Untitled (Abridged)
Robert said, ‘I’m no rose, but come on in.’ The kid was something else. While Robert cooked, Phillip played a game he’d made up called ‘kitschen.’ He brought Robert knickknacks from the kitchen shelf. He manipulated hula dolls and figurines into strange positions, then told Robert they were ‘doing the naughty.’ Robert shook his head. Phillip grinned, ‘C’est la me.’ He didn’t touch the wine that Robert poured, so Robert drank both glasses. ‘Sorry, I don’t whine. I don’t think it’s polite,’ Phillip said, arranging tiny porcelain deer in a circle around a plastic Snow White missing one eye. Phillip called him a crock tease when Robert told him he never used the crock-pot. Robert was slicing mushrooms, and Phillip said, ‘Crock tease, crock killer,’ so Robert smacked him a good one on the soft part of his pale, scrawny arm. Phillip got quiet, then said, ‘You know, Robert, a good man is hard to grind.’ Robert slapped him again and said, ‘Then chop instead.’ Phillip looked underfed, so Robert pushed a second plate of pasta at him. He picked at one serving, then rearranged the next serving of penne on his plate. When Robert put a bowl of ice cream with raspberries in front of him, Phillip told Robert he had to draw the line. 'I'm diabetic,' he said, as if he'd only now realized. Robert knew he was lying, but let it go. Phillip cleared the table and offered to do the dishes. ‘Come sit on the balcony,’ Robert said. ‘Let’s watch the absence of sunset.’ The balcony faced north. The only thing to see was the basil plant’s shadow as it lengthened. Phillip opened the balcony door, wiping his hands on his pants. Robert reached up and unbuckled Phillip's belt. Just like that. By the time the basil shadow reached full extension, Robert had the belt wrapped around Phillip’s wrists. ‘You really need a better belt,’ Robert whispered. ‘This is so indicative of your age.’ ‘Young in body, gold in mind,’ he responded. Robert cuffed his cheek. ‘Somebody needs to teach you about humor.’ ‘Humor me. I haven’t been gay before.’ Him saying that reminded Robert that his dates came equipped with pasts: destructive insecurities, drug problems, diseases. There was a doll his little sister had had that came with a booklet of ‘personalized’ information and its own name. You could change it, but it took two months. ‘What have you been then.’ Robert didn’t want to know. Nothing,’ Phillip said. ‘It’s my first rosemary.’ ‘What?’ Robert asked. ‘Well, I didn’t want to say thyme. I thought you’d be embarrassed to be with a, you know, version.’ He tried to brush hair from his eye. Robert tucked the strand behind Phillip’s ear. ‘I’m not.’ He buckled Phillip back up. ‘I mean, I had a boyfriend once, but we never kissed or held hands or anything.’ ‘When was that?’ ‘When I was sixteen,’ Phillip said. ‘How old are you now?’ Robert asked. Phillip gripped the back of his chair. ‘I should’ve asked you that before, but I didn’t,’ Robert said. ‘You’re not… underage, are you?’ Phillip said, ‘Are you?’ ‘I’m forty.’ ‘Well, as it ends up, I’m half you minus one.’ ‘You sure you don’t want some ice cream, Phil?’ ‘Don’t call me Phil, Bob. Don’t abbreviate me.’ ‘You’re just long enough,’ Robert said. ‘Come here.’ Phillip turned and Robert took his hands from the back of the chair. ‘Calm down,’ he said. ‘I’m already impressed. You’re fine.’ ‘Fine as thyme?’ ‘Thyme and rosemary,’ Robert said. ‘OK, good.’ ‘Let’s go in,’ Robert said. ‘It’s
getting dark.’
* Phillip stared at Degas dancers in green in his art history book, two days after his fourth date with Robert. Mostly, the book’s paintings were of women. Some were exactingly compact, like unused lipsticks. The Degas dancers reflected each others’ gestures. The effect was shared movement; blurred identities, and unclear boundaries. That seemed right to Phillip. His professor had asked the class to think about symbolism. Instead, Phillip thought about his body. The café window was open, and rain, in tentative spurts, drizzled his arm as he tapped ash into his mocha. He’d seen the barista use whole milk, but didn’t correct her—so he wouldn’t drink it, he ruined it. Small or nothing, he thought. More rain squeezed through the screen. For months he'd engaged in a project called ‘smallening.’ He wanted to see his body without excess skin wrapping muscle and bone. Every day, after his shower, he removed his towel to find his hipbones. Phillip was fat. But things were looking up; his thighs were lean to his knees. Two months ago, ribs appeared, like an arrival—a plane breaking through clouds and becoming visible, a boat emerging from fog. He’d stood so long in front of the mirror that he missed class. Ribs, there they were, distinct ripples. He touched his torso in awe. Hours later, guilty, he settled in a patchy armchair with the Pre-Raphaelites. He hadn’t missed class since; he’d devised tracking techniques, and only looked in stolen, short bursts in empty restrooms, or before his bath. Every morning and night he measured himself, wherever he could, and recorded his numbers in a ledger, where he wrote down everything he ate. He was planning to carve his calories to zero, but at the moment, hovered around 700 a day. The city he lived in was not yet his. He’d lived on the East coast, then come to art school. Chicago was architecture, enough skyscrapers to make him feel he’d been smoking something, but made of reflective materials. Glass and metal skyscrapers, shiny windows, mirrors, gleaming cars. Downtown, he watched women sized like mascara brushes sneak sidelong glances in office windows, the black glass of the bank, anywhere they could. It confused Phillip to see himself. Confronted with his reflection everywhere he looked, Phillip avoided looking, but if he got small enough, one day he would be able to stand the sight, perhaps even enjoy it. He would like to be able to see himself without panicking. These days he looked only down or up, and noticed what people left behind and what they were reaching for. The more bones he revealed, the better he felt. His classmates said, ‘You’re looking great these days,’ and, ‘You must be working out.’ His parents came to visit and were pleased he looked normal. Everyone except Robert, who meant the world to Phillip, was supportive, even encouraging. Robert told him he was a dainty little girl and cuffed him when he picked at his food. ‘Eat like a man,’ Robert said. ‘Like you mean it.’ Phillip didn’t know what to say to him, because when he ate, Phillip did mean it, but he didn’t eat much, or often. What he ate was just enough to mean something, and Robert didn’t understand what. Phillip wanted Robert to stand behind him and hold him, so he could feel protected, desired by something larger than himself. Robert was so smart and peculiar. Phillip wanted other things besides Robert holding him, but he wasn’t sure how sex worked, exactly. His concept of sex came from magazines. Phillip reached under his shirt to feel his outline. This was another way he could know where he was, without spending hours in front of a mirror. From brief palmings, he could tell how things were going. Today, his bones were sharp. He achieved purity through denial. He thought about this instead of symbolism.
‘Dear foppish faggy Mr. Mozart,’ he said. ‘Such a dandy.’ ‘Take him seriously, kid. Listen to the Requiem. Or the Great Mass. You think he was such a screwball?’ Robert liked Mozart a lot. ‘Oh, what do I know. You know what I know? He tied it all up with tight chords,’ Phillip said. Robert got it, but wasn’t going to acknowledge it. Phillip nudged him, ‘Ha ha, Robert. Cords. Chords. You know.’ ‘Yeah I know, kid. Come on, tone it down. I want you to act like a grownup.’ ‘Then let me,’ Phillip said, looking at his plate. Robert put a second slice of bread before Phillip,
who hadn’t eaten the first. When friends asked why he had this
scruffy kid around all the time, it was easier to tell them he invited
Phillip over so Robert could feed him more than to say it was so he
could be with him, than to say because he was even beginning to love
Phillip, who was twenty years younger than Robert. Phillip didn’t
look healthy. Robert believed he could get Phillip into shape. He
was probably just used to not eating much because he didn’t
have money. That was the way with artists. It was calm to sit on the balcony, but here were the first snows, disappointingly slushy. Last time they’d been together, they’d talked about Phillip helping Robert to put his balcony furniture into Robert’s garage, but had forgotten to do it, so the chairs and table were blown with white layers of ice and slush. There was no place to sit, so they stood next to each other at the railing, near the frost-killed basil, staring at brick. ‘Robert.’ Phillip’s voice dropped an octave. ‘I want to say something forward.’ Phillip scooped slush into a snowball and dropped it over the balcony, where it landed on Robert’s deck. ‘Well good, because I don’t respond well to things said backward.’ ‘Seriously, Robert. I want to say something forward, seriously, and say it seriously.’ ‘Shoot,’ Robert said. ‘Lay it down.’ Robert made his own slush ball and pitched it at the neighbor’s. It didn’t go far. ‘I want to sleep with you.’ ‘My bed’s not big enough.’ ‘Your bed’s a queen,’ he said. Robert expected Phillip to make a joke, but he missed a good one. ‘I take up a lot of space when I sleep.’ ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that you are the one who isn’t being an adult.’ ‘Phillip. Deflowering is a lot of responsibility.’ ‘I’ve already deflowered myself. I’ve been practicing for years.’ ‘I mean, emotionally.’ Robert would like for it to be him. But he didn’t know if he was prepared, even though he said Phillip wasn’t prepared, which was easier. Robert wasn’t prepared for everything that came with Phillip. Neither of them were. Maybe he could go through with it if he didn’t care, but he’d already gotten emotionally invested. ‘When you undid my pants, you wanted me. Until you found out I was a version…’ Robert slid open the balcony door and went back inside, beckoning Phillip to follow. ‘Phillip. It has nothing to do with wanting or not wanting. Look at the ravioli and the chocolate on the table for example. I get the feeling you want it, but you won’t eat it, will you?’ Phillip was silent for a moment. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said, brightening as though he’d had his biggest idea yet. ‘Homework. We’re studying Pisa. I have to practice good posture while I read.’ Phillip picked up his bag, ready to leave, then didn’t, and slouched by the door. ‘Kid,’ Robert said. ‘Do you have the book with you?’ He could see the title in Phillip’s unbuckled bag. ‘Yeah,’ Phillip looked down at his bag. ‘Let’s go read together. It’s OK. We can just read, right?’ Phillip nodded, then walked to the table and touched a crumb of chocolate. Although there were a couch and two loveseats in the living room, they passed them as though the bedroom were the only place suitable for reading. This was Phillip’s first time in Robert’s bedroom, and he looked around, fascinated, nodding, ‘This is where you sleep,’ Phillip said. ‘I get it. I get it. You’ve got art in here.’ He pointed at a Kandinsky print, gesturing excitedly. ‘Art, Robert! Kandinsky, even!’ ‘Of course I’ve got art.’ Then Phillip located and gingerly picked up a bottle of lubricant from the nightstand. ‘You keep it, um, out in the open like this?’ Robert nodded. ‘Do you use it often?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘So that’s how the big boys do it,’ he said. Before he turned his back, Robert saw Phillip blush. ‘Under the sheets or over the sheets?’ Phillip asked, and threw the heavy art history book on a pillow. Robert didn’t know what to do. While he tried
to make up his mind, and they stood glowing in the light of the green
fluorescent hotel sign outside, Phillip snatched his hand, said, ‘Robert,’
in a way that could’ve broken just about anyone’s heart.
Phillip leaned over and Robert let him kiss him. Clearly Phillip didn’t
know how to kiss, and moved awkwardly against Robert, who kissed him
back, and decided to show him. |
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