Page 66 of Sicken of the Calm
“Fucking asshole,” he mutters.
“He’s an idiot,” the girl besideme agrees.
“Forget him. There’s a millionlike him,” I advise, although this doesn’t seem to improve Ezra’s mood any. Itrail my hand down his arm and squeeze his hand. He looks at me, anger relaxingoff his expression a little.
“What were you saying about, uhm,Quizás?” I say, turning back toward the girl and dragging Ezra into theconversation in a bid to distract him. The tactic seems to work on the surface,but Ezra, despite my assurances before the party that I don’t need a chaperone,sticks close to me for the rest of the night, and I can see him start to fumeevery time he spots the guy.
In the end, I ask if he wants toleave a little early, and he agrees readily, heading toward mine in the coldFebruary air. Even when we reach my apartment, however, he has a crease betweenhis eyebrows. I sigh as I hang up my coat and turn the lamps on.
“Stop thinking about it. It wasnothing, you’re overacting,” I say, despite the fact that I slammed a guyagainst a wall for little more when it was Ezra being offended.
“It wasn’t nothing,” he says,sitting down on the edge of the bed with a scowl on his face. “I hate thatshit. The, like – do you know who Dylan Moran is?” he asks. I shake my head.“He’s just a comedian or whatever but he said this thing, he said – people willkill you over time. They’ll shave out every last bit of fun in you with little,harmless-sounding phrases used every day like, ‘be realistic!’. And it’sfucking true – that’s the shit that gets to you, that chips away at you, fromjust under the skin. And you let it, ‘cause you don’t think it’s big enough toprotect yourself from it. But, it makes you think of yourself, and what you’recapable of, in certain ways and…I just hate that shit. Maybe you can just brushit off and if so, good, but I just don’t want…” He trails off, shaking hishead.
I go over to him, kneeling infront of where he’s sitting down on the bed. I lay my forearms over his,tracing my thumbs on the inside of his elbows where his arms are resting on hislap. All I can think about is,what are the everyday phrases that have triedkilling Ezra over the years? Who has dealt those blows?
“Has that happened a lot to you?What’s…what have people said…?” I can’t help but ask. Ezra’s eyes lower alittle, lost in thought.
“I don’t know. There’s too many.”He shakes his head. “I guess, in the end, silence can be just as sharp,” hefinishes quietly. I think about his parents.
“I wish…” I start, but I don’tknow how to heal this wound. I reach up, kissing him softly, trying to offer acomfort I have no words for, to give him a silence to warm all the others. Whenwe part, I stare at him imploringly. A small smile appears on his face, and heshakes his head slightly as if we’re both being ridiculous.
“Thanks for defending me,” I saybecause I don’t want to diminish the validity of any hurt he may have bypretending that this shit doesn’t get to me too. “I thought you were going to throwyour drink at him for a moment. My knight in shining armour,” I tease, tryingto get that smile to spread. It seems to work, his mouth tilting up.
“Are we role-playing right now?”he teases back.
“I’m not playing the damsel indistress.”
“That’s ok. You can be theclumsy, infatuated squire,” he says. I laugh, shaking my head.
“Ok, but only if in the end itturns out I’m the one that savesyourlife and you’re absolutely amazedat my clumsy skill,” I say, and his smile grows further.
“Sounds about right,” he says,leaning down to kiss me again, just a press of lips and warmth. When we pullback, his eyes have lost all traces of anger, even if his smile seems to hold asoft sort of sadness.
I push him back and kiss himuntil that, too, disappears.
**********
With the coming of March arrivesthe realisation that Ezra and I have been together in everything but name forsix months. The thought hits me between the eyes, the surprise due to nothingmore than me having stuck my head fully in the sandy bank of a particular riverin Egypt.
Ezra and I continue to spend alot of time in the apartment, but we venture out more, too. We go a few timesto the BDSM meet up, growing closer to Osiris and meeting his partner, Steve.It makes me imagine Ezra as an experienced Dom one day, confident in his skillsand likes, and I get dizzy with desire and loss.
In the second week of March, Iwake up next to Ezra for the hundredth time and just look at him for a littlewhile. His slack mouth and fanning eyelashes and warm hand tucked under hischin. I watch the dishevelled, soft creature in my bed and ask myself questionsI don’t have good answers to.
We go out for the day, a modernart exhibition that one of Ezra’s artist friends, an Argentinianguy on some kind of compressed course on visual arts and graphic design,mentioned. Right before we leave, however, already bundled into our jackets,Ezra pushes me against the front door, shark eyes on mine, lips a few inchesaway.
“When we come back I havesomething planned,” he says through his smirk. I lick my lips, mouth suddenlydry.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’m gonna tie you to yourbed. I’m going to blindfold you. And then…I’m gonna take you apart so slowlyyou’re gonna forget who you are,” he murmurs, voice calm and soft, and it makesmy stomach swoop. I don’t have time for more of a reaction than a dumb nodbefore he’s opening the door, forcing me to move. The moment we’re out of theapartment, it’s like it never happened; not even a trace of a smirk on hisface, leaving me disoriented and aroused.
When Ezra had suggested we go tothe exhibition, I had agreed on the assumption that Ezra is a fan of modernart. As it turns out, he’s more of a fan of making fun of modern art instead ofadmiring it.
“This one,” Ezra says, pointingat a large, odd structure that kind of look like a melting pillar, “Is calledPhallus Maximus. And this one,” he says, pointing at the painting in front ofit, “Is called Put That Back Where It Came From Or So Help Me,” he says, doingan odd little jig. I cover my face with my hand, laughing. At one point, one ofthe pieces is literally a stiff sock protruding from a can of tuna. He doesn’teven have to say anything – simply looking at me with raised eyebrows causes meto start laughing. For more than an hour, I get to be pulled around the buildingby Ezra, by his wide smile and bright eyes, his fingers laced with mine.
“That was fucking amazing,” hesays as we exit the exhibition, and I look at him askance.
“You literally made fun of like80 percent of the pieces,” I say.
