another autumn
The leaves are falling again. Crunching under his feet as he walks home. The lower half of his body is in agony, but there’s two benjamins in his pocket so he can deal with the pain. Photography doesn’t pay well enough, he thinks. He shouldn’t have quit work at the bakery. Ah well. That’s in the past. No use getting preoccupied. It’s three in the morning and he’s so tired. He works an eleven hour day and then does… Things at night, so he’s constantly tired. He realises he forgot to go shopping this week and sighs. He’s rubbish at remembering stuff like that. He’ll have nothing to eat when he gets home, and he hasn’t eaten all day. Ah well. It’s probably for the best. He can’t get fat.
He gets to his building. Tries to run up the four flights of stairs to his apartment, but has to walk after a few steps. Opens the door. There’s a tupperware box on his kitchen table with a note on it. It reads: ‘you need to go shopping more… here’s this to tide you over! get some sleep! love you lots from dee xxxx’ He smiles weakly and opens the box. It’s kita fitfit, so Charlotte must’ve given Delia her nonna’s recipe book. He sits down, says shehakol and eats. It’s fucking delicious, spicy and warming and wonderful. He makes a note to thank Delia profusely when he sees her, which will almost definitely be tomorrow, stretches goes to his room, strips off, pulls on a second hand dress shirt a million sizes too big for him and gets into bed. He lays, staring at the ceiling. Hurting. It’ll pass. He needs to sleep or he won’t be able to work tomorrow, so he drinks a third of a bottle of NyQuil and passes out.
He wakes up at eleven the next day and nearly punches himself in the head when he sees the time. Considers his options. Gets up, calls in sick and gets back into bed. He never misses work, so getting off is easy. He justifies himself because hey, he’s still hurting down there.
At midnight he gets a call. He stumbles over to the landline and picks up. A voice which brings his heart into his mouth echos down the line. A voice which makes him feel burning and freezing at the same time. Marvin’s voice. Whizzer feels like he’s high. Or crazy. Or both. Marvin is asking if Whizzer wants to come over, and like a stupid docile little puppy Whizzer says yes. Of course he says yes. Because when Marvin says jump Whizzer will always say how high. Marvin tells him the address and Whizzer’s there in half an hour because… Why? Because Whizzer feels amazing around Marvin. When Marvin opens the door to his huge ass house Whizzer feels the hairs on his arms prickle up and his heart race. Marvin grins, that same stupid awkward smile Whizzer fucking loves, and pulls Whizzer inside. Kisses him as soon as the door closes. Cups his face and tells him he’s missed him. Whizzer says he’s missed Marvin, too. Marvin kisses him again and he’s laughing a little as he does. It’s the most alive Whizzer’s felt in a while.
They fuck on the couch like teenagers, Marvin mumbling the most awful (amazing) stuff in Whizzer’s ear and Whizzer grinning the whole time. After that they watch tv and it’s like nothing ever happened. Whizzer’s laying on Marvin’s chest, tranquil and smiling softly. Marvin’s not wearing his wedding ring. Whizzer asks what this house even is. Marvin tells him it’s the house he shared with his wife. Who he has divorced. And his child. Who is eight. Whizzer can barely process it. Marvin asks if Whizzer maybe wants to stay at the house for a while and, like a stupid docile little puppy, Whizzer says yes.