Page 19 of Silent Is The Heart

Yeah. He was definitely in the flesh. He’s certainly not the shy kid I remember him to be. Not shy about anything. Nor a kid.

Somehow, I make it out of the truck and into the cottage without even comprehending my movements. I’m aware of the sound of the door opening and clicking shut, the scrape of my feet on the hardwood floor, and the clatter of my keys whenI drop them on the sideboard by the entryway, but I’m not present. I’m still in that room.

He hates me.

That much was apparent. Is that hate particular to me or is he still mad at the world over what happened to him?

I stare dumbly at the floor, reliving every second of those ten foolish minutes. A veil of invisible heat swaths my face.

That guy in his apartment…the one he…kissed.

That wasn’t kissing, Aaron. That was…

Another wave of heat assaults me as the phrase ‘face fucking’ comes to mind. I find my hands reaching for a glass from the kitchen cabinet and filling it with water, throat parched.

Well, he didn’t seem to hatehim.

I can’t think of any reason Easton would hate me. Our interactions were always pleasant. He was probably my favorite patient when I was at Hampton years ago. The most entertaining for sure. We started out a bit rocky, but by the time I left, it felt like we were as close as friends or like he was a little brother.

My mind must really be fried from all the stress in my life because the image of him in all his naked glory reappears in vivid, inked color. Lean but well-defined arms and chest. Strong, chiseled legs. A dark thatch of…

Christ.

Definitely not like a little brother.

It has to be all that ink, not letting me free my mind of the picture. It’s everywhere. His body is a canvas of art.

I’ve never been a fan of tattoos. Instinct has me wondering why he’d do something so dramatic to his body, but it wasn’t…repulsive. It was beautiful in a rugged way, and I wonder if it’s his own art.

I thought I was drawn there to appease the sentiment that crept up on me from being back at Hampton and seeing his picture at the festival, but I know now that’s a lie. The enigma of his life story after Hampton was a liberating distraction from my misery. I don’t think I cried once this week, nor did I have a panic attack. No wonder I dove headfirst into his file like it was a cold case.

“Jesus, Aaron,” I mutter, shucking my clothes on the way to the bathroom like they’re from a crime scene. “That was freaking brilliant. Can you get your shit together now?”

With a deep breath, I step into the tub under the showerhead, determined to forget my momentary lapse of sanity today. Steam builds, the heat soothing my tense muscles. The ever-present cage of loneliness reminds me it’s still there with its suffocating claws. The sympathy I now have for complete strangers who’ve lost someone is unfathomable. There, too, is the taste of bitterness, for everything that follows loss. Learning to re-live a life as one after being a couple for so long. Facing unpleasant discoveries that strip away everything good you thought you knew about the person you loved.

Sometimes, I hope the scalding water will wash it all away. There’s not enough water in the world to do that, though. So, I turn off the faucet and face my new existence for another evening.

In the security of my comfortable old sleep pants, I topple onto my mattress. A bed frame is not a necessity, I remind myself. It’s not. They’re pretty useless, actually, if you thinkabout it. A floor is just as solid as a bedframe, and this way I don’t have to clean dust bunnies out from underneath the bed.

Exhaustion doesn’t win when I close my eyes. If the panic attacks start again, I might cry. They’ve been fewer and far between since moving home, but the anxiety is still there under the surface like a coral reef, slowly building. I wait for the anxious thoughts to creep in, but it’s not my usual worries that come to mind.

It’s skin. Tattooed skin. A strange feeling over the memory of Easton unabashedly kissing another man mere feet away from me. Intelligent, daring eyes that turn into a glare. The electrolarynx crashing against the wall.

He was just a memory, and then he was real, vividly real right before my eyes. Now that he’s real, I can’t shut him out of my mind.

Why doesn’t he speak anymore? What happened to him when I left?

Questions brought me to him, but now I have so many more. At least thirty minutes pass as I stare at my ceiling, unseeing. It’s long enough for me to realize that I can’t un-think the current of thoughts about Easton any more than I can unsee the living, breathing canvas that he’s become.

I know I don’t know much about tattoos, but the times I’ve heard people talk about them, they sounded like they either got one to beautify their body or memorialize someone or some struggle. I can’t recall a single image on Easton’s body other than what looked like waves expanding across his chest and biceps, from his ribcage and up the front of his neck. Embarrassingly, all I can seem to remember with much clarity is the way he bent over, baring his backside. Pinching my eyes closed, I rattle the picture from my mind.

Focus, Aaron. You’ve seen men naked before. Maybe not in a while, but you’ve seen them.

Remembering his completely covered front from neck to thigh, I can’t imagine the hours he must have sat in a chair being needled.Pain. All I can think about what that much ink represents is pain. And the thought of him being in pain doesn’t sit well with me.

Well, that did absolutely nothing for my resolve to erase today from my brain. I’ve never wanted to help someone more than I do right now.

Listen to me. I can’t even help myself. And I very obviously pissed him off. Even if I knew how to help him, I doubt he’d let me. He basically shoved me out of his apartment like I was an intruder.

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