Mikey and the Chickadee

Chapter 7 - Part 2

As we finally grew weary of examining possible destinations, looking up hostels and various fares, and the general collective imaginings of sights, smells, sounds and tastes we were destined to behold, Marie turned to me. "Wyatt, tell me about your lover."

Although I had not downed enough beer to achieve any substantive level of insobriety, I felt very relaxed and frankly a little drunk. "Calling him my lover implies that we have made love, which we have not," I said.

"Well," said Sloan, "what exactly have you done?"

"We have ejaculated in each other's presence. Twice."

Marie knocked over her glass, which was thankfully—if not surprisingly—empty. "Shut the fuck up. And this happened when?"

"Over the past week. We've been spending a lot of time together."

"What will happen to you guys if you move away?"

"No idea," I said. "I haven't spent much time thinking about that. Really though, he says he's just into sexual stuff with guys. He doesn't seem to have romantic feelings toward me like he does with girls. So I'm not worried that he'll get attached."

Sloan rotated his glass on its base. "This guy respects you, right? I mean, does he want to hang out for more than just getting into your pants?"

"I really think so," I said. "He's been really genuine. Plus we hang out for a long time after. It can't be just about sex."

"That is incredibly sweet," Marie said.

"I don't know," said Sloan. "Sexual attraction is a big fucking deal. Without it, people have big problems. But if it's a mutual thing..." he paused. "I don't know. It's just this idea of the person who likes getting physical with the same sex, but nothing else. I don't buy it. I don't think it's that simple. If it's there, then so is the potential for real feelings."

"Sloan," said Marie, "not everything has to be read into. If they just want to have fun, then who cares?"

"Of course," said Sloan. "Sorry, I didn't mean it that way. I just don't think some people can recognize how they feel, or they shut it out, or whatever, and they end up sending the wrong message. Then other people get misled."

"I know what you're saying," I said. "It's okay. I won't be hurt."

"Okay," said Sloan, grinning. "Maybe that was my point. I feel better."

"Did you text him back?" asked Marie.

"Oh, fuck. No I didn't."

"Give me the phone," said Marie, prompting me to cling guardedly to it.

"No. Text your own lover."

"Yeah, shit," she said, "excuse me while I decide which one."

"I am going to die right here if we don't go dancing soon," said Sloan.

I stared off at the far wall of the pub, thumbs at the ready. "Great picture," I texted. "Hope you're having a safe trip. Looking forward to seeing you when you get back."

A confounding warmth nested in the night air outside. City lights still glowed intensely, filling the space between street surfaces and an omnipresent layer of cloud hanging low in the sky. The weeknight crowd diminished moderately when measured against the clotted veins of a typical Saturday night. Still the route to Sloan's and Marie's preferred nightclub led through near-impregnable segments of sidewalk, where shouting and laughter resounded from glass and brick facades and evaporated into the emptiness above.

Along the way I looked upon Sloan admiringly because of his protective instinct for his friends, as couched as it was vehement. He understood the nature of particular people who behaved recklessly with regard to the feelings of others. He had become seasoned as the unwitting target of this kind of behavior, and he knew tragically well the way it felt to be the focus of another's cruelty. These experiences echoed back from his surface not as anger or projections of his victimhood, but as unadulterated concern for anyone who might be hurt. I felt strong and looked well after myself, but his words concerning Mikey back at the pub had not escaped me.

A couple of hours and no fewer than four shots later my experience had become distorted, although I felt distinctly happy and utterly unburdened. Initially I had worried that the order and sheer quantity of my drinks would make me sick, but the fear eventually left me. Sloan had located an acquaintance at some point, who clung devotedly to him now. They occasionally snuck off to make out in a darker corner of the club. Marie and I would dance mostly together in gradually increasing levels of suggestiveness until we broke out into laugh-ter and started the cycle over again. And all the while the stark presence of strangers in the club, mounting steadily in spite of the five-dollar cover on a Thursday night, devolved for me into a nonspecific entity, the individuals of which becoming all but indistinguishable. I grew tired, but in an isolated, forgettable sense that wasn't truly felt until Marie brought up wanting to leave. By then it was well past one o'clock.

I retrieved my backpack from coat check and paid off my tab. Sloan bade farewell to his companion. We staggered together and giggled our way out to the street, where we began walking to the nearest station.

Marie had a fair amount of trouble walking normally, so she linked arms between us. "You're both my favorite," she mumbled. "Wyatt. I need something to fantasize about. Tell me more about your man, please."

I attempted to gather a few thoughts together, scattered about the floor of my mostly euphoric and unfocused mind. "He's tall," I said. "He has the best body you've ever seen."

"Mhmm," said Marie.

"He's the kindest person. And one time he even touched my face when he thought I was sleeping."

"Don't make me cry," said Marie, limping along. "I will cry forever if you tell me things like that."

"Sorry," I said.

Sloan laughed in a way that was felt more than heard. I glanced over Marie's head at him and he looked back at me with an expression that reminded me to keep my feelings in check, or otherwise accept what may come.