In the Closet (boy x boy)

22. Michie's 24/7 Dinner

Monday, April 17th

I wake up to a harsh whamming sound. It startles me awake. My watch indicates six in the morning. Pain shoots through my back as I arise from where I was laying on the wooden desk. My body is sore and inevitably naked. There are still streaks of semen on my stomach and dripping from my thighs. And there's no Tavish in sight. Which means he has left and that the door isn't locked and that anybody could walk in. An array of feelings—despair, betrayal, hatred, spite, amongst others—wreck through me. He invited me, he had me and he just... left. Why didn't I expect this all along? Why did I ever think I'd wake up to him, his ethereal blue eyes and his stupidly attractive corset vest? Why did I think he would awake me gently and ask me how well I've slept and laugh with me about how stupid this is and scamper away with me like thieves? Why did I consider what would happiness taste like if I shared it with him? Why? Why! I curl up. My throat quakes with sobs. My tears run free down my cheeks. I can't keep up as I try to wipe them, conceal how weak I am. I stand and my legs wobble. With a flick, the lock turns in my fingers and I'm supposedly safe.

There's still distant noise outside, indicating some work is being done on the venue and I'm not welcome anymore. I need to leave as soon as I can. I gather my discarded clothes. I can't find the bow-tie, can't remember what direction Tavish has tossed it in without a care. Because he doesn't care. He never did and never will. My trousers are fairly clean but wrinkled from the whole night spent bunched up on the floor. My boxers' elastic band is a bit stretched from Tavish reaching in them, although it's not a real issue at the moment. My favorite button-up is ripped near the middle, some buttons missing. There's sharp pain in my gut as I survey the damage. I swallow back my feelings, lock them in the cage of my mind, and ready myself to escape this place, this situation.

I unlock the door and sneak out. The corridor is empty but from the noise—hammering and shuffling and chattering and walking—I know there's definitely people in the hosting area of the venue. I can only imagine how I look. Tousled hair, wrinkled and ripped clothes, freshly puffy eyes, tear-stained cheeks. The whole story tells itself before I can even open my mouth to argue, to defend what cannot be defended. I turn the final corner of the sinuous corridor. And then I trap my breath in my lungs and peek past the wall. Probably around 20 people work at remodeling the venue. Tables are shifted across the room, the expensive paintings are replaced by new expensive paintings and carefully settled in moving boxes.

It's a cycle, I realize. Rich people sharing the same riches, recycling them so they can feel like they're their own. I would have been amused if I wasn't in such a situation. I would have argued with myself that the animal kingdom is so much better, devoid of greed and whatever else. But I'm in a shit situation and in a shit position and I hate Tavish McCloud more than I have ever hated anybody. I walk as confidently as I can towards the exit doors. Some notice me, some stare, some just ignore me, some aren't paying attention to anything other than the nails they're hammering into the wall. Without anyone saying anything, I manage my way into the elevator and smash the button to close the doors, avoiding a potential elevator-sharing partner.

The elevator starts lowering. I inhale anxiety and exhale forceful serenity. I pick the corner of my mouth up into a smile. It's fine, I just need to call Barb and ask her to pick me up. I witness as my face blanches in the elevator's mirror. I still don't have my phone, I realize in horror. I can just use a payphone then. I groan in frustration. I don't have any money on me. And I don't know Barb's number by heart. I have it stored somewhere I was convinced I could never lose it; my phone (and a slip of paper stuck on the fridge as backup).

I walk forward, return the greeting the receptionist throws my way and enter the street. The city has awakened, long before the countryside would have. Usually, until 10 in the morning, only the farmers and their roosters are up. The trees sleep in, the sun allows them, the birds prepare themselves a brunch, the people remake the sleep that they've lost working in the city all week. Here, in the core of the metropole, streets fizz with life like a carbonated drink. And I'm the only flat, tap water from the countryside around here. I trek up the streets for a while, scrambling for a solution. I consider ordering a taxi and paying for it once I'm home but with the way I look, they might think I'll try to urge them into using some kind of "services".

I stare down at my wristwatch as it ticks. Nervously, I scratch my arm, riding up my sleeve. Then, I catch sight of Aqua's number on my arm and reassure myself with the fact that I do have a number to call. If I manage to get a phone to call said number, that is. I walk by a vintage restaurant, see an employee take orders on a phone. I don't regard the possibility much and just walk in.

"Hi, a table for one?" the hostess asks.

I cringe in advance. "No, uh, could I borrow your phone to call someone?"

She narrows her eyes at me. Then she opens her mouth wider than I thought possible and yells towards the kitchen. "MICHELINE!" Some nearby clients jump. She doesn't apologize. I apologize for her.

An old woman exits double swinging doors and waddles up to me.

"He needs to use the phone." Micheline nods and the wrinkly folds of her face wiggle. She looks like a proboscis monkey, only, her whole face is as jiggly as the monkey's nose. Her chin frowns at me as she looks me up and down.

"Five bucks a call," she declares after long consideration.

My mouth gapes.

"Madam, I don't have any money on me."

She shakes her head stubbornly. "Then no call."

"Please, I could come back to return the money. With interest if you want too."

Micheline doesn't even say anything anymore, pretends I don't exist. The hostess sighs and rolls her eyes like this isn't the first time around.

"She doesn't trust you nor does she want to argue," she explains. I try to put a word in but she keeps talking. "Now, shoo, get out of here," she says between air quotes with the least interest possible.

Micheline turns to leave. The hostess greets new people. I'm swimming in my own despair by now.

"But please! My phone was stolen!" That's not half-false. "I've been scammed!" That not half-true either.

Micheline turns slowly. "Okay, young man. What are you ready to sacrifice then ? A shoe or your watch?" she asks as if this made any sense whatsoever.

The hostess, fumbling for menus in her messy station, soundly groans. I should get the message and leave but I'm desperate.

"You give me something so I can know you're coming back. Simple, no?" Micheline tells me, hand extended, waiting to receive her hostage.

Reluctantly, I relinquish my watch. She smiles, snatches it and then slips behind the counter. As if I wasn't just stripped of the most precious item I had on me, she slides the comically red phone towards me. I look at her, pretend there isn't a chance of her selling my watch for more money. I punch the numbers in and call. With a couple rings, Aqua picks up.

"Hello?"

I gather myself, steady my voice. "Hi, it's Billy." I'm proud of how composed I am. Until I'm not anymore. "I'm alone in the city and I don't have my phone and I have no money and I don't know how to get home. Please, help me," I plead.

"Okay, Billy. Where are you exactly?"

I lick my dry lips. My mouth feels doughy.

"Michie's 24/7 Dinner," I read off a menu, then realize old, jiggly Micheline is the owner.

"I love that restaurant! Micheline is a sweetheart. At least, you're safe there."

I try not to grimace. Sweetheart? Depends with who.

"Well, I exchanged my watch for a call."

"What?" I let her question ring itself silent.

"Don't worry about it. How... how can I get out of here?" I ask, sheepish.

"I'll be there in 5, don't worry!"