drops suddenly onto a face that makes a noise like a whoopie cushion.
Nine months later Marv opens the apartment door waving a sealed envelope. Pierre squints, reads the return address. "Shit." He staggers past Marv, drops the grocery bag on the dining room table, and heads down the hall. "Can I open it?" Marv yells after him. "Yeah," Pierre says, then rethinks. "Actually, don't, please? Just wait a ..." He slams the bedroom door.
The room smells like him, thanks to dirty clothes. Piles. Sometimes he lets himself fantasize bottling that stink or putting it in an aerosol can or whatever. It would be sold with a videotape of him jerking off, finger fucking himself, etc. But tonight the smell's painfully reminiscent of something. What? He lands, sniffling, bouncing, on the unmade bed.
Marv knocks. "P.?" "Just wait, okay?" Pierre shouts. "Start dinner, watch TV, whatever. I'll be out in a minute." After ten, fifteen seconds he hears the TV switch on in the living room. News. Plane crash. Tons dead. When he's sure the volume's loud enough, the news sufficiently bad to distract Marv, he starts sobbing. His whole body jerks, jerks, jerks.
The man who'd paid to fuck him this evening was obviously sick, AIDS, but Pierre had agreed to play saint just so long as the man used a condom, which was probably safe. Still, the guy's eyes were so far away the whole hour, or each time Pierre thought to check, like it either meant nothing or everything to have total access to a sterling, unjudgmental face and ass.
He himself had felt ... what? Maybe little to zero, as usual. Nevertheless, the guy's fear or pain or whatever rubbed off, as they say. Or it made his own numbness depressing, baffling. When you think about being in bed with somebody, Pierre thinks, sick or not, you're either so far away you think in total cliches, or else you're so close things blur, or ... Fuck.
"Fuck off." He lies there and shakes, drips, squeaks. Occasionally he holds his breath, makes sure the TV's still on in the other room. After a while he reaches over, picks up the remote control unit, and turns on the TV in this room, leaving the volume down. News. An old picture of what's-her-name rimmed in a thin, black frame, which must mean she's finally dead.
Marv's probably out in the living room, totally upset, not that he cares all that much about what's-her-name. He's just more connected to life's ... whatever, ups, downs, whereas Pierre feels so little about anything, much less what's-hername's predictable death. He's too ... whatever, bored, hardened, worried to have an opinion one way or another.
"P.!" Marv's at the door. "What's-her-name's dead!" "Yeah, I know," Pierre says, cringing at how weak his fucking voice sounds. There's an intense little silence outside the door. "You ... okay?" Marv asks. The knob turns very slowly. Shit. Pierre throws an arm over his eyes as the light from the hall slants in. Next thing he knows a hand's stroking his curly hair.
"What's up?" Marv whispers. The mattress squeaks and drops a foot near Pierre's shoulder. He can smell Marv, meaning Levi's. Actually it's Tide detergent he smells, not dyed cotton. Still, he associates the smell with his lover for some reason. "Today. The client," Pierre says. "AIDS. It was obvious. And it's weirding me out." He raises the arm as proof.
Marv looks astonished by all the moisture under there. On TV, a drug bust. Rows of boxes of cocaine about to be burned. The idea makes Pierre tingle slightly. "You're cold," Marv whispers. He's eyeing Pierre's raised arm. "Maybe you're ill, like the flu," he adds, running a fingertip over the greenishwhite goosebumps. "No," Pierre barks, pulls away.
They sit, lie around there a few endless minutes. Marv gets up, walks through the room like he's hunting for something. The third time he passes the TV set, he spins the volume up, sits on the end of the bed. A father and son are hugging, blubbering, in a circle of cameras and microphones, after the
Nine months later Marv opens the apartment door waving a sealed envelope. Pierre squints, reads the return address. "Shit." He staggers past Marv, drops the grocery bag on the dining room table, and heads down the hall. "Can I open it?" Marv yells after him. "Yeah," Pierre says, then rethinks. "Actually, don't, please? Just wait a ..." He slams the bedroom door.
The room smells like him, thanks to dirty clothes. Piles. Sometimes he lets himself fantasize bottling that stink or putting it in an aerosol can or whatever. It would be sold with a videotape of him jerking off, finger fucking himself, etc. But tonight the smell's painfully reminiscent of something. What? He lands, sniffling, bouncing, on the unmade bed.
Marv knocks. "P.?" "Just wait, okay?" Pierre shouts. "Start dinner, watch TV, whatever. I'll be out in a minute." After ten, fifteen seconds he hears the TV switch on in the living room. News. Plane crash. Tons dead. When he's sure the volume's loud enough, the news sufficiently bad to distract Marv, he starts sobbing. His whole body jerks, jerks, jerks.
The man who'd paid to fuck him this evening was obviously sick, AIDS, but Pierre had agreed to play saint just so long as the man used a condom, which was probably safe. Still, the guy's eyes were so far away the whole hour, or each time Pierre thought to check, like it either meant nothing or everything to have total access to a sterling, unjudgmental face and ass.
He himself had felt ... what? Maybe little to zero, as usual. Nevertheless, the guy's fear or pain or whatever rubbed off, as they say. Or it made his own numbness depressing, baffling. When you think about being in bed with somebody, Pierre thinks, sick or not, you're either so far away you think in total cliches, or else you're so close things blur, or ... Fuck.
"Fuck off." He lies there and shakes, drips, squeaks. Occasionally he holds his breath, makes sure the TV's still on in the other room. After a while he reaches over, picks up the remote control unit, and turns on the TV in this room, leaving the volume down. News. An old picture of what's-her-name rimmed in a thin, black frame, which must mean she's finally dead.
Marv's probably out in the living room, totally upset, not that he cares all that much about what's-her-name. He's just more connected to life's ... whatever, ups, downs, whereas Pierre feels so little about anything, much less what's-hername's predictable death. He's too ... whatever, bored, hardened, worried to have an opinion one way or another.
"P.!" Marv's at the door. "What's-her-name's dead!" "Yeah, I know," Pierre says, cringing at how weak his fucking voice sounds. There's an intense little silence outside the door. "You ... okay?" Marv asks. The knob turns very slowly. Shit. Pierre throws an arm over his eyes as the light from the hall slants in. Next thing he knows a hand's stroking his curly hair.
"What's up?" Marv whispers. The mattress squeaks and drops a foot near Pierre's shoulder. He can smell Marv, meaning Levi's. Actually it's Tide detergent he smells, not dyed cotton. Still, he associates the smell with his lover for some reason. "Today. The client," Pierre says. "AIDS. It was obvious. And it's weirding me out." He raises the arm as proof.
Marv looks astonished by all the moisture under there. On TV, a drug bust. Rows of boxes of cocaine about to be burned. The idea makes Pierre tingle slightly. "You're cold," Marv whispers. He's eyeing Pierre's raised arm. "Maybe you're ill, like the flu," he adds, running a fingertip over the greenishwhite goosebumps. "No," Pierre barks, pulls away.
They sit, lie around there a few endless minutes. Marv gets up, walks through the room like he's hunting for something. The third time he passes the TV set, he spins the volume up, sits on the end of the bed. A father and son are hugging, blubbering, in a circle of cameras and microphones, after the
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