Page 14 of Mayfly

I have no urge to look back over my shoulder and make sure no one is watching. I haven’t thought about Marius or my godawful job for the past half hour. It’s like I’m having an out-of-body experience. A lucid dream. A complete and total dissociation from the constant distrust that shrouds me every second of every day.

Jude's boots crunch on the gravel as he turns to me. He's holding the box in front of him with a look on his face that tellsme he's worried he made a huge mistake. “I’m sorry if this is inappropriate.".

“Well, you can start by telling me why the fuck we’re here. And I'll judge it from there."

“Right,” he exhales, taking a seat—his body stiff as his eyes squint in the sun.

“I was promised a surprise. And I was told to wait. But if that’s not for me,” I gesture towards the box, “Then why the hell did you make me wait on my own while you bought it?”

Jude relaxes back on the bench and hands me the box. “Take it. If you’re gonna be impatient about it.”

Opening the box, I stare at its contents for what seems like an eternity. It’s so obvious in hindsight, but my cluelessness only makes it sting more. “A cake?”

“Happy birthday. I—ah… I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I just went with traditional.”

The mocking irony of his words is a dagger to my chest, because there is nothing traditional about a man buying another man his first birthday cake at our age. And a gesture so modest shouldn’t feel like I’m holding the entire universe in my hands.

“Are you trying to be a bad boy now to see where that gets you?”

“Ha?” I whip my head in his direction.

“You haven’t said thank you.”

“Sorry.” Shame forces my chin to my chest. “It’s not something I’m used to saying.”

“Well, I’ve grown quite accustomed to hearing it.”

“Thank you,” I say, breathy and pitiful.

Jude leans in closer, his shoulder pushing against mine as he speaks to the side of my face. “Are you gonna try it?”

I turn my head towards him, and he doesn’t move. We’re so close he has to feel my breath against his skin. “Did you get any forks?”

“Forgot.” He shrugs his right shoulder, then lays his arm flat along the bench behind me. “Make a wish.”

I want to point out that there’s no candle, but instead, I wish for something impossible and lean forward to blow out the imaginary flame. And when I open my eyes, I see Jude plunging his fingers into the heart of the cake.

Pulling back, I watch him tear away a piece that falls apart at the edges, leaving crumbs on my suit. The compulsion to brush them off—to clean every last fragment of dirt from the black fabric—is quickly slapped away as he lifts it, laden with cream and jam, to his parted lips that are ready and willing to welcome the mess.

“Life’s too short for cutlery,” he mumbles through mouthfuls; he's eyes locked on mine. Then he licks the cream from his lips, and wipes the jam from the corner of his mouth with his thumb before sucking it clean. “Try it,” he says. But I don’t know if I can.

“Are you afraid to get your hands dirty?” I ask, eyeing Curren’s gloves.

The look he gives me in response is flat—an attempt at being emotionless. But I can see a fire in his eyes that tells me he’s just as confused about how he’s feeling as I am. At least that’s what I think they are saying. The more I think about it, the less sure I am.

I tear off another piece of sponge. “You used to copy everything I did. If I jumped, you were right there behind me, ready to break something.”

“Hardly… You needed me as much as I needed you.” Holding my gaze, Curren reaches for the cake without removing his glove. Curiosity gets the better of me and I glance down in time to see him scoop at it; his leather-covered fingers dark against the cream.

“You sure you’re not worried about getting your hands dirty?”

“Does this bother you?” he asks, taking a bite.

A vein in his neck pulses when he opens his mouth.

His sharp jaw rolls as he chews.

And, goddamn, he takes his sweet time swallowing.

---