Page 38 of Paint Eater
His mom was right. Hewasdistracted. Previously, he had lacked the imagination—or the masochistic impulse—to fantasise about what it might feel like. Beingtouched, with thoughtless care and affection. The way it burned and soothed at the same time. The way it both fed and created hunger.
Sometimes, Logan would lay in bed and curl tight, small. He’d cross his arms over his chest, press his hands into bare skin, and try not to feel soalone.
He’d never felt that way until Jay. Or maybe he had, when he was very young and he’d still been foolish enough to dream, but not anymore. He had Nisha and, even though she wasn’t physically demonstrative, that had been enough. He’d known there was no point wishing things were different—he’d marry someone hand-picked by his mom to elevate his—their—status. It was all she cared about.
Now, though, he’d made the terrible mistake of tasting what real, affectionate touch was like, and every moment without it was a profound and wailing absence. Every time he would think,Is this the last time?
“That’s Cornbread,” Jay said, pointing to a mural of a black man, face long and nose round. “The guy I told you about? He’s like, the father of graffiti. Of tagging, anyway. I mean, fair enough, writing my name on things isn’t exactly what I go for, but this dude was the first to see the world as his canvas, you know? The first man, first black man, to make space for himself that way.”
Jay’s eyes were bright as he talked, and Logan nodded, wanting desperately to kiss him but knowing he couldn’t. That he had to portion out things like that, not give too much away.
Jay gestured at the wall, long fingers cutting the air. “He fell in love with a girl named Cynthia and went around writing ‘Cornbread loves Cynthia’ all over her neighbourhood and bus route.”
“That’s just vandalism,” Logan said.
Jay laughed. “It’s romantic.”
“I bet they didn’t even end up together.”
“They…” Jay thought for a moment. “Okay, I don’t actually know if they ended up together, but that’s beside the point.”
Logan opened his mouth to argue, but Jay poked him between the ribs, making him flinch. “Stop,” Logan said as seriously as he could manage.
It must not have been serious enough, because Jay’s eyes filled with mischief.
Logan held up a finger. “Do. N—” He stepped away from Jay’s stabbing finger, swatting it away, but it just kept coming. “You fucker.”
“Oh my God, you’re ticklish!”
“I’m not ticklish. I just don’t like being poked in the ribs,” Logan countered, but it was useless. He could feel the smile trying to make it to the surface, the way his voice was only hard on the outside, seeping gooily from the cracks of being touched so casually, so joyfully.
Logan hadn’t known this was an option, to be so free and foolish. There wasn’t an image to maintain, no stiff posture to endure.
It was just him, and Jay.
Always, Jay.
CHAPTER TEN
LOGAN
Early on a Saturday morning, Jay took Logan to one of those half-deserted parts of Brooklyn where construction had started, then stopped, then started, then stopped again. It was close to the shitty part of the docks, as if the Financial District in Manhattan were radiating wealth and the further from it you got, the shittier everything was too: the streets, the train line, the buildings.
Jay, though, used this to turn unwanted things into something beautiful and loved.
“We’re just priming it today,” Jay said.
His hair was wilder than usual, flatter on one side as if he’d just gotten out of bed—which was a real possibility. His shirt was loose and colourful, swaying slightly against his skin as the breeze pulled at it.
“You have to prime the walls before painting them?” Logan asked, surprised. How the hell did people do graffiti if that was required?
“Nah. This is just a paint eater. See, touch it. It’s all, like, porous and stuff. It’ll eat the paint right up if I try to draw anything here, so we just have to give it a little love, you know?” Jay ran the tips of his fingers absentmindedly across the surface as if soothing its hunger.
Logan looked at Jay’s hand and felt a swoop of vertigo for a moment. “Why not just pick a surface that doesn’t need a primer?” Logan wondered how Jay didn’t hear the croak in his voice.
Jay shrugged. “Just ’cause something’s easy doesn’t mean it’s good. So I gotta work a little harder at the start, who cares? Look at this place.” He stretched his arms, looking around at the solitude so rare in New York. At the way the sky domed above without skyscrapers to cut it into ribbons. At the still face of the building, waiting so patiently just for this.
Logan nodded even though he didn’t really get it. New York was filled with spaces that Jay could easily use—why this one?
