Page 64 of Two Marlboros

Harvey had dazed me. I couldn’t help but think of the warm, sensual tone in which he had whispered to me at the party that I hadn’t changed from how he remembered me, or the touch of his fingers on my skin, which he still loved and needed to caress.

We had small talk, reminisced about old stuff and about a few evenings too hot to talk about in August, but which had brought back memories of late-night phone calls where I would call him in tears, and he would listen the whole time, keeping quiet when it was appropriate and comforting me when I began to sob too much.

The night my father had thrown that slap at me, I had found myself thrown out of the house, with nowhere to go. It was cold and I was scantily clothed, or perhaps I was shivering with the knowledge that nothing in that house would ever be the same again; I had called Harvey, who asked me what had happened, as if he had known all along something was wrong. He took mewith him and nursed the frightened puppy I was, offered me a blanket, a bed, and many evenings together over pizza.

Harvey was not a man of many words. He hid behind small gestures, but that contact he sought with me, that willingness to make me laugh and pout playfully, if it wasn’t love, it was certainly affection. I was sure of it.

I opened the closet looking for something to put on. I was still wearing the T-shirt Alan had lent me, and at that moment I felt a slight grip tighten in my stomach. It felt like guilt, but I had nothing to blame myself for but the fact that he was moping around, and I was having fun.

I squatted down to rake through the usual, old T-shirts, but there wasn’t much else in the closet except a few faded polo shirts and a couple of long-sleeved shirts that were too heavy for those temperatures. Nothing seemed up to the occasion.

The ringing of the doorbell almost made me lose my balance. I foiled the fall by holding on to the closet door and got back up by shaking a little on my feet. Once up again, I started toward the intercom and brought the receiver to my ear.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Harvey.”

Oh. Shit.

Harvey.

How many Harveys did I know? Only one, unfortunately. What on earth was he doing there at that hour?

I checked my watch again and realized that no, I wasn’t’ having visions: he was at least an hour early. And I hadn’t even dressed decently.

“Nathan? Are you there?”

I spit out the first answer that came to mind. “Sure, come on up.”

I could have told him to wait five minutes because the washing machine was flooding my whole house and I justcouldn’t open it at that moment, or that I had caught fire from an unidentified object in the kitchen - but that was unlikely.

Otherwise, I could tell him that I was overjoyed to see him and that those pants looked great on him. He left a kiss at the side of my mouth and tickled my face with his beard.

“Hi, Nate.”

He had called me by the nickname he had given me years before, the same nickname my father had called me for so long.

“Hi.”

I had to let him in as soon as possible before he thought I had fallen asleep on the door. I led the way for him, still astonished, as I thought back to that welcoming kiss he had reserved for me. I listened to my pulse for a moment, but I did not find it so fast paced. I closed the door and watched him look at that hovel with curiosity.

“So, this is where you live?”

“I couldn’t find anything better; everything costs so much.”

Harvey scrutinized every nook and cranny of the sort of kitchen, then cast a glance at the coffee table in the living room and the secondhand sofa that some cat had mistaken for a scratching post.

While he observed the house, with his back turned, I watched him. I got to confirm the first impression I had had since I had seen him again, which was that he was quite thin. The T-shirt he was wearing was tight, but it failed to highlight his physique; the same could be said of his pants, which would have gladly paired with a belt. I didn’t mind noticing his designer underpants or guessing what was underneath. I was annoyed, however, to note that he seemed more taken with the house than with me.

“Would you like something to drink?”

He turned, his usual smile highlighting his slightly too hollow cheeks. He came toward me and wrapped his armsaround my waist in a possessive grip. He pulled me to him, and our noses touched for a moment.

It was just us in that house, no parents suddenly entering, no harassing roommates. My heart began to pound, but my instincts told me it was not for the reason I wanted to think.

Gently, I barely pushed his arms away from me, just enough to avert a kiss. It was too soon. I didn’t want our first date to be like this, although I certainly hadn’t invited him home for tea.

“So, tell me, where have you been these past three years?”, I asked.

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