Sixteen
Monroe
BALANCE: An impression of harmony and complement between the various elements of a wine’s profile
“It doesn’t,um, what is the word? Creep you out? It doesn’t creep you out having Charles Dickens watch everything you do?”
Julien’s prowling around my living room in his boxers while I sit on the couch wearing nothing but his shirt. I know he’ll need it back soon, but for now, I’m relishing every moment of being surrounded with his scent as I sip my morning coffee and enjoy the view of his fine Frenchhass.
He slept here last night. It wasn’t a gesture of intimacy so much as exhaustion when I took him by the hand and pulled him into my bed, but waking up wrapped around his furnace of a body made me realize exactly what inviting him this far into my life has done.
When I wake up tomorrow morning and he’s not here, I’ll miss him. I’ve carved out a place in myself that’s shaped for him to fill. It may not be very deep yet, just the first few scrapes and strokes of the knife, but it’s there, and I know even now that it will take much longer to heal than it did to create.
But I’ll think about that later. For now, he’s here with me. I’ll save missing him for when he’s gone.
“What do you have against Charles Dickens?”
“Nothing. I just think it’s a little creepy to have an old dead guy on the wall. He looks a bit like a pervert.”
“Charles Dickens was not a pervert!” I insist. “He was a literary genius, and I am honoring his contributions to the world.”
“I think Shakespeare was a literary genius, and I don’t have a picture of him hanging on my wall.”
“Well now I know what I’m getting you for Christmas.”
We both laugh, but there are questions lurking under the sound. Christmas is six months away. Will we even know each other then?
Julien gives up on peering at Charles and comes to join me on the couch instead. He swivels me around so my back is against the armrest and tucks my legs over his lap before he picks up his own coffee where he left it sitting on the table. He’s already inspected all my stacks of books, made fun of my extensive mug collection, and invaded my sock drawer to see if every pair has polka dots on them.
The answer to that inquiry was yes.
“I wish I could stay all day.” He runs a hand along my shin and sighs.
“I wish you could too,” I admit. “I wish we both could.”
I’m already late for work, but this morning feels like a spell, and I’m not ready to break it with the twist of the doorknob just yet.
“Tell me something,” I blurt.
He gives me a questioning look.
“Tell me anything,” I clarify. “Tell me something you never tell anyone.”
I know I sound crazy, but I need something I can hold onto. I need more than this moment. I need a piece of him I can take with me today to remind me that this is real, that it’s worth holding onto.
He looks puzzled and a little amused, but I can see his understanding starting to dawn.
“You want me to tell you a secret?”
“Sure,” I agree. “Tell me a secret.”
He strokes my leg for a minute, circles the ball of my ankle with his thumb. I hum as he starts to knead the sole of my foot.
“The secret,” I remind him before I can get too carried away to care.
“The secret,” he repeats. “The secret is that...Well, if you want something I never tell anyone, then...I’ve never been to my father’s grave.”
He keeps rubbing my foot, but his eyes are fixed on the wall across the room.
