Eye Contact by Michael Craft

Neil, an architect with a thriving career of his own.
    Ah yes, Neil—the greatest of Manning’s blessings. Did he earn such a gift? Was it chance? How can he account for the affections of another human being, for the melding of two minds, for their mutual past and their planned future, for the proprietary right they have granted each other to share their bodies in bed, or after a run, or whenever they feel the spark. How can he account for love?
    It was luck. He might never have met Neil, who turned out to be the right man at the right time. But Manning also earned their love. He willed it. The accumulated frustrations of his heterosexual life before Neil, while disturbing, were not sufficient to nudge him into the arms of the first willing man who came along. Manning’s frustrations were accompanied by the emotional baggage of a lifetime, by definitions he had set for and of himself, by a gut-deep fear of queer and faggot and all those other labels. There were mind-dragons to fight, demons to conquer before he could banish uncertainty and redefine himself. But he did it. And he has never looked back.
    The man in the mirror has an erection. Manning laughs, wraps the towel around his waist, and works his fingers through his hair, deciding that a wind-tossed look will suit the evening’s festivities better than his usual comb-and-brush style. He says to his reflection, “Lots of blessings, ample sunshine. No clouds on the horizon?”
    The man in the mirror frowns. What about the clouds of his dreams? The pretty pink clouds of planet Zarnik are not what they seem. Their playful tendrils are wisps of unknown gases that might sear the lungs if swallowed. Caution. Manning reminds himself that tonight’s celebration will be tempered by the arrival of a mystery guest, the man who claims to be Pavo Zarnik. And there is still the great looming question of Cliff Nolan’s murder.
    “What’s wrong?” asks Neil, reacting to Manning’s frown as he enters the bathroom. Ready for his own shower, he wears only lounge shorts. “A Happy Happening is in the works—and Henry has assembled a crew of first-class eye candy.”
    Manning smiles. Hugging Neil, he tells him, “You’re all the eye candy I’ll ever need. I’m a lucky man—who just happens to be momentarily put-off by his work.”
    Neil peers at him. “Don’t let this get to you, Mark, at least not tonight.”
    “Nope,” says Manning, tracing his thumbs along Neil’s pectorals, “tonight’s a celebration. If I happen to glean a stray tidbit from Zarnik, all the better.” He crooks his head to lick one of Neil’s nipples, then kisses the other.
    Neil says into his ear, “Get dressed. Our guests are due. But save that thought.”
    A few minutes later, Manning stands in the dressing area of the balcony, deciding on an outfit for the evening. Pleated khaki slacks—no surprise, though these are gabardine, a dressier version of the twill variety he always wears to the office, an easy decision. But the top half vexes him. Jacket and tie? That’s what he’d normally wear, but Neil won’t, not at home—too stuffy. Then he thinks, Why not try a T-shirt with a vest? He’s seen younger guys wear such outfits. Hell, why not?
    “That looks great,” says Neil, padding out from the bath.
    “Think so?” asks Manning, needing reassurance. “I’m not … too old for it?”
    “Hardly,” says Neil. “You’ll be the hottest man in the room.”
    “What about the catering boys?” Manning asks.
    Neil pauses. “They don’t count. They’re paid to be here.”
    A few minutes later, Neil is dressed, and he and Manning head downstairs to await their first arrival. As they cross the main room toward the kitchen, a voice from behind asks, “Can I get you guys a drink?” Manning turns to find one of the Happy Happenings waiters standing there with a tray. He wears an engraved plastic name tag, Justin, not on his shirt, but below his belt, on his hip. Neil was right—this