Page 4 of Nights Without Night
He sits on the opposite end of the couch, so I can shift and put my feet on his lap. The TV flickers on. His hand wraps around my ankle. Through my fringe, I watch him relax further. I begin sketching. Him, of course, in the light of the TV and the dark, until most of the tension has left him and he can at least pretend to go to sleep.
**********
Most of my classes are technology-based, which fits with my career in digital arts, but my favourite ones are those that depend on traditional media. There is something about the slide of a brush, the scratch of a pencil, the press of clay, that is a simple, sensory relief. In those moments of creation, my mind becomes a conduit, the river bank on which the water flows, dragging consciousness with it. My body will feel, but my mind, in a way, will be peaceful.
I look at the self-portrait I’ve just painted. The pale skin that easily tans, my blue eyes, always a little heavy-lidded, the over-pronounced bow of my upper lip, the sharp chin, the blond hair attempting to hide my large ears. There’s something almost sweet about my face, some sleepy quality which suggests passivity, but my eyes betray me. They stare from the painting, a hard quality to them made almost disquieting by their half-lidedness.
I only realize I’m muttering in Spanish as I re-touch the hair falling over my doppelgänger’s forehead when Iva, passing me, sighs dreamily.
“I love hearing that accent,” she says. I look at her, smirking. I’ve always thought the Argentinian accent is the Hispanic equivalent of the Irish accent in English.
“Tú sabes lo que’s bueno,”I say, winking. She laughs.
“Are you gonna be much longer?” she asks, stopping and putting her hands on her hips. She’s short and thick and gorgeous, a semi-permanent mischievousness to her dark eyes.
I groan, stretching. “I could take a break before I start on myactualcoursework,” I say, and look around the studio, a mess of materials and canvases, people milling about.
“Cool. We can meet Ezra atThe Bean.”
The Beanis a nice campus café that has the only two things a student asks for: it’s near, and it’s cheap. I ask for a black coffee, having gotten used to the taste due to it always being the cheapest way to take your coffee, and we move to the corner table where Ezra is already sprawled. For such a slim guy, I’m always amazed at how much space he takes up.
“Yo,” he greets as we sit, putting the phone he had been fiddling with on the table. “Anybody else feel like throwing themselves off a building even though the semester has just started?” he says with an exaggerated grimace.
“And mess up this pretty face?” I drawl. Ezra laughs, putting his chin on his hand and fluttering his eyelashes at me.
“Itisa very pretty face,” he says. I shake my head, rolling my eyes.
“But not as pretty as mine,” Iva says, making a kissy face at both of us before laughing.
“True that. What eyeliner is that, by the way? Joaquin would look so good in eyeliner…” Ezra says dreamily. Iva and I share a look.
“Oh my God. You are obsessed,” Iva says, but she’s smiling.
I know that Iva, Joaquin, and Ezra used to go to the same high school, Iva a year behind. From what I’ve learned, Iva and Joaquin have always been tight, but they didn’t really know Ezra until Joaquin got together with him the year before last; though I think they only made it official last spring.
“But he’s sopretty,” Ezra whines.
“Save it for the bedroom,” Iva says, which only causes Ezra’s eyes to become unfocused.
“Oh, Lord,” I say as Iva laughs.
The conversation veers, inevitably turning to complaining about our workload before we ban shop-talk and settle for gossip.
“How’s Isadoro?” Ezra asks eventually, expression turning serious. I sigh a little, shrugging.
“He seems fine,” I reply. Ezra hums, eyes sharp. He’s a lot more perceptive than his often-flippant attitude would suggest.
It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it, but it feels like betraying Isadoro, somehow. Even with him away, it’s been me and him for a long time, and the topic of Isadoro’s mental well-being seems especially private.
The truth is, I’m not sure how he’s doing. During the day, he functions; he eats, cleans up, goes out to the dog shelter. He even goes to his job without a problem. But he doesn’t sleep. I hear him walking around his room, or the low murmur of the TV, and it makes me wonder. Makes me remember that one time during one of his leaves. I’d stepped out of my room in the middle of the night and stopped short at the sight of him panting on the couch. His eyes had been wide, sightless, and when he turned to look at me—I’d never seen an expression like that before. Wild and splayed open, it was a primeval horror. It’d turned my lungs to ice.
I’d gone over to him slowly, the fear contagious, and he’d let me pull him into my arms and take him to my bed. He was usually resistant to such open displays of help, but this time he didn’t resist. I could barely breathe, he was shaking so hard, but I just stroked the short bristles of his hair until it subsided. We lay there, awake but silent as the sun rose, and I drifted away.
In the morning, I’d woken alone and exhausted, but had dragged myself out of bed to find Isadoro in the kitchen. He’d avoided the subject, looking stiff and wary. I hadn’t pushed it, but I’d pressed the palm of my hand to his clothed back.
“I’ll always be there for you, Isa. No matter what,” I’d said. He’d tensed further before his shoulders slumped a little as he’d nodded.
It never happened again, but I’ll never forget the fear in his eyes. The helplessness.
