Page 24 of Nights Without Night
My body is limp and sated as our heartbeats calm down. I can hear his where my ear rests on his chest. It's steady and comforting, and I just listen to it for a while.
“Do you think you’ll adopt that dog from the shelter?” I say as the thought randomly passes through my mind.
“Not right now,” he says, a mumble I can still feel through his lungs.
“How come?”
“It’s not the right moment,” he says, and I go cold.
“Are you…thinking of going somewhere?” I try to say nonchalantly, hiding the fear that suddenly spears me. Isadoro squeezes me closer.
“Not what I meant. I’m just not ready for that responsibility.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling a little silly. “Okay, that makes sense.”
“It would be cool though, having a dog around.”
“Yeah. I still miss Philipo,” I say, referring to one of the dogs we had grown up with at the farm. He had been some unidentified breed, a true mutt, but beautiful. Of medium height, he’d had thick, coarse fur, grey and brown tipped with white. His long snout had been a little bearded, giving him a wise air about him which suited him.
There had been a lot of dogs in our childhood, owned by the families we lived next to. They were allowed to roam loose most of the day, and they would often go in groups or pairs to explore the area. Though it was good to see them with so much freedom, it meant a lot of them simply disappeared, run over by cars or for some unknown reason. That was the worst bit—not knowing what had happened to them. They were all chipped, so it was unlikely someone had found and kept them, but it was always a hope. People don’t realize how painful hope can be when it’s fruitless. Its barren branches hang heavy with suffering, when otherwise the loss would rest on the ground, left to decompose and join the earth.
“I miss Bolo,” Isadoro replies. Bolo had been a Boxer, goofy and good-natured, but could turn suddenly territorial if pressed. Then again, all dogs I had come across could turn ferocious when challenged enough. Bolo had been addicted to fetching pinecones, barking at you to throw them, although more reticent about giving them back. He’d reminded me of the main character in a kid’s cartoon movie about dogs, while Philipo was the cool, street-wise dog who shows the pup the ropes. Philipo had had the strange quirk of picking up and holding a leaf in his mouth when we went for long walks around the farm, and had been as smart as he was loyal.
I remember staying up through the summer nights with Isadoro, playing Nintendo games until the sun rose up. The sight of that sliver of red in the horizon would energize us suddenly, and we’d run to the nearest reservoir, sitting on one of its dirt edges to watch the sunrise. Philipo would always follow us, a leaf in his mouth. He’d sit silently beside us as if he too could see the oranges and pinks spreading like watercolours across blotting paper. When the sky finally turned blue, we’d run down the side of the reservoir, shrieking madly. Philipo would follow, tail wagging happily and eyes bright.
I chuckle into Isadoro’s chest at the memory.
“What is it?” Isadoro asks, and I can tell he’s already smiling.
“I was just thinking…remember when we took a joy ride in Tita Maria’s car?” I ask. Isadoro’s laugh rumbles through him.
“Yeah,” he says. We’d stolen the crappy little car just as the sun rose and drove it along the road next to the farm. We’d blasted the AC at its coldest setting, and the radio had been tuned to some classical music channel, blaring on the tinny speakers. It had been in perfect juxtaposition to our crazy laughter as we raced the car down the road.
“You ever think of going back there? Working at the farm or something?” I ask.
“Not really. Especially if you’re not there. I know you like it here,” he says. I tilt my head up to look at him.
“Best friends forever, huh?”
“Yes,” he says simply, and I believe him.
**********
Life gains rhythm.
Isadoro starts going out more again, at least to the dog shelter or the gym. I keep an eye on him at work, but he’s stone-faced and professional, giving nothing away. I invite him to outings, just the two of us. He mostly agrees, but he never suggests any of his own. I learn to choose less crowded places. The forest, the botanical gardens, the park. One Saturday we stop at a café and he spends it looking intently at a couple who seem on the verge of arguing, like he’s waiting for something.
At home, we both keep strange hours, but we fuck late into the night. He likes to be in control, but I like breaking him apart. One tired Tuesday night, I finger him until he’s begging, a desperate, squirming mess in my bed. He’s trembling in the aftermath of his orgasm and I stroke his shivering muscles, running my fingers through the hair of his panting chest.
As good as the sex is, he never stays the night. Sometimes it feels like I’m holding something in my hands which looks like what I’ve always wanted but is hollow inside.
At night, he’s like a ghost haunting the apartment. He exists in the static of the TV, the shuffle of steps, the distinctive sound of a plug being slotted in a few walls over. I lay in my bed and wonder what he’s thinking. Wonder if he’s haunted by his own ghosts, if they also come out at night. I question if my worry is overblown, if it’s just a faulty circadian rhythm.
My head pinwheels.
It’s past 2:00 a.m. and I can hear the TV on in the living room. Fed up with my own thoughts, I get up and tread towards the noise. Isadoro is already looking in my direction as I step into the living room and I sit beside him on the couch. I press against him, head on his shoulder, and he wraps his arm around me.
“Don’t you sleep?” I ask eventually. I feel Isadoro shift beside me.
