he’s noticed. Benicio offers her kindness in an unceasing way; it’s rare that she offers much in return, but it seems no matter to him. What Maria sees of it she believes a ploy — for sex, or romance, but Isolde knows well enough that Benicio could never find that with her.

“You, Benny, the favourite lover of the sun.” He does look sharp, like always, done up in his best.

He laughs and drives. “Oh, I wish. She won’t pick up my calls, won’t answer my letters. What’s a man to do?”

Isolde feels around underneath her seat for the bottle hidden there — a mostly full one, this time. She takes a swig. “The only thing to do, I suppose. Go dancing with the moon’s sister. Make that old bat jealous, won’t we?”

Benny takes the bottle from her and takes a swig, too, faster than hers. “Well, you see, now I’ve kissed another girl through a bottle of rum, which has got to be the best sort of kiss. So if I don’t hear from her soon, guess that’s my answer.”

She laughs, watching his face, and drinks while he drives.

Though Isolde knows she has surely seen every street of Havana some three times over, the route they take seems unfamiliar. Away from the more crowded, loved parts of the city, away from Sazerac and the Plaza and everything people have sailed to Havana for.

“You said this is your spot, right? Is it really so good?”

“Berries? You’re kidding. You kids have got no respect for old Havana, you know?” Benny’s only got a couple of years on Isolde, but he speaks like an old man. “I bet I could name every cat who’s worked there the past three years.”

She nods, and holds the bottle to Benny’s mouth until he drinks. “And the dancing?”

“Well, now that you’ll be there, darling, it’ll be the best in the city.”

She smoothes a hand over his hair. He’s tried to slick it back, but it’s so curly it’s already coming undone. Isolde gives his head an affectionate pat. “You really know how to sweet talk a lady, Benny.”

“Ay, there’s the rub.”

He pulls the car over to the sidewalk, by a row of houses, all with lit candles in the windows. She’s taken a greedy last sip and hopped out of the car, bottle abandoned on the floor, before Benny is through shutting the car off.

“You gone a little stir—crazy? Luis must really be letting you down lately.”

She’s walking ahead, down the sidewalk, eyeing the joint across the street. Small, with dim light and music pooling out into the street. The smell of the Abuelas’ candles mixes with cigars and sweat and perfume, and she cannot wait to be inside.

“Hurry up, Benny, won’t you?”

He walks into the street ahead of her, offering his hand, and she holds on tight.

Inside is better than she’d hoped — it’s nothing so fancy like she’s come to expect, and smaller than any club she can think of. But nearly everyone is dancing, only a handful at the bar, moving like Havana is falling faster than Rome. The smile on her face hurts it’s so wide.

Benny, still holding her hand, leads them through the crowd. Isolde recognizes not one face, but he says hello to many as they cut through to the bar. He’s in his element, it’s clear — she wants it to be hers, too.

Benny kisses each cheek of the woman at the bar, and asks for a round of her drink before Isolde can say what she likes.

He lets go of her hand, helps her up onto a stool before taking a seat. His arm is around her shoulders, the two of them so close she sees the freckles across his face.

“I’ve really got get more complicated, I think. Anybody remembering so much about me is really unacceptable — my Mama would say I’m not a real enough Cuban woman, if I’m so easy to know.”

He gets caught up in conversation with the couple next to them — older than either of them, but beautiful, dark with lines like kisses around their eyes. Isolde watches a couple dance, bodies crowded up against each other, heat radiating off of them. They hold each other in a desperate sort of way — she’s never seen or felt anything like it. The closest she’s gotten is her Mama and Papa’s fights, but that has never seemed like this.

Benny’s attention is back, and their drinks have arrived.

“To little Luna.”

She raises her glass to his.

Their drinks are gone too soon, another round waiting for them before they can ask for one.

“So what is it, sweetheart, that had you calling me? I thought you must be owing somebody some money.”

The couple dancing kiss each other, needy and open, right in front of everyone. Isolde sweats against her dress.

“Oh, you’re kidding. I got sucked into the crazy of Luis’ world for a minute, but I’m tired of it.”

“I guess I can’t blame you, or him either. We’re very in fashion, you know, us —” he gestures to the room. “Cubans. Or Havana, I guess. We’re the Paris of the Caribbean now, according to them.”

The lime is tart on her tongue. She laughs. “Paris. Havana?” She’s not so impressed. “We’ve no Eiffel Tower, Benny, no Mona Lisa.”

“Where’s the need, Issy, when we’ve got you?”

He’s laughing into his drink — Isolde slaps him hard on the shoulder, and pulls him up to dance before he can finish.

“I needed that,” he scolds, but pulls her in close by her waist.

“Benny,” she says. “You’re so handsome, I just couldn’t wait another second to dance with you.”

“Sure.” Benicio spins her in a circle, and pulls her up and back to him closer, swaying the two of them back and forth. With anyone else, this sort of closeness could perhaps inspire him, but between the two of them it’s just familiar affection.

They move about in a circle, faces cheek to cheek, and his hand tightens on the small of her back as her hips move.

“Sweetheart, you know I’ve missed you.”

As they move, her view on the dancing couple disappears, and so instead she watches the people at the bar. Benny whistles at the couple.

A couple argues. It looks to be over the bill.

A pair of half—drunk friends add to the pile of empty glasses surrounding them.

Two men. One of them flirts with a barmaid.

She almost continues looking on, but her eyes catch on one of them.

The lighter of the two. His friend seems to be Cuban, in a familiar way she can’t describe, but the way the other holds himself seems more American. And looks it, too — only a shade darker than her, seemingly with a tan from his vacation.

No suit jacket; the two have abandoned them, perhaps getting comfortable at the bar for awhile. The pair must have a decent amount of years on Benny and her, but they are still impressively handsome. His hair was slicked back, maybe recently, but it’s becoming a mess around his face.

Isolde forces Benny still, the two of them swaying while holding still, so she can look at him.

He’s lovely. Lovelier than she has seen in months, in years.

She smiles just looking at him.

What did her Mama say, about seeing Papa for the first time?

Like my heart had twisted into another shape, and never came undone again. Like I was seeing colours and feeling them for the first time.

Yes. Wasn’t that it? Just the same.

The rest of everything burns away; the dancing couple, the Abuelas’ candles in the street windows, Maria waiting for her at home. It never mattered, and won’t.

“Benny.” Even she can hear the desperate note to her voice.

How funny. That she’d come chasing a Cuban night, and now falls over an American.

“What, are you drunk already?”

He dips her, and she holds him closer once she’s up. Isolde lets him turn them around, and rests her cheek against his chest. She’s sure he can feel how wild her heart beats. It burns in her chest, against her tongue.

“No. The man at the bar, the white one — his friend was just talking to the bartender, I think. The tan suits. Just in vests.”

“Sure.” His voice is careful. “What about him?”

“Do you know him? Either of them?”

He waits a moment. She watches the couple dance, but feels no heat from them anymore. “No. No, I don’t think so. Would you like me to?”

“He — could you introduce us?”

“Oh, Isolde.” His voice is soft. Almost sympathetic. “Is he your man?”

“Just do it, will you, before I bite your ear off?”

He’s already breaking away from her, her hand in his again, pulling them off the floor and toward the bar. “No need to resort to threats, little Miss, you could spare an ounce of patience.”

Her palm sweats against his, and she stares at the man while they walk closer — Isolde tries to focus on the taste of lime on her tongue, on the silk against her stomach, Benny’s hand around hers.

They weave through people, past the arguing couple, past people Benicio says hello to. How can he be so casual when she’s burning right up?

Benny plants them in front of the two men altogether too soon. She’s not thought of anything to say, not checked her reflection. He still holds her hand tight.

Isolde stares at the man, and her insides tear themselves up. In his eye she recognizes something she usually only sees in her reflection.

“I’m Benicio,” he’s saying, confident like she’s having to remind herself to be. She has to let him lead; her English needs attention. “This is —”

“Isolde.” Her voice is sweeter than honey. She offers a smile pointed right at the man. See it, don’t you? She wants to ask. Don’t you feel it, too?

“The two of us saw the two of you, and figured we ought to say hello.” His accent is prominent, but his voice is clear. She doesn’t know what he says. “Do the two of you stop around here often? I regular the place more than the owner, but I haven’t seen you before.”

She speaks up, before they have the chance.

“Do the two of you dance?” A dare.

[positanos]

atticus.

Around him, on every side, the flowers bloom. He stands in their field and speaks to them. His hands cup the blooms, angling them towards the sun. Blonde hair, blues eyes, six feet tall; he’s the American dream, realized. And even behind, inside, buried deep in his marrow, he’s everything a man like him is supposed to be; a brain that never stops, words that never fail, a smile to pale the sun.

But deeper, still; rot. Dark and dirty needs wrapped up in bones and muscle. Every pretty word said or kind look given is tainted by it. A crumbling house with a beautiful facade; Atticus is the mold and the paint used to hide it.

And in that field, surrounded by flowers, he looks like God. That’s what Fig tells him, her cheeks burning red and eyes fogged over. So he stands in the field and he talks to the flowers. A sympathetic god, who’s had a taste of humanity and knows its sufferings, so they sacrifice everything to him, for him; in his name, they pray, amen.

A hand on his shoulder; feather light, scared. On his lips, a grin, a secret thing with barbs hidden in the corners. When he turns to look at her, at Mary, it’s placating, beautiful. She smiles and she melts, her face angled to the ground.

“We’re leaving soon,” she says, hands twisting together.

He touches her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. They stay there a moment, a heartbeat, just looking. Her hands stop their fidgeting; her mouth is slack, her lips parted; her eyes are glassy. Everything in her slows. When she breathes, it’s even and sure.

“Thank you,” she says.

His thumb brushes her cheek. “I’m driving today.”

She nods but doesn’t move. Her gaze moves from his eyes to his mouth to his throat and back again. Her pupils are voids, begging for him, for his secrets, his divinity. His hand falls to hers and he leads her from the field. Giggles trail them; some from Mary, some from others. His other hand is taken by Fig, who takes Mary’s in turn.

Both women wear white; Mary in jeans and men’s dress shirt, probably lifted from a wash line, and Fig in a dress so transparent he can tell she’s wearing nothing underneath. Her bare feet collect dew, but she doesn’t mind.

Grass gives way to gravel as they near the driveway. The VW van, painted with a shock of pinks and oranges, sits with the hatch open. Boxes and boxes and boxes of flowers threaten to tumble out. Sandy tries to right them; Kenneth does a better job of it. With honeyed tones, Atticus thanks them both. They look at him the same as Mary: reverent.

Atticus closes the van and walks around the front, climbing into the driver’s seat. Mary rides shotgun; Fig sits in the back, opening the window and resting her chin on folded arms; Sandy sits beside her, twisting Fig’s braids around her fingers. When Atticus turns the radio on, a song he’s never heard pours out at him. Deciding he likes it, he lets it go.

It takes thirty minutes for the drive to San Francisco. Time’s helped along by Aretha Franklin, Simon & Garfunkel, Otis Redding, and, of course, The Beatles. He sings along to every song he knows; Fig sings to every song she doesn’t; Sandy and Mary sit in rapturous silence.

By the time they finish setting up their flower stand, the sun’s climbing high. Sandy and Fig make bouquets as Mary talks to passerbys. Even if Atticus can’t hear what they say, he knows the words by heart; wouldn’t you like these flowers? they’re so beautiful, aren’t they? i’m sure they would look lovely in your front window. why, we grow them ourselves! a little ranch out in the valley. yes, it’s beautiful there.

Atticus plays with a flower, twisting the bud around and around and around. Juice from the stem sticks to his fingers as it splits apart. From the decapitated flower, he plucks petals. Instead of he loves me, he loves me not, he plays fate with the desperates across the street.

A girl in blue, a shawl draped around her shoulders that hasn’t seen water in years: she’s got two months, maybe three. A boy slumped against the wall, his chin pressed down against his chest, his hands locked in fists: twenty minutes. For each petal, a life. Lived and lost.

As he watches, the doors to the shelter burst open and from it spill two men; one big and mean and the other, a boy; younger, more desperate. The man grabs him, hits him. Atticus crosses the street. The girls look up, watch him as he goes. Fig stands, her toes curling against concrete, and moves as if to follow. Sandy wraps a hand around her ankle.

Before Atticus gets to them, he catches bits and pieces of what they’re saying. Gonna let a spic push you around? spits the boy. Wetback got you on yours? The boy throws a punch, misses, and suffers for it. The man pushes him to the ground and sits on his chest, keeping his arms pinned to his sides. Ain’t you gonna show me who’s boss now, huh?

The big man has the upperhand, but the boy keeps fighting every way he can; Atticus watches him struggle, listens to him shout. He smiles. Not the pretty one, but the other; all teeth, no joy.

“Hey, now,” he says, “what’ve we got here?”

The man looks up, up, up until he’s looking into Atticus’ eyes. He leaves it that way for a moment. Blocks out the sun for one, two, three beats. No matter how big the man might think he is, Atticus is bigger. But Atticus squats down by the pair. Because he’s mightier, too.

“None of your business,” he says.

But it’s weak; a question, not a statement. Atticus can follow the bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows his pride. One of his hands still clutches the boy’s shirt, but the other doesn’t move.

“Well, I say it is. Tell me why you’re breakin’ your knuckles on a scrawny thing like this? Seems a waste to me.”

His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Atticus is sure that Mary can see the man’s puny brain working overtime, even from across the street. Even with all that smoke pouring out his ears, though, he still doesn’t have shit to say.

“Way I see it, the cops are on their way and it’s likely the both of you will get arrested, right? Seein’ as you get the fella on the ropes, here. Do you think it’s worth it? If you want a warm bed to sleep in, try doin’ somethin’ else. I hear Bear’s lookin’ for some sellers. Maybe try that out, sample your own supply, and chill out. Okay?”

He’s staring into Atticus’ eyes; blue like the sky, blue like ice. He feels the weight of it. The barbs in that smile.

“Yeah, okay.”

Almost dazed, the man stands up. Atticus watches him go, then turns his attention to the boy. Pretty, pretty; even busted and bleeding, lying on the ground, Atticus can see it. More to test the waters than anything else, Atticus reaches for him, lets his fingers trail across his cheek, near enough to bruises that excuses could be made. He sighs.

Fire radiates off him. Spark, spirit; it soaks into Atticus’ skin, starts burning him from the inside. He flips the switch; he turns on the street preacher, the man with the plan, the Godly smile. Warm like honey, sweet like sugar.

“Want some help? If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, you took quite the ass whuppin’. But I think we got bandages in the van. I could patch you up.”

And then, he extends his hand. Not made of flesh and bone anymore, but promises, adventure. Something different. Something needed. Come with me, and nothing will be the same.

He’s still trying to bite at Roy, or kick him, or get something of a last word in when their pavement rendezvous is interrupted by a man. Not a cop, cause he doesn’t just pull him off, but Southern, big — he can hear it in the tone of his voice. Roy is distracted by him, and so stops really pinning Mika down, instead just twisting a hand up in his shirt, stretching it out. Above Mika, he’s looking up at the man, blocking his view of either the man or the sky. He stops fighting, just lays there conquered prey, waiting for Roy to keep fighting or for somebody to drag him off.

The man bends down, down to Roy’s level. It’s hard to breathe, he’s so tight down on Mika’s chest. Scrawny little thing like this. You’re kidding. He can’t see the man, not his face, but he scoffs anyway. What does he know?

The man sweet—talks Roy like he’s never heard. He dumbs it down good for him, like he can tell he’s been sniffing paint fumes too long to understand anything else. He spins a story that revolves around fucking off, and Roy buys it.

He takes the bait, crawling off of Mika and just wandering off, dazed. It’s new to him — it’s not something he’s got, the ability to convince anybody of anything, to calm somebody down like that. It seemed easy for the man, easy as breathing, easy as floating in water. Mika wipes his hands on his shirt, trying to push off the stench of Roy. He’s not concerned with looking at the man, or even thanking him, the good Southern Samaritan, though he’s one who should work on minding his business when it comes to bum fights.

It’s his hand he gets a view of first — reaching for Mika, fingers on his cheek as if to trace the bruising, or bleeding, or maybe the scar that is already old. He flinches away, too close too soon, sitting up on his elbows and scooting back. He spits on the ground, trying to empty his mouth, and groans when it’s all blood.

The man, though — he can tell he’s tall, even squatting beside him. Hair longer Mika’s, light and cut around the corner of his jaw. He’s handsome, really, in that white man way — all American, James Dean with some stubble, the sort that usually call him a mutt. But there’s something else in his voice, something sweeter, calmer.

You took quite the ass whuppin’.

“I got a few hits in, too.”

He was pinned to the ground just seconds ago, free only because of the man offering help, but he’s still got his pride. He presses his fingers down to the bridge of his nose — he gasps at he hard pinch of pain, and his hand comes back bloody.

“Yeah, if you’ve got them already, I mean.”

The man extends his hand toward Mika, and he takes it, pulls himself up quick, unties his jacket from around his waist and starts to shove it in his backpack.

“Uh — thanks, man.” He means for the hand up, and not for chasing Roy off, but doesn’t specify.

“Mister.” He steps closer, cranes his neck to look up at him. He’s pushing his luck, he knows, but he’s itching for one, and it’s his only shot. “You got a cigarette I could bum off of you?”

i wanna be your dog

[positanos]

i wanna be your dog

It can’t be past eight in the morning, but it doesn’t stop that piece—of—shit, redneck, cracker ass Roy from grabbing Mika by the backpack, pulling him backwards and then shoving him face—first into a wall. He’s still got a layer of water from his forehead to his collarbone from washing his face with the Pepto Bismol pink liquid hand—soap in the washroom, and tries wiping it off on his arms best he can.

“Hey, man. Come on, get your hands off my shit.” He knows the second it’s out of his mouth that it’s a bad move. People walk past the two of them, not bothering a second glance. It’s a free—for—all here, and they’re probably just grateful it’s not them he’s fucking with.

Roy shoves him around a little, smashes his face up against the wall, and starts rifling through the bag. Deescalate the situation, ese, he thinks. It’s advice he gets often.

“I haven’t got anything you want, man.” He says it slow, like he’s chilling.

“You got bunk.”

Mika laughs before he can help himself. He’s been on the streets a couple months, but that’s not his thing. “I don’t do that shit.”

“You got weed.”

“None left. Should—a checked yesterday.”

Roy starts rifling through, probably through his extra underwear or socks.

“Come the fuck on. Leave it, man.” He shoves himself backwards, puts all his weight behind it. Roy stumbles a little, and Mika takes the opportunity to turn around, to shove him back at his shoulders.

“Faggot. Watch it. Fucking faggot.” He’s shoving two pairs of socks into his pockets. Shit.

He reeks of smack, of piss. Mika shoves the straps of his backpack up his shoulders, tightens the sleeves of his jacket around his waist. He fights the nagging in his brain to shove him further down, till his , now that he’s got the upper hand.

“Junkie piece—of—shit.”

Yeah, situation deescalated. He’s gotta see about treatment for foot in mouth disease.

Roy stumbles to his feet more than he stands, but Mika rushes backward nonetheless, arms outstretched in front of him. He charges at Mika, pushing him backward into the wall again, harder this time, grabbing him by the shoulders of his t—shirt, shaking him back and forth. He gets a hand on Roy’s throat, squeezes at the sides of his neck hard as he can, till his fingers crack. Roy shoves him back until his head smacks against the wall. A few stragglers to breakfast gather around them, not cheering for either but just for the entertainment.

“Huh, fucking wetback? Fucking spic.” Roy’s got a growl like a demon on him, like he’s been smoking cigarettes and drinking bleach since he could grow hair on his balls. “Fucking injun. Spic, injun, wetback, beaner, squaw slut.” Mika surges forward, pulls Roy’s face closer to him, smacks his own forehead against Roy’s. It does something — he stumbles backward for a moment, and he can see the crack above his eyebrow split open and leak a little red. He’s sure it’s mirrored on his own face, but what’s another scar?

Mika spits at him, shoves him into the middle of the corridor.

“Come on, prairie dog, come on, junkie.”

Roy seems thrilled to run at him again, but they’re both pinned up against the wall by staff, then, hands behind their backs. Mika spits toward Roy’s feet.

“You guys are out, out, don’t be fucking coming back.”

Mika twists back as they’re dragged to the front doors, moves his arms around until the grip on them starts to really burn. “Let me fucking go.”

Roy just growls beside him, wild dog style, tapping like he’s got rabies. (Though, Mika supposes, it wouldn’t be a total surprise.)

They’re shoved through the doors at about the same time — Roy gets the upper hand once they’re out, grabs Mika by the back of his head and starts wailing on his face — he lands one by his forehead, another two on his nose. He moves forward, pushes his head into Roy’s stomach until he’s not able to reach his face. He wraps his arms around Roy’s waist, interlocks his fingers behind his back, and shoves him down to the ground.

“Come on, man, you gonna let a spic push you around?” He goes for the throat again. Inside, he’s sure they’re calling the cops. He’s got a couple minutes, and then he’s gotta be out of here. “Wetback got you on yours?” Mika swings at his face, misses, and Roy is on him, straddling over his torso, pinning his arms to the pavement before he can try again.

He perched over Mika, and he just kicks at him. Lands on his legs, his torso, tries for his dick. He tries to head—butt him, but only hits his chin.

“Ain’t you gonna show me who’s boss, now? Huh?”

[positanos]

laka.

His body aches, his heart beats, his chest swells, his scars bleed. Around him flows salt-touched air; it dances on his skin, touching him the way it did once upon a time. It caresses him. He soaks it up, lets it drip, drip, drip into him. He breathes in brine and breathes out promises. Secret ones, meant only for the trees.

Under him, Papa lets out a huff, her sides pushing out against his calves. His hand brushes against her long neck. Hōʻoluʻolu, it says. Ua kokoke mākou i laila, it says. (Be calm, the touch begs, we’re almost there. Then you can rest and eat and live without me on your back for a moment, a day, a week if you’re lucky.)

Voices surround him; sometimes, his own joins in. His men, his slaves, his confidants. They joke and laugh and ask how much further they’ve got to go. Odzihodo jokes and laughs and tells them not far, can’t they taste it?

Mostly, though, he’s quiet. He looks at the trees and the dirt and the sky and knows it’s all his. Or as much as it can belong to one man. The sky is blue, clear, cloudless above his head; the trees all tower above him; from the dirt springs a flowers and grass and all things living. With every step Papa takes, he gives thanks. He asks for strength, for peace, for good weather.

The sun is just starting to sink as they make their way into the coastal village. So many come to gawk, to look upon the face of their new Sachem. Odzihodo keeps his back straight, his chin arched back. But he smiles at those he sees. Some smile back, but most hide their mouths behind their hands as they whisper about him.

He knows they do, and he doesn’t mind. They look into his eyes and see the sky. Unheard of! His hair, long and curly and streaked with gold, is a mane to rival the strongest beast. His horse may be eighteen hands, but they can tell he’s tall as the stories claimed. Taller, maybe. With arms as thick as trunks and a chest to rival the mountains.

They reach the inn, a strange sight for Tsalagihi, but Odzihodo continues on his own. Behind him, he hears shouts;his people, appealing to him, begging him to stay. Tell us your stories, teach us about something greater. Their words fall empty, shattering on the ground before they reach Odzihodo’s ears. Too high, too faraway for their mortal pleadings.

Papa shakes her head, stomps her feet, snorts. ʻAeʻa iki aku, he says. No, not far at all; the ocean, the beach, it’s just before them. The waves crash against sand, a sound so familiar his heart aches nearly as much as his thighs.

Though the beach is in arm’s reach, that’s not where they go. It’s too public, too loud and crowded. His purpose demands solace. So they move along the waves, skirting the water. Then he’s walking beside Papa. His feet sink into the sand as if she’s pulling him home,greeting him like the wind.

Sand turns to stone as they move into a cove. Papa wanders off, heading towards grass waving in the breeze. A simple creature, egged on by her stomach more than anything else. Odzihodo moves towards the water. It almost reminds him of home, the way a volcano reminds men that they are small and they are weak.

His feet, his ankles, the water begs for more. His loincloth hangs on branches nearby. His body is strong and sturdy and so he’s proud. She knows him. She loves him and she hates him. He sinks to his knees. His legs, weak from travel, refuse to hold him up any longer. He sits against his heels; he relishes the pain of salt in his cuts. His head bowed, he thanks the waves, the salt, the fish for keeping him alive all those years, for allowing him to survive their darkest depths.

There’s no telling how long he sat there, his back straight and tight, his head bowed, his eyes closed. He feels divinity around him. He loses himself in it. Noise behind him goes unheard. Then, a voice. It claws at him. It drags him back to the shore, to the ankle-deep water he sits in, to the sting of salt.

His head turns, but not enough to see who’s speaking. The voice is young, light. A flower on the breeze; a blade of grass dancing before the setting sun. There’s no malice in it. He doesn’t fear it.

“My people,” he says (though all people are his people now), “call her Namaka. She isn’t carved out of salt, but made of all things that swim or drown. But she’s hard to please. I offered my spirit, once, and she spat it back out. Or maybe I’m simply lacking.”

He laughs, then, that big, echoing sound that makes his rib a cave, too big for one man.

“But she called me here. I heard her through the forests, over the mountains. She remembered me. Can’t you see her? There, beneath the waves. She hides behind darting fish and waving seaweed, but she’s there.”

A wish. If only she could give something so great. And if she could, what would he wish for?

“What would you give her for a wish?” he asks. “And what would you ask in return?”

The burning in his blood reaches a crescendo, a peak of pain he’s not expecting. It feels as if the knife’s cutting his skin anew; as if they’re still standing over him, working that blade into him and out, slicing him open and rubbing his blood with dirt. So he stands. He walks back to land.

It’s only then that he sees the boy who came up behind him. He’s a head shorter than Odzihodo, with fine features that mark him as half somewhere else. He’s pretty. The kind of boy men lust over when they want to feel useful again. There’s a scar, through his eyebrow and down his cheek, but it doesn’t seem to distract. To take away from the beauty in his face. Odzihodo smiles down at him.

“Well?”

It’s when he hears the man speak, steady and deep, his voice big as the shake of thunder, that Oji begins to realize how large he is. Even kneeling down, a beast of a body, skin stretched tight over bone and muscle like he’s never seen. But he’s heard of a man so, one big as a tree. Sachem, he thinks.

“Namaka.” He repeats it back slow, careful. A story: it’s the first the man gives him and he likes it, holds it close by his ear so he might take it, keep it for himself. His eyes, though, are devious, greedy for the sight of him — if people were moulded of clay, like his Mother had said a hundred times (and when had she been wrong, ever? She’d been right always, in her life and after, too, when the only one to know it was Oji), then surely months more time had been spent on him — his shoulders and back, all the smooth, curved lines of him.

“Your people.” Oji points straight ahead, grass—stained cotton pushed back to his elbow. There’s nothing in sight but waves, that lap at the man like they mean to taste of his skin. (Like salt, now, Oji guesses.) But land lies further beyond the water, he knows. “Are you from the island across?”

He knows of it; mountains with mouths or eyes like Gods, that open and weep or bleed, tears or blood hotter than fire that burn — when displeased, or abused, or angered. He’d always wanted that sort of power.

“I see only the salt woman.” She’s gone from sight now, but she’s burned to the backs of his eyes, so he sees her again each time his eyes press shut. Again and again. The press of her hands together, the lines of her narrow cheeks. Her eyes, the bow of her lips — nearly a reflection of his, in life, but it was harder to see, now; the colour of her was gone, from braided hair and mouth and skin, leaving only white, flaking salt. “The woman you know hides from me. Maybe I lack. Like you.” He laughs, too — it’s smaller than the man’s, but bright and true.

The man stands up from the water, and Oji is a shadow of him. He’s naked, thighs and calves and cock uncovered. He is used enough to naked men that he’s sure he’s not blushing — though if he was, he’d be thankful to already be covered in a flush from the sun. He’s covered in scars, the man, over his arms and across his chest and stomach, down his legs. It’s like the knife was hungry for that flesh, or for something underneath it. His bottom half, covered in the water — Oji winces at the thought of that sting.

He’d thought it a reflection of the water, or perhaps somehow of the sun, but his eyes are a colour lighter than the sea, paper even than bruising, than the silk a man from across the sea had shown him once, a truer blue than the leaves of a giant wild rye. Oji steps forward to see better, heart ahead of feet, and stops before he can let himself touch at his face. He’s curious, in that desperate way he gets; he’s never seen anything, especially not eyes, so blue — never seen skin so covered in scars. Above his left eye, a line through his brow, ends before it cuts through to his cheek. Shorter than Oji’s, but of the same kind. He smiles down at Oji, and he can do nothing but smile up at him.

Who are you? What found you here?

“I would offer my body.” He’s still smiling when he says it. “Because it is young, so maybe good, but I think she would turn her nose away at it. Vtla, otsu vtla, she would say. Wave me away, a fool.” No, no good. “Too young, too small, too used already. But maybe if her stomach was hungry for youth that afternoon, I might be lucky.”

He walks away from the man, only a few steps, and then turns to face him again. “No. No, I know.”

Oji bends down to the water, reaches out hands stretched into a bowl, presses them into the water until they fill to the brim of his fingers. He lifts it to his face, presses it all over. It’s cold on him, the thrill of it the same as the burst of a peach’s skin, leaking juice onto his tongue, the same as the kiss of a lover he wants to be kissing. When he looks at the man, wet and naked and blanketed by scars, he is hungry.

“I would give her every story I’ve ever known. A hundred, more than, have loved me for a moment, no longer, but gave me a story while they did love me, when I asked sweetly for it, and so just a piece of me, big as a fingernail, loves them back for giving me them. I keep and carry with them, the same as my own memories, and they are mine, now, for having loved and cared after them so long.”

He moves forward, through the shallow water. The water on his face dries, but drips to the neck of his tunic. He shivers. “Namaka, I would say, stubborn she, who hides beneath the tide and quilts of seaweed, I offer them to you in exchange for a wish.” Even he can hear the note of excitement to his voice, the thrill, how it changes him.

“I know a thousand stories, and would give them all to you. From the East and the North, from the South and as far across the water as a ship can sail. Stories they wept to tell me, stories they struck me for listening to, stories they hated me for asking for. I collect and tend to them and love them, and know they cannot be taken from me, but still I would give them. I have never asked for anything but a story, and I would give every one to you for my wish, Namaka, for my freedom.”

“To come and go as I please, but mostly to go. To feel my heart and the wind inside me and to feel breath or words escape my mouth and to know they are of me, and mine because of it, and that my spirit is mine.”

Wind, then, escapes him — it upsets him, to think of a bargain with a woman who will not show herself to him, that renders it impossible. Oji looks at the man, and is evened, and feels the sting of his scars for him again.

“Namaka, I will sit by you night and day and again for a month, and tell you every one of them, in exchange for it.”

Oji really can’t believe the blue of his eyes.

“Do you think she would accept such a trade?” He smiles, again, and the burn across his cheeks aches sweetly. “What did you ask for, before, when you offered her your spirit? Would you offer the same now? Or does it still lack?” He can hear the echo of a kiss in his voice. “What did she call you here, for, then? If not for your spirit. Your tongue, stomach, your ears?”

sea-rusted altar

[positanos]

sea-rusted altar

Cotton bites at his skin the same as a lover, covering over stretches of skin burnt from the sun. It aches, but beautiful how, like the ache of an arm or calf or arm grabbed tight. He’s pink all over — across the bridge of his nose, his cheeks just underneath his eyes, across his back and his chest too. He hasn’t checked in his reflection — hasn’t been back all day, just knows the familiar burn, how he missed it, how happy he is for it now.

By tomorrow it’ll already have begun to fade, but for now he’s deliriously happy, gazing at the sun to say a thank you. After a moment, his eyes start to burn, too — once he realizes it’s from staring right at the sun, he laughs, shuts his eyes tight with the sun still burning the insides of them for a moment. He leans his body back against the grass, stretches out slow and lazy.

He’s infatuated with today — grass bruising up against his back, cotton scratching on his skin where the wind lifts it, love bites from the sun all over him, the morning’s taste of wine still stuck to his tongue. He wants it to last, to always fall asleep right now and to always wake up just a moment ago, to live right here until the sun dies, too.

But the sun will set, he knows, on a day of freedom already gone too soon, so he sits up, lifts himself off of the grass and stands, turning his head quick to see if he can catch his shadow in the bend of the leaves, but he’s too slow.

Grass turns to sand as he walks down the hill to the beach, and sand sticks between his toes. The air is thick as honey around him, so hot he feels his hair dampen against his forehead — he pushes it away from his face, piles it back on top of the curls still dry from the salt of the water. The cove opens up, after a moment of walking, once he’s around the bend — the rest of his world twists away, even the perfect, sunny patch from just a moment before.

Maybe it’s because he so often shares private moments with his buyers that he recognizes one when he walks into it: a man kneels in the water, back toward Oji, his back taught like when you pull a bow tight up against it’s arrow.

He doesn’t know him.

His eyes follow the curls of his braid, longest he’s seen before, down to where it ends, under the curve of his bottom.

Maybe he does.

He moves closer, still standing on the sand, before there is the ghost of a thought to do otherwise.

He kneels in the water like he means to crawl into the sea, beg the lady of the water to let him stay forever. Oji wonders, if he is patient, until the light goes away and the sun is gobbled up by the hills, if he would get to see the ocean swallow the man up the same. If she would swallow Oji up, too.

He thinks of his Father, then, suddenly. Is this how it happens? Disappearing. Is it this easy? All he ever needed was patience, to wait until the ocean was hungry enough to eat a heart.

He steps forward again, the tidewater pulling him in. Again. He’s never seen him before. He’s the sort Oji would know to remember — his hair long, curled and brown with streaks of the sun in the yellow of it at the ends, his skin a deep brown, the sort he never gets, no matter the days he spends sprawled in the sun.

Maybe the sea left him here. Closer, still. Until he could only reach out and have a hand atop the man’s head.

“I’ve heard,” he says, his voice surprising even himself, “that if you give the lady who lives out there, in the sea, a gift she likes, a treat, something that she likes very much, that she will grant you a wish.” He can see her now, ahead of him and the kneeling man, towering over them both, tall as the walls of the cove. “They say she’s carved out of salt.” He can taste it on his tongue. “Is that who you’re waiting for?”

[positanos]

porch

He’s never so happy at school as when gym class is finally fucking over — he jogs back to the locker room off the stretch of land where they’ve been doing laps. The second he’s in, it’s like walking through a wall of sweat and cologne. Chuck speeds to his hook, backpack and towel there. (He never takes advantage of the showers; literally anything is a better way to spend his time.)

Usually he’d take a minute to change, sure to keep his eyes on the tiles, positive to avoid eye contact with anyone, or the sight of anyone’s bare chest. (He’s just trying to avoid the gay thing as long as possible, at least until he’s out of here, out of the shadow of his Daddy and all the bad things Chuck’s done here. Maybe longer. As long as he can.) But it’s Friday, and he got acrylic paint all over his shirt and jeans in third period, and he’s itching to just get out. The gym uniform hasn’t been updated for what has to be twenty—odd years; tight white t—shirt with PEACH SPRINGS HIGH emblazoned in yellow across the chest, tight and short bright yellow shorts, white and yellow striped high socks that go halfway up his calves, sticking out of his runners.

Rick, at the hook beside him, forgoes a shower and instead sprays his pits and then his entire upper body with Cologne that smells almost of medicine. On his other side, Eddie and Brett (who, Chuck thinks, should really just suck each other off already), talk loudly about all the shit they’re planning to pull at the former’s house on the weekend, since his parents are out of town. Everyone’s invited — Chuck, too, technically, but he’s got zero interest in making an appearance. If anything, he’d show just to pocket something from their bar set up, but he’s got enough at home, and he can’t stand to see any of them till Monday.

He hates them, his classmates, every one of them. It makes him lonely sometimes, but he knows he’d rather be alone than hang around those kids who are lame, or fake, or sick with their closed minds, or good in a way that Chuck couldn’t have ever been. (He envies them for it, somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach, but it’s rotted into hate.) He’s had friends here and there, even a best friend in a boy two years older, but he’d moved away to a College far from Peach Springs as he could get, and Chuck’s not exactly as charming through letters.

So he just grabs his backpack and slings it over his shoulder, and takes the exit out of the gymnasium, right out into the desert again, skipping the hallways, digging his Walkman out of his bag, headphones over his ears. He tucks into the elastic waistband of his shorts for a second as he presses play, middle of the song, Vedder screaming in his ears. (Daily minefield, this could be my time, how bout you? Would you hit me?) He sticks the player back into the front pocket of his bag, zipping it up so that just the wire hangs out.

The Arizona is hot as hell now it’s nearly summer, and Chuck burns under it, sizzles, but he revels in it. His skin is already hues darker than the winter from all the hours he spends wandering around outside, going nowhere.

He walks slow — his house is close by the school, and he’s in no real rush to see his Ma ever, but especially not when they’ve got the whole weekend to pick away at each other. (The two of them have gotten real good at fighting, over the five years since his Daddy left; Chuck’s got his words, sure, but his Mom’s got a mean right hand, and real good aim with throwing beer cans.)

Chuck digs through his backpack as he walks — notebooks, loose papers with grades he doesn’t want to look at, past his jeans, till his hand hits the metal tin at the bottom of the bag. He’s got it pulled out of his bag quick as anything, opened up and a hand—rolled cigarette between his teeth quick as anything, lit just as quick by a match.

Shit. It’s good, the first inhale. He’s been waiting for this since lunch break — his cigarettes aren’t good, exactly, not like the taste of a Marlboro, but he tries his best, rolls them tight, and anything better is out of budget.

By the time he rounds the corner of the trailer, Vedder is hitting too close to home. (Oh dear Dad, can you see me now? I am myself, like you somehow.) He skips the song, and then is too frustrated to start the album over again, and pulls his headphones off instead, lets them hang around his neck instead — he can still hear the bass of the music, but it’s not as overwhelming an experience.

He walks closer to the side of the metal house, punches his fist against it to feel the impact, and make the loud noise. Also to warn his Ma he’s home, just in case she’s got a new man over.

But he rounds the corner to the front door, and his Daddy’s truck hood is pulled up, a beast of a man standing in front of it, hunched over it. Big as a tree, he thinks, with almond brown skin, a tattoo spanning his back, wide as two Chucks, probably a half foot taller than him, if not more, and hair tied up at the nape of his neck. He almost can’t see the wrecked front end of the truck, smashed by Chuck two years back, now, behind the guy.

Chuck’s a fag. He’s known it for awhile, and accepted it for less time than that, but it’s not so often he feels like an active gay. Like, none of the guys at his school or any of the men in town have been actually attractive enough for Chuck to consider bending over for.

But he’s — Jesus, something else. Chuck hopes he’s not the lucky guy currently laying pipe on his Ma. Of course somebody like this appears when Chuck’s wearing his high school-issued gym uniform. Fucking high socks. He’s glad the cigarette isn’t burned through yet — he takes a deep inhale, and walks closer.

“You’re undoing all my hard work there.” He says it as he exhales, walks to stand behind him. “I mean, I really went out of my way to do a number on it, and here you are, fucking it all up.” He doesn’t know what to do but inhale more smoke. “So who are you, anyway?”

[positanos]

(tamaya.)

Mirrors have never been her friend. They’ve never been her enemy, either. She can braid her hair, do her makeup, live her life without them. Looking at herself, she sees things no one else sees. Little bits and pieces that don’t seem to fit quite right. So she avoids it. I’m Indian, she thinks, they’ll steal my soul.

She’s always thought she looked more like Chuck than Harvey. Something about the shape of her face, the way she holds herself. Even their skin are hues closer. But Chuck isn’t the one who helped make her. And it’s obvious in her height, her body, her smile.

From their yearbooks, she knows her mother’s face. She’s seen the pictures of them together; their night of royalty, in Key Club, eating lunch together. She’s seen her mother in her cheerleader uniform, all smiles and bright eyes. And maybe she sees her mother in her face, too. The way her lips hold when she’s not thinking about it, how angry she can get, how wrathful.

She looks at herself and she sees her dads. Her dads look at her and see a daughter, the girl they raised, the woman she’s becoming. Xiomara looks at her and sees what? What was there, when Tamaya asked her out. Who did she see?

Tamaya puts on mascara (Harvey gave her many things; his eyelashes weren’t one of them) and purses her lips, clenches her neck. She fluffs her hair, piles it all on one side of her head. Then the other. She parts it down the middle, following its straight and boring lines until they disappear from the mirror. She pulls on the crop top Zig said made her look hot, looks at her stomach, the definition blossoming there. She looks at her tits because they’re there, not pressed against her ribs like normal.

Who is she now?

She laughs. At herself. Because she’s fucking ridiculous. Who is she? Tamaya, Tamaya, Tamaya. The baby that made Harvey a teen dad. The tallest Indian girl in all of New York. Who learned guitar from her rock star dad. She’s whatever the fuck she wants to be.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, she changes the song. (Billie Eilish makes her sentimental for things she didn’t know she could be so mushy about.) She tugs on the shirt again, forgetting that’s all there is to it. Her body’s too big, takes up too much space, as it is. This is only going to make it worse. But Zig said she looked cute. And so did Chuck. So she feels cute. (Exposed. Naked. Really fucking adorable.)

She pulls on socks. Blue and pink. Wiggles her toes. Pulls her legs to her chest, wraps her arms around them, wonders when she’ll stop feeling so fucking nervous. Most of the hard part’s over. She asked her out. Xiomara said yes. Now, it’s supposed to be easier. Just go be herself, right? Dazzle and gleam and be someone extraordinary.

Groaning, sighing, the beginning of a yell bubbling out of her. She lies back, kicks her feet. Covers her eyes. Is she smearing her mascara? How long does it take to dry? She doesn’t know. Her arms stretch behind her instead, fingers almost grazing the floor.

(Who is she?)

Too quickly, she stands. Blood rushes from her head. She stumbles. But she just has to get ready. If she doesn’t leave soon, she’s going to be late. And that’s just not very cute. So she slides into a pair of jeans (pale, loose, not quite long enough) and some white sneakers.

She tastes her mouth, runs her tongue along her teeth. Will Xiomara try to kiss her? Will she try to kiss Xiomara? She pulls her nearly-shirt over her head and goes back to the bathroom. (The odds of her dribbling toothpaste onto her nice, new, clean shirt are too high for her to ignore.) She brushes her teeth with her back to the mirror, humming along to one of those songs Chuck made her fall in love with.

But, she’s done. Minty fresh. Dressed once more. She runs downstairs, backpack slung over one shoulder. From the hooks in the hall, she grabs a sweater, one that’s big even on her. And a light, dusky pink.

“Bye, Dads!” she shouts over her shoulder. “I’ll be home late!”

The night air nips at her exposed skin when she steps out of their house. She moves faster than walking, but slower than jogging. Her nerves are jingling. Deafening her. Numbing her to the cold. She doesn’t put on her sweater, just leaves it hanging over her arm. She holds it in front of her, hiding behind it.

While she walks, she tries to meditate. Or something similar. Breathe in, out, in, out. Focus on something good (Xiomara’s lips) and ignore something bad (what if she doesn’t like me?) and calm, calm, calm. In, out. Everything’s fine. She’s fine.

It’s just a first date. With a beautiful girl. Who probably didn’t realize Tamaya existed until she asked her out. It’s fine. Everything’s fucking fine!

By the time she gets to Xiomara’s house, her heart’s trying to force its way out of her chest. She feels it; against her ribs, in her fingers, pushing back into her lungs. In out in out. Why, why, why? Why’s she so nervous? People go on dates all the time! And they’re just gosh darn fine!

She stands before Xiomara’s door. Stares at it. Raises her fist. Stares some more. One deep breath in, holds it. You’re going to be fine. She clears her throat. Knocks. She notices the doorbell. She rings that too. (Just in case.)

Unfortunately, Tamaya doesn’t have to wait long before the door opens. But it’s not Xiomara who answers, but a maid. In a full blown uniform. Straight out of a movie or something. Now, the Midthunders aren’t broke or anything, but this (the casual display of wealth) hits her hard. She wants to giggle, ask if they tell her to wear that get up.

Instead she says, “I’m here for Xiomara.”

The woman nods. “Alright.” Lets her in. Tamaya steps past her and feels dwarfed by everything inside. It’s all gilted and shiny and marble. She stands right next to the door. She thinks if she goes any farther in, she might break something. Or tarnish it with her sweating palms.

“Is she ready?” Tamaya asks.

“Not yet.” She doesn’t seem surprised. “You can wait in there.”

Tamaya turns and sees another gilted, shiny, marble room. With couches and tables and things, but it’s just an extension of the hall she’s in.

“Uh, sure. Okay.”

Hair, hair, everywhere. She tucks some behind her ears, pushes more over her shoulders. She sits on the edge of one of the couches. She feels too big. Dangerous. A red cow in a china shop. Seconds tick, tick, tick by. It feels like more. Longer. She focuses on her breathing.

In, out. In, out.

Her mind wanders, her hands sweat. She stands, sits back down, stands again. Her body wants to move, pace, burn some energy. Instead, she perches once more. Twisting hair around her fingers. Tight. She looks around, for something to see. On the coffee table in front of her are pictures. Fine, great. She picks one up.

A wedding. Four people. Bride, groom, Xiomara, and Auggie, Zig’s boyfriend. It’s obvious whose parent belongs to who. They all look so happy. Xiomara and Auggie look so young. Tamaya smiles too. Her thumb brushes on the glass, wondering if it’s real. Their happiness. She puts the picture back down. She twirls and twirls and twirls her hair.

(This is why she keeps it in braids.)

And she waits waits waits.

Lana del Rey floats through the speakers around Xiomara’s room as she sits at her vanity, the woman’s voice low and sultry — she’s too quiet, though, to drown out the sound of the girl’s yelling.

“Where is that pink mini dress?! Paola! Did you get it from the dry cleaners?”

Xiomara loves Paola, more than someone like her knows how to put into words, but this is serious.

“Paola!”

Her dad imported Paola from the old country back when Xo was just a kid, a couple of years after her Mom up and left, and after a serious of nannies and housekeepers so scarred by her anger that they’d left the job, no matter the raise he offered. She’s known her just about as long as her memory lasts. But mierda, this is a first date! Impressions are important.

Paola strolls into Xo’s suite casually, reaching down to pat Rocky, her new French Bulldog puppy, on the head. He follows behind her as she walks to where Xiomara sits in front of her vanity — she knows Paola sneaks him treats when there’s no one to watch them in the kitchen together, even the expensive leftovers, but she spoils the little thing rotten, too.

She stands behind her, and looks down at her, adjusting one of the wide, bouncy curls near her face, before leaning in, looking into her eyes. “This music — so sad, mija, don’t tell me you are trying to tell me you are crying for help with this sad, sad music.” Xo whines. She knows well what’s coming. “Alexa,” Paola says. She winces, anticipates it. “Play Selena, por favor.” (Xo has told her that it’s a robot, and doesn’t require politeness, but Paola will hear none of it.) Bidi Bidi Bom Bom floats through the speakers instead, and Paola’s hips start to sway a little to the beat.

“Paola.” She feels a migraine building from her frustration. “The pink mini. The one I just got. Did you get it from the dry cleaner’s?” Though she’s talking to Paola, her eyes move to herself in the mirror. Already finished with her hair and makeup, and wrapped up in one of her little robes. Without thinking, she reaches for her lipgloss and puts on another healthy coat.

“No, Xiomara, you told me it was for Saturday.” She smacks her lips together.

“Are you kidding?” Xo finds a second to spare to pose in the mirror, pouting, and admires her own reflection. It seems to be stress relief; her headache dies down a little.

“Okay.” She claps her hands together. “This is a mess. I have thirty minutes to get ready, and the whole outfit is planned around that — maldito — “

Paola pats the top of her head, just like she did to Rocky, though it is more stern this time. She checks the watch on her wrist; a gift from Xiomara, on Paola’s last birthday. “She will be here in ten minutes, Xiomara.”

“Yes.” A beat. “That’s what I just said.”

Paola shakes her head. “You have the blue dress, from Augustus’ birthday party. The cherry dress, from your visit to Miami.” Xo scoffs at the idea. “The black dress, with the flowers, mija, that you haven’t worn out before?”

Xo tries to picture it. A soft black silk, with pink and white flowers embroidered by the chest and hips, connecting at the sides, with a patch of them above the ass. She hasn’t worn it anywhere before, or posted it on Instagram, which makes it a contender. It does make her tits look great, all squished together. She clicks her phone on, out of habit more than actually needing to check it, and scrolls through her notifications.

(Paola, knowing she’s distracted, takes to picking up the items Xo has thrown around her room in her attempt to get ready, despite being in no rush.)

kiko watanabe—jones so is she there yet

kiko watanabe—jones does gus know

kiko watanabe—jones does zig know? did he combust

kiko watanabe—jones anyway send me a photo of ur outfit slut thx please text me, my mom is having a sangria party here

instagram xo, 96 people liked your new photo

instagram devonharris mami wyd tn

❤️papa❤️ We’re planning a family dinner for Thanksgiving. Make sure you’re free, darling. Besitos, stay out of trouble with Tsukiko tonight. Ye amo, see you tomorrow.

Nothing good enough to waste some time with. “I’ll try it. I guess.” Like she’s got any other choice but an outfit repeat or something she could wear to church.

It’s a tight squeeze into the dress, though it was what she was going for when she bought it. It has spaghetti—thin straps, which means she’s braless underneath. The neckline scoops around her cleavage, the fabric pushing her breasts together to create an optical illusion of particular largeness. (They’re not mosquito bites, by any means, especially on someone as short as Xo, but she’s sure Tamaya has watched lesbian porn — and, therefore, seen excessively larger.) In one of the full—length mirrors in her wardrobe room, she leans forward, reaching her hands under the fabric and pushing them closer together, and then gives her reflection a self—satisfied smirk. It hugs tight around her waist and hips and ass — that, thankfully, requires no optical illusion. It doesn’t quite cover upper thigh territory, short enough that she’s hopeful it’ll startle Tamaya, but not so short that her ass cheeks or thong are at a risk of making an unwelcome (on Xo’s part) appearance.

Xiomara poses, checking angles from the front and side and back, and around again, while, in her bedroom, Paola tosses Rocky’s toy for him, again and again, as he catches it and returns it, breathing heavy enough Xo can hear it. (Even over the Selena Paola still has playing.)

She grabs an itty—bitty pink bag, the same colour as the flowers on her dress, and, from her wall of shoes (her pride and joy), a pair of pink high heels the same hue. She walks to Paola in the next room and holds them up.

“Yes.”

Paola nods, but gives her dress a bit of a judgemental eye. “Home by midnight, mija, not a second later.”

“Sure, sure.” Both of them know she only half means it.

Downstairs, the doorbell rings, loud and clear. Rocky immediately loses his mind, barking and scratching at the door.

“I will go let her in.” Rocky tries to follow Paola out of the room, but Xo catches him by the collar. “Don’t keep her waiting too long, please.”

She sits down to strap her shoes on, already tuning out what she’s saying, and nods. “Yeah, yeah. Have her wait in the front room, please.”

It’s not that she means to take so long, on purpose, but she needs to be absolutely sure about her appearance; if there’s something she’s not sure about, she’ll spend all night focusing on it, and having any sort of a good time will be out of the question. Really, she’s keeping Tamaya waiting for her own good. Into her ears to gold hoops, not so big that someone could fit their wrists in, but not so big that they don’t have a bit of drama. An anklet around one foot, just for fun. Into her little—bitty bag she tosses the essentials: phone, credit card, keys, real ID, fake ID (thanks, Gus), mascara, lip gloss (thanks Rihanna).

Rocky, though her little angel, will not let up scratching the door, so she lets him out, and hears him race downstairs. She moves back to the vanity, nervous to go downstairs though she won’t admit it, even to herself. Xo picks up a perfume bottle, and sprays it at all the important spots: both sides of her neck, the insides of her wrists, her tits. She rubs all of it in with her hands, and breathes in the smell of lavender.

She stares at herself in the mirror. Dark, long, curly hair, big brown eyes, big button nose, skin bronze and glowing thanks to expensive body highlighter. (Thank you, Sephora gods.)

It’s the time, if there’ll ever be one. She grabs her purse and leaves her room, leaving the lights on and letting Selena play on — Paola will take care of it all later.

Down the hallway and around the spiral stairs she goes, trying to keep her heels from clacking too loudly against the marble, but she fails at it.

She follows the sound of Rocky’s heavy breathing to the front sitting room, and walks right in, making sure her hips sway just the right amount. Tamaya pets Rocky, who looks happy as ever. She’s casual as can be, in a crop top and jeans. “Hey,” Xo says, grinning and making sure the charm is turned up to 10.

Tamaya looks really cute — cuter than Xo has seen her, maybe. (Cuter than the day she asked Xiomara out, though she was sort of hot then, anyway, even in a sports uniform.) “You look nice.”

She bends down to pet Rocky, underneath the pink collar around his neck, and her gives her a lick on the wrist in appreciation. “So, are you ready to go?” She stands back up straight. “Or did you want a house tour?” She can still hear Como la Flor playing upstairs. “Oh, are we ubering? Or do you use Lyft?” She shakes her hair around her face, smiling from the nerves. “I don’t think you ever told me where you ended up choosing to go, did you?”

butterflies

[positanos]

roland.

Life is a distant thought; he hasn’t lived a breath in weeks, in months. His body works and his mind sleeps. His hands, so used to holding a pen, hoists sails, anchors, flags. Sometimes, at night, Roland forces now clumsy fingers against his fiddle, to play a song that sounds like home. Fast, light, the only noise for miles and miles and miles. Some mornings, he draws, his calloused hand forcing a familiar face down on paper.

But now, they’re close. Seagulls scream from the clouds and they know land is near. Just over the horizon, they think. Collier sits in the crow’s nest, spyglass to his eye. The rest of them work the sails, swab the deck, focus on the ache in their muscles and sweat on their brow instead of what lies before them.

Hours, years, seconds later and Collier cries, Land ho!

Roland shields his eyes and looks to the west, sees the promise of land peeking out over the water. He grins. His body longs for still, for solid ground beneath it. The closer they get, the bigger the land becomes; stretching forever outwards, filling the world before them. The coast is untamed, wild. Everything is alien to him. The trees, the dirt, even the rocks are foreign.

His gaze goes to a river slashing its way off the coast. And to a body in it. Standing there, watching them. In a flash, it’s gone. Roland heard the rumors, the stories of the natives. Whether they were hostile monsters, destroying all they didn’t recognize, or benevolent hosts depended entirely upon the storyteller. (He prays for the latter, that the guns strapped to the crews’ hips might go to waste.)

Once they’re a mile offshore, they lower the anchor and drop the dinghies into the sea. Roland’s in one of the first, pen in iron grip, scratching the outlines of the new world into his journal. Mosquitoes buzz around his head, but he welcomes them. A part of him might even celebrate their little nips and bites, rejoices in the nearness of all God’s creatures, no matter how obnoxious.

They all escape the dinghies before they’ve landed, getting wet to their knees. None of them mind much as they stretch their arms, their backs, their beating, beating hearts. Roland walks up the shore. He revels in the stillness of ground. Mud shifts beneath his feet, yes, but below that is bedrock and earth and everything he so missed.

At the edge of the forest, he stops. It’s as impenetrable as a wall, twenty feet tall and topped with spears. He kneels. He reaches out, traces the delicate lines of a plant he’s never seen. He cups the bloom between two fingers. Admires it, then lets it go.

“Now, gentlemen,” says their captain, “the real work begins.”

The crew breaks out in cheers; Roland breaks out in a grin.

He’s halfway back to the village when he stops. He wants to know. He doesn’t want to prepare medicine for the injured, or watch the children — he wants to see it for himself. Maybe it’s the dreams that urge him to change direction. He sees his Mother’s face painted white, eagle feathers in her hair. Sees the spinning arrow. He follows it to the water. He takes a shortcut, through the trees where the spaces between are slim, where Hiawatha wouldn’t be able to take his warriors.

Soon, the spaces between the trees grows wider. They’re green like the husk of corn in the light, and dirt sticks to his feet as he runs, fallen branches cutting open his skin, and he feels awake.

 Caiya slows. Grass grows wherever there are not trees, and he crouches down while he walks. He can smell the fresh water, and knows that he is close.

Do you know what will happen?

No.

What sort of men come so far from home?

Maybe they are looking for a new one.

He can hear the visitor’s voices. They aren’t words he’s ever heard, sounds or voices anything like he knows. Caiya moves quicker, and the trees grow bigger, until they’re all he can see. He’s gone too close. He’s only a few feet back from the tree line — if they were to come onto land this way, he’d be found right away. But he’s quick, faster than he is strong.

They have small boats near the shore — the men are pale, almost like clouds, and they’re so close. Caiya backs up, crouches behind a tree and peeks one eye out. He watches one of them stare back at him, but the man sees through him. Caiya stares right at him, trying to see into the man’s heart through his chest. What is it made of?

Caiya cannot see them, but he feels the earth move under them. Hiawatha and his men move past the tree line, slow as a drip of paint, until every one of them is out, a line across the trees, watching the white men. They walk further forward, and Caiya realizes that not one of them carry a bow, an arrow, not a weapon in sight.

whistling down the river

[positanos]

whistling down the river

Grass bends under his feet, wet and soft, curling around his toes. Caiya stops, digs his feet into the mud — it’s cold, but it’s welcomed. He steps forward, until it’s only mud he steps on, forward, jumping down to the shore of the river, forward, down the bend of the mud-hill, until his ankles are in the water. Further, further, up to his knees. Small rocks press against his feet, but he doesn’t resist it, only steps down against them with more of his weight.

Caiya closes his eyes, dips his fingers and his hands down into the cold water. It’s a relief that there’s no one around, after wandering out so far — he’s got nothing to say to anyone, only wants to touch the river.

Against his hands, the water moves a little faster. He can smell smoke coming back from the village, smells roasting corn and fish. He breathes in deep, the cool of the water spreading inside him, like the ripple of a stone in still water. It feels like the water around his fingers is shaking.

Something — a voice by his ear — tells him to open his eyes. Caiya does, and it’s his hands shaking in the water. A boat bigger than he’s ever seen glides across the water — toward him, toward the village. Sails hoisted in the air, moving faster than he realized they could. He doesn’t know what to do. He should go back, but he can’t make himself move. It feels like his feet are stuck in the mud. There have been boats before, he knows the stories, but never by their end of the river. The boat gets closer, and as he sees the shadows on deck turn into men that Caiya realizes they’ll be able to see him, too, if they haven’t already. Behind him, around him he hears the rest of the tribe realize what’s coming. The sweet smelling smoke is burning, now. He needs to get back.

His legs come back from the dead, and he’s racing back, his heartbeat a drum in his ears.

[positanos]

auggie.

Starting at college is supposed to be some big thing, isn’t it? A new step in his life. Adulthood. Life moving on. Or whatever. Except, Auggie’s going to school a few miles from his parents’. (His parents’! So official, so adult. He can think it, say it, but it doesn’t change the fact he can see it from his dorm window.)

It’s hard to feel like a new chapter’s beginning when the old one’s staring him straight in the face. When he can look up from his newfound adulthood and see his abandoned childhood a subway ride away. Well, now all he can see in the window is his own reflection.

Looking mighty fucking fine if he does say so himself. He smiles; at himself, at the skyline, at the future that’s shining so bright. He looks down, brushes at his clothes. They’re new, different from what he’s used to.

A knock on his door drags him away from himself. He goes to it, throws it open with a grin half the size of Manhattan on his face.

“Look at this.”

He extends an arm, hand palm down.

“Okay,” says Leo. “What am I looking at.”

“Liver spots, bitch! I got old waiting for you to get here.”

Leo rolls his eyes.

“I don’t even know if I can make it to 114th. Fuck. My back and shit, dude. Arthritis or whatever.”

“Like you’d miss it.”

Auggie opens his mouth, to say something witty, but he smiles stupid instead.

“I’m gonna complain the whole way.”

“Uh huh.”

While they walk, Auggie’s feet don’t even touch the ground. Every breath he takes feels like freedom freedom freedom. So what if he can still his parents’ house? His life is his now. Everything he does matters, has weight. It’s not just some shit to get him through the day, night, week, whatever. He’s an ivy league kid now. A frat boy soon enough.

He’s getting so close to the man he wants to be. He’s right there, basking in the stars only he can see. If Auggie stands on tiptoe, the tips of his fingers can disrupt those little lights. Send them falling down to earth. (So he can pick them up, stuff them in his pockets, pretend they’re things that have already happened to him.)

But they keep walking; no time for star collecting, not here in New York. Auggie complains, light and teasing, his hand pressed to the base of his spine. Leo laughs at him and ignores him in equal measure.

They met yesterday, Leo and Auggie. Only two black guys on their floor. They could both tell their RA was trying not to group them up too much, trying to say without saying I’m not racist! You guys have plenty in common with all these other guys. But they ended up together anyway. Because of fate or odd numbers or a lucky roll of the dice. But they’re chill. Leo’s cool. Auggie likes him.

He’s the one who told Auggie about the party at Alpha Phi Alpha. Over breakfast, mouth full of honey nut. Auggie’d heard of them. Once or twice. But he never paid them much mind. Before joining a frat, he had to get into a university, after all. Now, he’s done that, he’s here. He’s one of the brainiacs at Columbia.

And he’s on his way to the first party of the year. Everything’s palpable. The music, the thrill. Excitement leaks out every open window, door, mouth. Laughter drowns out the beat; the bass vibrates to the street. People are standing around, smoking, mingling. Each frat on the row is open, inviting.

But he only has interest in one. The rest, sure, maybe. An all black frat, though? Can’t be beat. Not in a million years.

Finally, finally they’re there. Walking up the front steps. In the door. Surrounded by faces like theirs, futures like theirs.

Auggie smiles, all nice and big like Mom said. (A real smile, she told him, shows all your teeth.) He slips into networking as easy as a man can. A second skin, this personality his. He wants to make friends, sure, but he wants connections more. Wants to know everyone here, everyone not here. Their names, faces, what drugs can he sell them.

A king in his castle, a CEO in his morning meeting, Auggie circles the room once, twice. He talks to everyone who looks at him. Flirts with anyone who looks interested. He dances with a few girls, one boy. He leans against a wall while a boy promises to fuck his brains out before he just disappears.

Auggie doesn’t mind. He wasn’t Auggie’s type, anyway. So he moves on. Dances some more. Drinks and drinks and drinks. His skin is glistening, brown and beautiful under these lights. These sorts of moments, all life and no thought, are what he gets out of bed for. What makes each morning worth it. Each sunset a miracle.

His hand’s empty. No drink. He sighs, brow furrowed. Weird. That’s weird. Where are his new friends? Around him, surrounding him, but none of them really care he’s empty handed.

He doesn’t say anything as he goes into the kitchen. Just slips away. He’s smiling, laughing. Says idle words to a few people he passes. Greetings and goodbyes, an introduction, a half-baked joke. He moves with diligence. The open bar’s siren song leeching him of any of his usual charms.

When he pushes his way into the kitchen, his gaze is drawn to a white boy standing by the booze. His face is all sharp lines; jaw, nose, brow. His hair long, curly. His body’s all lean prime white boy meat. Standing there like he owns the place.

Auggie looks and thinks he’s familiar. Someone out of a dream, maybe. High school? Couldn’t be. Auggie remembers boys that look like that. So he walks around the kitchen, stands behind the boy, presses too close against him.

“‘Scuse me,” he says.

His arms reach around the boy’s waist as he pours himself a drink. Just vodka. When he’s done, he pulls away. But settles against the counter next to him. Arms crossed. Solo cup rim pressed against his lips as he considers.

“I know you,” he says.

He takes a sip. Stares.

“Don’t I?”

He’s mostly minding his own business, as much as Zig is ever capable of, when he’s pushed up against, hard body against his back. It’s new, the male attention, only started experiencing it back in Paris, but he’s thrilled by it. He doesn’t want to seem too eager, though (he’s new to this, but he already appreciates the idea of being wanted, chased, of it being a game), so he only moves his hips back against the man’s the tiniest bit, mostly on impulse.

“Oh, you’re excused.” He wraps an arm around him, pours himself straight vodka, and Zig just smiles. Will it be like this all the time? Approached by strangers, just like that? He hopes so.

He pulls away, after a long moment, though it all passes so quickly. Then he’s beside Zig, all short, curly hair, brown skin and freckles he’s had memorized for years. Augustus fucking Bennett. His face lights up. How long has he been waiting for a shot with him? He must be here at school, now.

I know you, he’s saying. Don’t I?

Zig turns around, leans his back against the counter, sips at his drink. He wishes he’d found a straw, just to suck on something in front of him.

“Wouldn’t you know better than me?” Not bothering to wonder if it’s impolite, Zig hands Auggie his drink to hold, and then jumps backwards onto the counter, sitting just on the edge. He slouches a little, and feels the collar of his shirt dip an inch lower.

“Or maybe that’s a line?” He stares right back, over the red solo cup. “Or is my face forgettable? Is that what you’re saying?”

wasn’t me

[positanos]

harvey.

Easy. That’s the way things always were, with him and Chuck. Simple. Like breathing. There was no thought, no fretting. They were best friends and, because of it, they did everything together. Just like any other little boys.

But now it’s complicated. Not as it could be, but more than it was. He has to think before he speaks, before he does. He has to look both ways before he crosses that line. Before he ruins everything forever. So Chuck, being here, seeing him like this, it shorts his brain out.

“You know what?” he quips. “A wine cooler would suit me just fine.”

He rolls his eyes. “For the record, they weren’t technically illegal. Just, y’know, frowned upon.”

Ineffable. That’s what he’s supposed to be. All cool and calm, like he is with the whole fucking football team. He’s not supposed to turn pink and stutter and get all doe-eyed like some schoolgirl who can’t keep her heart in her panties.

“Mickey? Sounds cool.” One of Chuck’s friends whom Harvey’s met a handful of times. Seems like a dope guy. “And who else does he consider not a piece of shit?” Is he going to run into Tantoo there? His ex-girlfriend, drunk and emotional? “I’m not spoiled. I’m just beloved.”

He grins. All shit-eating and everything. Because teasing Chuck has got to be one of his favorite things. It’s so easy, most days, to get a rise out of him. It’s the most fun a boy can have without taking his clothes off, right?

“Someone stole them. Can you believe it? My best crocs. Gone.”

His voice doesn’t shake. His hands keep their steady. It’s, really, the most he can ask for, standing in front of Chuck like this. Butt naked. Dick out to the whole goddamn world. But he’s got to ignore it. Get through it.

It’s so much better when his back’s turned. When he can pretend Chuck isn’t there. That Chuck isn’t looking at him. He just washes his hair, his body. Scrubs and scrubs and scrubs. Listens to him talk.

“Kicking rocks?” He laughs. “Sure, I’m free. No Tantoo. Bailing on the dance anyway. Guess we’ll make a game of it, huh? Rock kicking.”

Harvey watches the shampoo wash down his chest. Prays Chuck won’t ask where Tantoo’s gone to. Why he’s not going to the dance. Why, why, why he hasn’t talked about her this week. Is it stupid to think Chuck doesn’t care? Maybe only as deeply as it affects him; how much time they didn’t get together, that kind of thing.

He turns the water off. Sighs. Grabs his towel as he heads out, dries his chest, legs, back. Wraps it around his hair. He’s back at his locker, standing right near Chuck. It’s fine!

First thing, he pulls on underwear. Then he towels his hair with both hands. When he drops the towel onto the bench, he can feel the curls forming. Wet and unsure of themselves, they sprout out of his head. Drip down his back. Maybe it’s time he got a haircut.

“So, regulations. Gear? Helmet, knee pads, anything? Street rules? League? How we kicking rocks, hm? I got a spare pair of cleats, case we wanna scuff the concrete.”

Shirt, then pants. He buttons them thoughtfully, zipping with care. (That’s treasured cargo in there, hon.) He sits on the bench, next to his towel. Pulls his shoes out from underneath. Slides them on and tugs at the laces. From inside his locker, he grabs his jacket and backpack. Slings the bag over his shoulders, keeps his coat in his hand.

“Driving or walking? Brought the Bronco today, but I can just leave my stuff in it. ‘Cause, uh, I don’t think I wanna be designated tonight, y’know? Been that kinda week.”

“Yeah.” Chuck snorts. “A wine cooler becomes you. Or a Shirley Temple? Maybe some warmed up milk? Mick’s got a baby brother, they gotta have sippy cups laying around.” Chuck just shakes his head. Shrugs. It’s hard to say that only half the team makes the real exclusive guest list when you’re surrounded by the guys you’re about to shit talk. (Not that Chuck cares, but for Harvey’s sake he’ll avoid a fight — for now.) “It’s not like it won’t get crashed by somebody.”  The rez is big, but word travels faster than light. Hualapai, fast talkers. “No Tantoo?” He’s smiling so big it spreads right across his face. He doesn’t wanna know where she is; her not being around to steal Harvey away is enough. “Sure. Indian Olympics. With only a little bit less of a budget. Couldn’t secure the sponsors, you know how it is. We could see about crushing some beer cans against our skulls.” He’s back from the shower already. Chuck tries to keep his eyes decent, but the knowledge that he’s naked, that his dick is right there, is a little too much. “Regulations? You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. That’s gotta be the white in you. You know we defended this piece of desert for five years against America’s men? You going soft on me? Teams are you versus me, apa.” Man. “Indian style. Wauba Yuba and Hualapai Charley, except now America left us all by ourselves, a hundred years and some change later, so now it’s savage against savage. Indian dystopia. In a game of rock kicking, obviously. Don’t you remember playing Indians and Indians? When you were little and I was little-er?” How many times has he imagined him and Harvey as Charley and Yuba? Or as any other two Indians, even just a hundred years early. Before any Indian gave a shit what a faggot was, or what any white piece of shit told them was right. They could’ve just been. (In that universe, where they take on an army together, where they play at Yuba and Charley, Chuck doesn’t have to convince or beg Harvey to love him. He just does.) “Anyway. The answer is no, you fucking pussy. We can’t hunt buffalo anymore without getting fined, but we can be delinquents, our God-given right, like real Indians.” Chuck takes a long swig from the flask. It tastes half like whiskey, half like metal. It’s similar to the taste of blood, just as familiar to him now. He chews on his lip. “Ditch the Bronco. His place isn’t that far on foot, anyway. Best to not leave that shit on our land, anyway.” He punches Harvey’s now-clothed shoulder, just for fun, and passes the flask, again just pushing it against him. “What kind of week? Somebody steal your hot rollers? Tell me about it, John Wayne.”

jungle love

[positanos]

wasn’t me

Zig’s all dolled up — loose, pale pink silk shirt tucked into grey, plaid dress slacks, black belt around his small waist, Star of David proud on his pale chest, newly long, curly hair unruly around his face. It’s new, dressing like this — he’s not used to it yet, but he knows he will be soon, and wants to be. (How long has he waited for this?)

He’s walking down 114th, houses on either side of the street loud, music blasting until it spills onto the street — first party of the year. He just smiles. His first time at a college party, albeit two years early — he’s missed New York over the summer. (When he looks up at the sky, and sees no stars, he knows he’s home.)

Zig catches a glimpse of himself in the window of a car parked on the street, and he leans into it, into himself. Still too skinny, but the difference two months, a bit of a growth spurt and refusing haircuts makes. He winks at his reflection, grins, messes up his hair a little more, and walks up the short path to the Alpha Phi Alpha house.

Inside, he’s immediately swallowed up by the noise, by the crowd. He’s been to parties at brownstones and penthouses and mansions before, but the energy here is different — there’s no curfew for them, no parents coming home, nothing to tattle on. (Plus, there’s only older guys.)

His head bobs to the music, a song he’s sure he knows, and takes to looking for Andre, his initial in to the party. Zig is late, so maybe he’s already deep into the party. He tries to do inventory of rooms as he peeks in, but he catches sight of the kitchen — and the open bar — and abandons the mission. He can wait another five minutes.

Zig grabs a red solo cup from a stack (the movies are accurate, apparently), and observed the options. Beer has zero appeal, and he’s craving orange juice, so he grabs an already-opened bottle of Moët & Chandon, pouring it three-quarters of the way up the cup. The rest he fills with two-odd inches of OJ. He takes a big gulp of it, swirls the cup around, proud of the minimal effort applied. Baby’s first college party mimosa. He digs his phone out of his pocket, shoots Andre texts, letting him know he’s all but giving up on the search.

    zig 11:30PM i don’t know where u are

    zig 11:31PM i’m the only white jewish fgt here find me

He stuffs it away again, back to observing the party, leans back against the kitchen counter, waits for the champagne to kick in.

[positanos]

harvey.

Boys will be boys means something along the lines of “boys will always and forever be in a dick measuring contest.” The rules of which every boy is born knowing:

         1. It must be above sixty-five degrees          2. From tip to base only          3. No touching other than the necessary          4. Other kinds of challenges may be included (pissing, ball size, etc) but do not affect the final results          6. The boy with the biggest dick wins          7. If a boy mentions golf rules, he’s disqualified on the grounds he has the tiniest little baby pencil dick anybody’s ever seen.

There are other locker room games; towel flicking, ball jabbing, ass slapping. But none will ever be as revered as the dick measurement. And so they relish in the casual back and forth about the size of their hogs, laugh about the curves it takes when they get in the shower, look a little too long to see if he’s really all that.

And then, someone punches his back. (A violation of rule three.) But it’s Chuck, oh, god it’s Chuck. He saw Harvey’s ass, all fucking roped up and boosted like a goddamn ribbon dancer. And now he’s in front of Harvey. Where his dick is in the middle of being measured.

Chuck’s not a part of this world. This stinky, sweaty, naked world.

He wants to blush—the all over kind, that makes his chest warm and his knees weak. But he tries (tries, tries, tries so very hard) not to. Because that’d be fucking gay. Really queer.

(Man, what would Chuck look with his mouth around Harvey’s cock?)

No, wait. No, that’s bad. He’s normally so good. Maybe it’s because his hand’s on his dick, he can’t stop thinking about it.

“Sick, dude.”

Chuck pushes the flask against his chest, so he takes it, unleashing the one-eyed monster from its fleshy prison. He screws it open, takes a swig. Coughs.

“God, I always forget you get the cheap shit. Can’t, uh—isn’t there someone?”

His thought trails off.

(He’s gonna have to shower. In front of Chuck.)

“What party? And what’d I do to deserve such a gift?”

His leg’s still up. His dick? Still exposed. Whatever. He’s pretending he can already feel the booze licking at the base of spine, pumping giggles out of his mouth. Nothing matters. He’s fine. He takes another deep, deep, deep drink. Hands it back to Chuck.

“No, no, of course not. We all just run out on the field like the cavemen we are and throw that pigskin until everyone starts screaming.”

He pulls the jockstrap off. Tries to do it fluid, so it’ll be quick. One motion. Done. Or, three motions, somem tugging, bent over a little too long to feel confident. It is what it is. He slides his flip flops on, grabs a towel.

“Lemme hit the showers,” he says, “then we can go.”

He’s been naked in front of Chuck before. Hell, Chuck’s been naked in front of him before. They grew up together. But he’s deep in his feelings. Because he’s gonna tell him.

I dumped my girlfriend for you.

Not like that—too strong. But something.

God, Chuck’s gonna laugh in his face. Or be so fucking disgusted. (How many times have they slept in the same bed?)

Harvey walks over to the showers, drapes his towel over the low wall. The water’s fucking boiling but he doesn’t care. He just stands there. Watches as it turns his skin lobster red. He bows his head, lets it run over his hair, his back, his legs.

“Are you going to the dance tomorrow?”

(Hey, Crazy Horse, is he looking at my ass?)

Harvey seems pretty disturbed that Chuck is there to witness this, almost as much as Chuck is. (Like, he’s thankful for the reminder that his giant dick is still around, but it gets — distracting, and it’s hard to compartmentalize the innocent side, of being in love with Harvey, his best friend — and the slightly less wholesome side, of wanting Harvey to fuck his brains out. He’s trying to be good, but he just wants, wants, needs.)

“Forgot you were a pussy, Harvey. What, you want a wine cooler?”

He laughs. “Were you telling them about your illegal penis injections again? I love that story.”

Chuck stands back a bit — it seems easy to appear queer right now, surrounded by dicks and facing Harvey’s. He’d be anxious if not for the drinks, worried he’ll give away a tell.

“Mickey’s having people over. Anybody that’s not a piece of shit is invited. A perk, of being friends with me. Will they ever stop? You’re so spoiled.” A swig from the flask does him no favours, but he barely notices.

Harvey’s de-kicking, dick out, and Chuck keeps his eyes decent. “Cute flops. What happened to the crocs your Mom got you?”

He loves Harvey, more than anything else he loves. (The list is short.) He’ll pretend forever, but he hates this. It takes out a chunk of him every day, haunts him in his dreams. (Lately, Harvey teases him in them, gets him to confess it all, and then laughs at him.) He was so close to telling him before, to saying he knew he’d ever not feel this way, that it didn’t matter that Harvey didn’t feel the same, just that he knew. Seeing a naked girl on top of your Romeo will shut you up fast.

He gets to sneak a peek at Harvey once he’s in the shower, full view of his back, of the long lines of his shoulders, his legs, his arms, the curve of his ass, all soaking wet. Chuck wants to join.

“Sometimes I think you never listen to a word I say. Unless I lost a bet I didn’t know about, there’s no way. I’m kicking rocks all weekend. Are you in? Or are you ditching me for Tatooine?”

jungle love

[positanos]

harvey.

Four-forty-five and his arms are already aching. His legs burn, his lungs struggle and puff inside his chest. Sweat falls into his eyes, makes his hair so heavy he can’t see a damn thing. He pushes it back. Tries, and fails. As per usual.

But Harvey’s smiling. Laughing. He loves every minute of pain. Because it’s all for football. Maybe that’s a fucking colonized train of thought, but Red Cloud be damned if it’s not the best fucking feeling in the world. Even when they lose a game, it’s still fun, it’s still everything he thought it was when he was six years old.

(Back then, he was three-foot-nothing with his head shaved almost bald. Mom left him with one of her brothers while she was working in town and he’d take Harvey to his son’s games. The lights, the sounds, the feel of every touchdown. Harvey was obsessed.)

His breath catches. He pauses in his sprints, hand on his side. But he pushes on. His chest burns, his throat goes tight and slick, his hands get that swollen feeling. But he’s fucking flying. A second faster than Hernandes, he finishes. Rolls forward, lies on his back, smiles up at the sky.

“C’mon, Day! Give me a mile!”

He sighs. Smiles. “Yes, coach!”

When he’s running, he’s laughing. Jefferson, Hernandes, Maclaurin; they all ignore him. They’re used to it by. The exuberance. None of them even notice as he runs right past Tantoo without his usual display. No running backwards, no flexing, no big juicy kisses blown across the field separating the football boys from the cheerleader girls.

He doesn’t mention it. Doesn’t even break his stride or miss a chance to poke fun at someone’s form. There’s nothing he wants to talk about less than how he dumped her last weekend, right after the first game of the season. How she cried in Don’s Bronco and called him a cunt. For what? She didn’t say. Just told him to drive her home, so he did.

Why? she asked.

She didn’t wait for an answer. But he thinks she already knew. Or maybe he’s paranoid. That his life’s written across him sure as the freckles on his face. Maybe she looked close enough and saw that spot, right by his nose, isn’t even a freckle, but a fucking love letter to Chuck god damn Midthunder.

Why else would she have hated him so much? If not because she knew Harvey was in love with him.

But it’s thirty minutes until game time now and they’re doing their stretches, getting in some water and orange slices because that’s what the football moms like to bring. (Susie brought frybread once and almost got lambasted because of the carbs, Susan!)

Then they file into the locker room. They put on their padding, their jerseys. Crack jokes about someone’s small dick. The usual. Coach stands at the front of the locker room and draws lines on a whiteboard, tells them how they’re gonna go after the ball’s thrown. Who’s catching, throwing, running to the end zone. No one’s really paying attention, except the bushy-tailed few fresh off of JV.

“Let’s have a good game, boys!” says coach.

They go out on the tail end of the national anthem. The bleachers erupt. Shake and smash under stomping feet. Echoing, echoing, echoing from end of the field to the other. Harvey, ever the show-off, raises his fists in the air. Eggs them on. God, he really missed his calling as the romantic lead in one of those brat pack flicks.

“Cool it, Day.”

He joins the rest of his team on the field. They watch while the captains meet for the coin toss. Up, down, the Spartans kick off. Some groans, some sighs. But Harvey just claps his hands, whoops because he can.

They line up, twos and threes. Harvey stands in the middle, watching the other team’s quarterback. He crouches, hand touching turf. The ball’s kicked and Harvey’s gone.

The next hour, hour and a half, pass in a blur of pushing himself faster, harder. Of focusing on his grip, the torque of the throw, the spin. They play like an orchestra; beautiful, rehearsed. They fumble once, score eight touchdowns. Riley manages three perfect field goals. The Spartans get one. And it’s shaky, hits the post and bounces right off.

In the end, it’s close. Fifty-seven-fifty-one, Eagles. It’s their first win of the season. Harvey makes sure to dump nice, cold gatorade all over coach, to show their appreciation. And with one last hurrah they return to the locker rooms.

He doesn’t even look at Tantoo as he walks past her, shoving Washington out of his way. He doesn’t think she’s looking at him either. He wonders if this time, someone will notice when he doesn’t stop to say something to her. If they’ll notice he doesn’t try and drench her with his sweaty hair. You’re not a fucking dog!

No one does. Maybe god is real.

When they get inside, it’s deafening. Laughing, shouting, hooting, hollering; it all bounces again and again off the tile walls, until it’s not just a team but an army in there. Harvey’s the loudest of all as he pulls his jersey over his head, ditches his padding on the ground, pulls his pants down off his legs. He sits.

“Damn, Day.”

“What?”

“When’d you get that fucking snake?”

A snort.

“You’re packing, right?”

He’s done this whole kit and kaboodle a million different times, and yet, it always seems to go this way. Is that why it took him so long to realize he’s gay? Because guys have been talking about his dick before he even had pubes?

And, as usual, he plays along. Because that’s more fun than not. He stands, puts one foot up on the bench.

“This?” he asks, one hand framing his cloth-encased junk. “You mean this? Right here?”

He’s smiling. He doesn’t even care that his whole ass is hanging out. He just cares that Jefferson’s face is right at crotch level. Because that’s the joke.

“All natural.”

And god damn if Jefferson’s not desperately trying to make contact with the family jewels. With his other hand, Harvey makes a V, points at his eyes.

“My eyes are up here, bud.”

He needs to learn against pre-gaming football games with the wrong people. It’s seven and he’s already tiptoeing around the bag, creeping around it, flask half empty in his flannel. But it’s hard not to - it’s fun, it’s like nothing else matters. He’s had just enough; he’s a little more carefree, chip on his shoulder brushed off until tomorrow, more easy to smile. Chuck doesn’t actually care about football - he doesn’t understand it, even, not a lick. But it’s an acceptable reason to get drunk, and he gets to watch Harvey shine like the sun, so it works for him.

Sure, it got worse when Satan dropped Tantoo in Harvey’s lap, but Chuck’s working on convincing himself it’s all just a phase. Quarterback with the cheerleader girlfriend — how could he have resisted? He knew it’d happen eventually, that Harvey would find some pretty girl to hold hands with, and that Chuck would have to learn how to deal with it — he’s just disappointed in his choice of girl. (Maybe he’d be disappointed with any girl he chose.)

Whatever. He takes a swig of the cheapest whiskey money can buy, almost chokes on it, but just laughs. The bleachers are starting to fill up — they’ve got a good view, all the way in the nosebleeds. Chuck listens in on the conversation (the usual: Would You Rather), but keeps his eyes on the field, looking out for Harvey.

It’s after the national anthem — accompanied by groans of having to stand up for it — that the crowd really loses it, chanting Eagles, Eagles, Eagles, feet stomping against the bleachers so hard it feels like his ass is sat on a powwow drum. And then Harvey is there, fists in the air, a regular John Bender. Chuck mirrors it with one fist in the air, just for a second, can’t help himself.

It’s a good game, even by football standards. Maybe it’s the whiskey, but despite not understanding just what’s happening, he enjoys it. Cheers when they score. Harvey is a fucking miracle on the field, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. (His ass looks incredible, too, which helps Chuck keep track of him.)

It’s the Eagles’ game, finally, finally. Partially because he’s now got a foot in the bag, or maybe it’s because he sees it as Harvey’s game, but Chuck’s on his feet with the rest of them, cheering until his voice is hoarse. Mickey and Jonah grab him, all of them shaking each other. He laughs until they stop, thrilled, everything else forgotten.

The crowd breaks up, the team back to the locker rooms, and Chuck’s already following, feet moving quicker than his brain. He almost runs into Tantoo, right outside the door. Bit pervy.

“Watch where you’re fucking going.”

He’d laugh if it was anybody else, but it’s her, and he’s half drunk. He shoots her the horns. “See ya.”

It’s when he’s circling around her, to just get away from her, that he realizes she’s crying. Shit. Shitshitshit. Not that Chuck’s ever fully capable of comforting someone, but especially not now, not with his flask burning a hole at his side. He pauses for a second, not sure how to approach this. Can he run? Will she tattle on him to Harvey?

“Have you seen Harvey?” She’s really crying. He doesn’t know what to say.

“I mean, yeah, on the field.”

“Can you tell him I need to talk to him?” Chuck’s practically gleeful. Is it finally happening?

He shrugs, but before he can say anything, she’s off, tiny mess of pigtails and tears. “Just forget it.”

It’s fucking weird, but he’s still pleased by the interaction, so pushes through the door, scent of unwashed jockstraps hitting him right away.

And Harvey’s ass, in a jockstrap. He knows it’s him because there’s no one in their class that towers that high, and he just — he knows. He pauses for a second, stares. It’s not that he’s never seen Harvey naked before, but his ass in a jockstrap is just — new. It’s like every time he sees a new part of him naked, his dick just falls harder for him.

He needs to get it together.

So he just walks over, avoiding all the other half or fully naked guys, punches Harvey in the shoulder, circles around him so he doesn’t have to look at his ass — though now he’s just got a square view of his dick, cupped in his hand, so it’s hard to say if it’s any better. He pulls out the flask, offers it with a grin. “Drink the fuck up. We got a party to crash, Harv, and you’ve gotta be guest of honour.” He pushes the flask into his chest, to try and drive the point home. “Good game. Did you guys plan it like that?”

jungle love

[positanos]

marcus.

Being watched and being looked at are two very different things. It’s the difference between getting sized up and being checked out. A coquettish glance and a don’t fuck with me glare. Cracking knuckles and wistful breaths. A promise of a promise of something more; a promise of a night spent in the infirmary, struggling to breathe around those broken ribs.

Right now, Marcus is being looked at. Examined. Studied. Read. The ink on his arms, his neck, his face; it all tells a story. From the back of his hand someone might learn about his childhood; from his shoulder, his lovelife (or lack thereof). He’s never felt more naked. Not even bending over and coughing compares.

“You may.” A snort, attractive as ever, leaves him. “Look, I meant fellas who could’a called themselves that. And, lemme tell you, it don’t matter. At the end of the day, they’re still stealin’ all your shit. ‘Sides, you don’t look the part. Now, don’t judge a book and all that, but they all were dumbasses and they looked it.”

The closeness is exhilarating. Frightening. He’s bright pink, dusky orange under these streetlights. There’s a different energy between them, around them. It makes his hair all stand on end. Makes his hands shake when he lights that cigarette.

“You are very welcome,” he sighs, pulling away.

The teasing, the joking; he’s in all new territory. Lewis and Clark of the homosexual lifestyle, begging his Sacagawea to lead the way.

“I meant it. Yessir I did. But I wouldn’t be so sure about that, hon. Face like that? You probably got boys up and down the coast prayin’ they get another look at you.”

The boy plays with his hair. Flips it. Tousles it. He’s the first long-haired boy he’s ever seen. Hippies don’t have much of a place down in Texas. Every man in the state border has a buzz cut or nothing at all; it’s the law, what they fought for during the Civil War. But he thinks he likes it. Long hair on a boy. There’s something about it. A quality he can’t place.

I’m Indian.

The lightning bolts burn. His shoulder almost jerks, away from the imaginary pain. His smile fades. Hatred comes pouring in. For the boy. For himself for even thinking such bullshit. He looks away, down, up at the sky begging for the stars to tell him he’s right in thinking he was so wrong.

And when he looks back, it settles. There’s shame, sure. But no vitriol, no anger. His separation from Marcus is not poignant, not disturbing. Marcus breathes in deep, sings his litany against the Brotherhood. He’s not that man anymore.

“I don’t know much ‘bout your gods or none of that.” His voice comes out acrid. “I mean, where I grew up, Christians for miles. I think we got a pentecostal church for a while, but once everyone learned what they were doin’ with them snakes, they got ran out. What, uh, what all do y’all believe in?”

This is a mistake. He shouldn’t be here. Flirting? He’s so fucking stupid. A real crackpot. Maybe he is just like his old man, but worse. An idiot in denial. Or maybe he’s not. Maybe he’s fine. Breathe in, out. Don’t let the past in. The present, that’s what matters. Focus on it.

So he does. With gusto.

“Why? Maybe on I’m on the lam, robbing clubs like this one all across the country. Or I’m runnin’ from some very bad men. I would’ve gone straight south to Mexico, but Lord knows I’m sick of the desert. So, Canada instead. Or I want a change of scenery. Why not go up to Alaska’n be one of those, uh, what’dya call ‘em? Bush-somethin’. Maybe I’ll tell ya ‘fore I leave.”

He laughs. “Truth be told, I ain’t seen enough of your fair city to know if that’s true’r not. It sure is nice, though. Lot better’n where I’m from. And just ‘bout every town’n city between.”

Shifts, from his right foot to his left. Sucks his lips against his teeth. Talking about feelings, about why this or why that, isn’t really his thing. He’s the silent type, closed up tighter than a clam. Putting that out there, forming his thoughts into words and letting those words fall out of his mouth and into the world. Thinking about it gives him fucking hives.

“Not afraid. Just waiting for my God-sent to guide me through it, y’know? Think that’s your divine task, here’n now.”

I’ll protect you. He laughs. A little harder than he means to. “Sure, big guy. Save me.”

Marcus watches Shiloh watching him. Feels his gaze real heavy on his body. It’s tangible, it’s touching him, clawing at him. He stares back.

“That’s fine. I, uh, don’t know if you can tell, but I ain’t gonna be much for conversation inside. Music’n me don’t mix.”

Shiloh. Soft. It’s nice. “Nice to meet you, Shiloh.”

He grasps Shiloh’s hand. Holds it firm. (He could be anyone, anyone, anyone. A new name, a new life, a new man. Anything can happen.) “I’m Marcus.” (Or not.)

He’s surprised at the strength behind Shiloh’s shake. It’s not something he expected. Not something his dad would’ve let him believe. Small, insignificant, but another one of his falsehoods about gay men.

“Waitin’ for me? Now how’s that go?”

The man’s hands shake when he lights Shiloh’s cigarette. He’s charmed already. His eyes flick up to look at him over the little flame and the cigarette, and his heart jumps up to his throat.

He’s smoking on and off. To try and combat the nervous pull behind his bellybutton, he doesn’t ash his cigarette, handles it carefully, lets the ash build up until it looks like a mountain of charcoal. A habit. He laughs. “I don’t know about that. I mean, I don’t think I’m really what any of them are looking for.” They’re not what he really wants, either. He wants to be wanted, but it doesn’t mean he wants them back. “Well, if that’s true, soak it up, huh?”

He pauses for a minute after Shiloh mentions being Indian. What, did he think he was Greek? Nobody ever seems to know what to think of Shiloh — he gets exotic often, but it seems to be where their knowledge (or interest, really) ends. “Oh, yeah? And where is it you come from?” He shrugs. It’s complicated. As is his relationship with the religion — he finds comfort it in, but he’s been stalling on setting up an altar of his own for years. He believes in it, sure, but it’s hard when it’s all wrapped up in his Daddy, the two of them, Preacher and his dharma. He doesn’t know how to separate them. He needs to. “We believe in a lot. There’s some basics, though — I mean, it’s not that strict. It’s kinda choose-your-own, you know?”

He can’t believe he’s doing this. Discussing Hinduism with him, of all people, of all the times to rant. “Shit. Okay. There’s a lot to it, but there’s like — four goals, right? That you’re supposed to aim for. Like your seven virtues, right? There’s morals, success, love and liberation. And there’s more beyond that, but there’s the main ones. So if you achieve this, you’re fulfilled.” He grins. “You ever done yoga?”

The ash from his cigarette finally falls down, making a black dot on his chucks. “Samsara is my favourite, though. Not that it’s right to have one. So —  it means world, or wandering, but it’s a sort of cycle. Like it’s happened and it’s happening and it’ll happen again.” He tries to get more out of his cigarette, but he’s smoking paper. “It being life.” He crushes the cigarette under his shoes. He already wants another, but instead just gets into what he’s saying. He’s been scared of Samsara all his life, being what he is.

“So you’re you right now. And your Mom gave birth to you, and one day you’ll die. Like me, too.” This is the worst he’s ever been at picking up. “But after that, depending on how good or bad you were, you go to heaven or hell. But it’s borrowed time — the time you get in either depends on how good or how bad you are.” He’s smiling. He’s fucking this whole thing up. “And after that, you’re reborn. Clean slate.” It’s both comforting and frightening. He thinks his heart is good, but his body isn’t. His mind, what it wants, isn’t. It’s hard to know what counts for what. “So, the gods just represent different things. Pray for luck or love or success. A different god for anything you could ever want.” He wants to shut himself up. He does, after a minute. “Shit.” He laughs. “I’m sorry. Nobody ever asks anything about it.” It’s the first time he’s talked about it and not felt sick, like his Daddy was breathing down his neck.

He grins. He likes him. The soft voice — all of him. It’s better than what he was making up. “Well, if you’re looking for money, you came to the wrong spot. But we’re rich in other things.” He laughs, hard, his face creasing. He shakes his head at him. “Canada? Alaska? Do you hate yourself? You want winter forever? I’m telling you. If you’re like me,” (he says it with purpose, with a wink), “San Francisco is the place to be. The only place to be, really.”

He squishes the cigarette butt further into the concrete, playing with it. “Well, you gonna let me do my job? It’s all I’m trying to do.”

The man stares at him while Shiloh stares right back. He’s smiling, without thinking about it. It feels like electricity running through his veins, like he’s got his fist around a live wire. “You don’t have to talk. Just come inside with me, I’ll stay with you. You like dancing?” (He hopes so. An excuse to be up against him is all he needs right now.)

He shakes his hand. His name is Marcus. He likes it. Shiloh just keeps smiling up at him. “Pleasure’s mine, Marcus.”

Shiloh shrugs, takes a step back to try and encourage him to follow through those doors. Now that he’s thought of dancing with him, it’s all he wants. “You know when you can feel that you’re forgetting something, but you don’t know what you’re forgetting? It’s kind of like that.”

He reaches out his hand. It’s a big move, maybe too far. “Come on. I think you been waiting out here long enough.”

perfect day

[positanos]

marcus.

Words that used to make him puff up his chest, used to make him stand up a little bit taller. He’d laugh and smile and say damn right I am. He raised me right.

But now he hears the bite, the derision, the disgust. It’s what they say when they find out he’s fresh out of prison. They all say it the same way; heads shaking, mouths frowning. A sigh so big he wishes he could crawl into it and close the door, just so he wouldn’t have to feel their gaze on him.

It makes him feel small. Disgusting. Now that he knows what a monster his dad is, it burns. Cuts him straight through. Because they’re right. He is. (The apple doesn’t fall far, huh?) And he hates himself for it. Hates the tattoos—the web on his elbow, the lightning bolts on his back; the ones that mark him as separate, distinct, inhuman. Hates the shape of his jaw, curve of his mouth, poison of his hate. Inherited from his daddy, wrapped up in his genes, fostered by a misplaced loyalty.

When he was a boy, he worshipped the ground his daddy walked on. Now, a man, with knowledge beyond his years, he sees his mistakes. Sees them all lain out before him like those quilts his grandmama made. The first time he beat a man for being black stitched right next to setting a trailer on fire because the people who lived there are Muslim. On full display. Mocking him.

He’s learning. He’s growing. He’s breathing in fumes because ex-cons can’t get shit for work and Harry’s Painting Boys hires anyone who can hold a brush steady. So he’s doing some rich bitch’s dining room a deep mauve. There’s another guy with him—they’re in the same boat; some of their ink matches—but neither speak.

He’s going fucking crazy. There’s nothing to distract him. Just his roller on the wall, his breathing, his racing mind. They used to have a radio, but fucking Terry fucking broke it. (He went crazy too. Slammed it against a wall they just finished, said if he ever saw another paintbrush again he was gonna shoot himself in the fucking head.)

But Marcus breathes in, out. Looks out the window and sees his sin. He’s trapped. A bug in wet paint. He struggles. He wishes he could’ve been the one to break the radio.

“I gotta go,” he says.

Empty air, empty wall.

“Okay.”

There’s no fuss, no questions, no accusations. He just puts down the roller and he walks out. It takes him long—too long—to get back to his shitty apartment. From the rich side to the poor side and further still. But when he gets there, when he climbs those four flights of stairs, he knows it’s the last time he’s gonna see this puke-brick building.

His packing is haphazard; he grabs none of the essentials. An old paperback, a shirt off the floor, his Ted Nugent cassette, a shirt from the top of the dirty laundry pile, a picture of his mom tucked into a beat up copy of the bible, an oreo box with about five grand stuffed inside. He puts on some deodorant. When he leaves, he kicks the door shut behind him.

And then, he’s gone. Eighty miles, ninety, a hundred. His bike roars, deafens him. Wind whips his arms, his hair. He hits one-ten. He settles back on eighty. One day, he’ll die, but today’s not that day. Down to seventy-five, seventy. He doesn’t want the cops to pull him over. Doesn’t want to give them a reason to send him back.

Four hours, he rides. Stops at a motel in El Paso. Leaves before the sun’s crested the horizon. Soon as he’s crossed into New Mexico he takes his first breath in thirty years. Freedom like this, it’s not something he’s ever felt. Even taking his first step out of prison didn’t smell half as sweet.

Sometimes, he rides with his head back, staring more at the sky than what’s in front of him. Never for long; a second or two at most. Just something to do, to think about, that’s not himself. Or he sings. Can’t hear himself, can’t hear the song in his head, but it’s something to do.

Spends a night in Albuquerque, in Tucson. Spends a day riding along route 66. He’s a wanderer, a man with no home and no country. Turquoise in New Mexico, a cough in Arizona. In Las Vegas, he loses a grand of his running money. But he just laughs. He doesn’t miss it.

At night, he sleeps over the blankets, his shoes on, his arm behind his head. He never stays long. A few hours to recharge, an extra ten minutes to shower. A handful of times, he lingers in town. A whole day in Las Vegas. A few hours in Los Angeles. It takes him four days to reach San Francisco.

When he left Odessa, he didn’t have an end in mind. Maybe Alaska or Canada. Hitch a ride on a fishing boat out of Seattle, pretend he doesn’t exist. But he hits San Francisco city limits and he feels something warm, something nice, in his chest. He goes to the pier, forces his bike up hills more steep than the mountains back home, sits half-naked in a laundromat while all three of his shirts take their sweet time in the suds.

It hits dusk and he finds himself a motel. A cheap thing. He showers, thinks about shaving, looks at himself in the mirror. His hair’s blonder than normal. His stubble rough. The sunburn he got in Arizona turned into a deep tan, all the way to his shoulders. He leaves.

Like always, he doesn’t know where he’s going, doesn’t know what he’s looking for. He doesn’t want to spend another night alone. So he goes downtown, looks for something interesting. He drifts past a few clubs, bars, theaters. None of them leap out.

But he’s sitting in an intersection, light red, and sees a club sitting catty-corner. Woody’s. It’s a cement box, no windows. He can hear the music. He thinks he can feel it, pounding through the soles of his boots. Men wait outside. Holding hands, arms around each other, kissing. He looks away. He flushes. Behind him, a honk. He doesn’t know how long the light’s been green.

Like a bat out of hades, he shoots off. Goes one, two, three streets over. Sees familiar golden arches. Marcus parks his bike right up front. He gets himself a chocolate dipped cone. Eats it while sitting on the curb.

He’s always known he was gay. He didn’t like it, but it never got less true. The sky’s blue, the Red Sox will never win a World Series, Marcus is a fucking queer. But he never thought about it. He kissed girls, he fingered them behind Whataburger, told them their tits looked nice in that tank top. And they never doubted him. So he thought he was good. He could pass.

But now, it’s different. He’s different. A man on the run. A man who could do anything he damn well pleases. Including that. Men. He sighs, licks melting ice cream off his thumb.

Dear God, give me a sign if bein’ queer is on the up and up with You. I know my pastor claimed it wasn’t, but I got other ideas. Since why would You make me like this if it goes against everythin’ you believe in? So, God, if you would kindly let me know, I would very much appreciate it.

Under his breath, “Amen.”

In the five minutes it takes to eat his cone and pray, he’s decided to go back. The area he’s in, he knows he could go to any club and have good odds of finding a man. But he wants to go back. Woody’s. There’s something special about your first, you know? He stands, wipes his hand on the seat of his jeans. He leaves.

In the blink of an eye, he’s back. His hands sweat, his heart pounds. Just looking at them makes him nervous. It’s blatant, unafraid. Beautiful, in a way. But he’s never seen anything like it before. Back home, men like him kept quiet.

He turns the bike off. Straddles it a moment longer before kicking the stand down. One leg comes up and over, but he doesn’t leave, just leans against it. He takes the last cigarette out of his last bona fide Texas pack of Marlboros and lights up. Breathes in, breathes out, waits.

His body’s chained to the bike; it doesn’t know if it’s okay to feel the way he feels. He waits, watches the crowd enter, exit, disperse. Watches folks come out and smoke. Watches more stumble out, drunk as a skunk, their tongues so deep in their throats they must be tasting their dinner. He sighs out smoke, watches it drift up to the black sky.

A boy comes out, smokes, notices him. Marcus looks down. Stares at his own untied boot. He thinks he might cough out his heart if this goes on much longer. When he looks up, the boy’s gone. Marcus watches other boys, other men. None show much interest in him, barring the few who cross the street to get around him. (If trouble had form, huh?)

How long does it take God to hear a prayer? Maybe if he’d called collect, he’d know by now. Five more minutes? Ten? He sighs, scratches at his brow. Ten more minutes, then. If nothing, he goes to Alaska. Lives the rest of his life as a hermit, thinks no more on this queer shit.

He sighs out the last of the smoke, crushes the cigarette under his boot. He watches the crowd outside. A moment later, the boy is back. The one with the hair, the shirt opened low. He doesn’t linger like he did last time. Instead, he’s walking towards Marcus. With purpose.

Marcus watches. Ogles. Follows the line of his neck into his chest until it’s covered. Looks at his jaw. His lips when he starts speaking. His skin’s darker than Marcus’, even when he’s been baking for days. He looks at his eyes, his lips again, ignores the rest.

“Can it really be considered stealing if you ask first?” he asks. “Ain’t that just takin’?”

He smiles. He’s flirting. It’s never been his strong suit. But he takes out his cheapo Bic lighter and flicks it to life. He stands a little straighter, a little closer to the boy. He holds the flame to the tip of his cigarette until it catches. The lighter returns to his pocket; Marcus settles back on his bike.

Has he ever seen anyone prettier?

“For you, I s’pose.” He clears his throat. “In a way. I mean. You pray to God in a McDonald’s parking lot and ask for a sign and God goes ahead’n sends a pretty boy right to ya.” He’s smiling. Chagrinned. “If you don’t mind me sayin’ so.” A pause. “But if you are not a religious man, then no, I ain’t waitin’ for a soul. I’m just breezin’ through, figured I might stop someplace like this ‘fore I get too far north. Tryin’ to work up the nerve to go in, in a, uh, a manner of speakin’.”

He’s staring. He’s stumbling, bumbling, making a fool out of himself. But his brain, it’s disconnected, it’s gone rogue. Beautiful men and beautiful men who may have interest in him are always separate. The latter doesn’t exist. Until now. Knowing he could be, might be, is heavy. Or maybe he’s concerned, thinks Marcus is going to try and jump him.

“How ‘bout you?” He’s stalling, trying to keep him outside. Keep him near. “You got someone waitin’ for you inside?”

It’s strange that there’s the flutter of nerves - Shiloh isn’t used to it, not with men. Usually he knows his exact play, or what to expect - now, he’s flying blind. He’s sort of giddy about it, smile on his face while he walks up.

The guy watches him, follows a line down his chest with his eyes. Shiloh smiles, bites his lip, watches him right back, anxious but unafraid. Up close, he’s different - there’s more to him. His skin is tanned, like he’s spent weeks in the sun. There’s a long tattoo just underneath his eye, like a knife. Shiloh takes just a second to look at it, and then he’s back to his baby blues.

He’s beautiful. Not in the way he expected, but he’s something, all of that tanned skin, all those tattoos, the look in his eye.

“Huh. Then can I take a light from you? And maybe I’m just a polite robber. You never know, you know.”

Shiloh leans in slow, gets close and comfortable, lips around the filter of the cigarette. He stays there for a second too long, after it’s already lit. He looks at the man while he breathes in, while he exhales. There’s a smile on his lips and in his eyes, forgetting all the shit he was trying to leave inside. “Thanks.”

For you, I s’pose. Shiloh’s grinning, smoke coming out of his nostrils. “Oh, a pretty boy? I never minded being called pretty, long as you mean it. Don’t think I’ve ever had God send me to somebody as an answered prayer. That’s new.” He shrugs, furrows his eyebrows. His free hand shakes through his hair, flipping it around. “I’m Indian. We’ve got all the gods you could ever want. But I guess sometimes one does the job.” He watches him speak, like he’ll jump on that bike and ride away any second. It feels like it. It’s just not the way somebody like Shiloh is supposed to be able to feel.

“You’re going North? Why?” He raises his arms up at his sides, like he’s gesturing to the grandeur of the San Francisco Bay, but he’s at a shitty bar parking lot. Still, it’s inspired. “Furthest North that’s worth going is San Francisco. So, you’ve got it.” A pause. He’s curious, but it feels easy to be over eager. “To go inside? Why? Afraid of a bunch of homos? Come on, it’s a good warm-up. Seriously, and the drinks are the least watered-down you’re gonna get. Hey,” he puts on a deeper voice. “I’ll protect you, huh?”

He doesn’t want to walk away. He wants to drag him inside, or hop on the back of that bike and go anywhere.

“No, nobody but a friend with a big mouth. Do you mind the company?” He shrugs, looks him up and down. “I’m Shiloh.” He extends his hand, ready to show off the handshake Daddy taught him. “I was waiting for you, too, a bit.”

perfect day

[positanos]

perfect day

“This place is never any good anymore.”

It’s Paul, beside Shiloh at the table crowded with their empty bottles and glasses. Shiloh raises his eyebrows, anticipating what’s coming, but doesn’t say anything, just drinks. Paul doesn’t need people to pretend to be interested in what he’s saying, he just needs them to stay put and keep quiet.

Shiloh has no better plans tonight, and he knows the drill, so he listens.

“I mean, really, when did the fag scene here age twenty years? Everybody in here looked like Travolta two months ago. Where is everyone hiding their wives and five kids? Am I wrong? Am I having a quick minute of hysteria? Woody’s used to be the spot, but this just makes me want to haul ass to Garage.”

Shiloh finishes his drink by the time Paul is done talking, though it’s quicker than he usually is. “I don’t know about that.” He looks around. There’s no actual cocks being sucked on the floor tonight, but there’s couples - something pangs in him, almost like jealousy, but the whole thing is sort of sweet. “I think it’s the hysterics from not getting any dick, or cause nobody’s picking up tonight. Or you wanna go to Garage ‘cause of Angel, and you want him to bruise your esophagus again.”

Paul laughs. “You’re a piece of shit.” He takes a swig of his beer, and scans the room - probably for an Angel stand-in. “I really need his dick near my mouth again. We have to go to Garage next time. Do you even get any business here?”

It’s a dig. Shiloh wants another drink. He needs some fresh air. “I’m not looking for anything tonight. I need a smoke.” He reaches his hand out to Paul, who hands over his pink lighter. “Thanks, princess,” he grins, spinning away from him.

“Up yours.”

The second he’s outside, he’s relieved. The San Francisco winter breeze wakes him up, shakes off the buzz of that last drink. To be away from all of it - Paul, the music, avoiding the looks of ex-johns. He’d just walk home now if Paul wouldn’t chew him out for weeks for stealing the lighter he stole from Jenna. He’s already trying to light the cigarette from behind his ear, stuck between his lips -

It’s when he sees him. Leaning against a white motorbike, tall and bleach blonde, tattooed and handsome as hell. Shiloh’s never seen anything like him. Shiloh smokes and stares, curious, doesn’t want to stop looking at him. He doesn’t look real - Shiloh can’t imagine where he came from. Usually he’d just walk over and make a move, but there’s got to be a reason he’s out here, and not inside. A jealous boyfriend, maybe. In the closet. Waiting for another trick to come meet him outside. It’s nice to see someone who looks different, who doesn’t fit in. It’s rare - usually he’s the odd-one out, the only brown-skinned queer in the room.

He leans his head against the wall behind him, closes his eyes, inhales the smoke as deep as he can, holds it as long as he can before letting it go. Shiloh takes his time, tired from the month he’s had, from the year he’s had. When he opens his eyes, the man is still there, waiting for something. Someone. A lightning bolt to strike him down. Shiloh usually isn’t shy, and it’s not like he feels bashful - it just seems like it’d ruin the whole allure of the sexy motorbike guy from the parking lot.

By the time his cigarette is all filter, he knows it’s time to go inside. There’s more alcohol waiting inside, and Paul is probably thinking he’s made off with his prize (stolen) lighter. Shiloh spares him another look, takes a mental photograph of that split second, and goes back inside.

Inside is the same. The music is a bit faster than before, so there’s a little more life, at least. He makes a beeline for the bar, orders a shot of tequila, a rum and coke, and a beer for Paul. The tequila burns on the way down - it’s good, he’s thankful for it, skips the salt and lime, and walks himself and the drinks back to the table.

He slides the beer and tosses the lighter to Paul, already working on his drink. He’s immediately listening to him talk about what a bitch Jenna’s been lately. Shiloh tunes it out, keeps drinking, watches the floor. He keeps thinking of the man, even fifteen minutes on. The look on his face - something about it felt important. He’s not sure what, but he can’t stop thinking about him. Shiloh just wants to see if he’s still out there - if he is, he’ll do something about it. He’s curious, and he could use another smoke.

“Hey. I’ll be right back.” Paul waves him off, half in the bag already.

He’s outside in a second, and the man is still there. Same as ever. Has he moved at all?

Shiloh walks over, slow, trying to be casual about it, but he smiles at him, grabs the cigarette pack from his shirt pocket and grabs one.

When he’s close enough to touch, he stops. “Hey. Do you think I could steal a light?” He puts the cigarette between his lips, holds it there. “You waiting for somebody out here?”