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schmericaDan doesn't know what he's going to do next. When Duck asks, he has no answer for him right away, and they're both quiet, him thinking and Duck waiting.
"I don't know. I hadn't thought about it," Dan says. "Maybe I'll go back west." He shrugs.
"Where you were before, huh?" Duck says. He nods a little to himself, like that made sense. "I guess you were happier there." It's half a question, half not.
No, Dan thinks, but it was easier to hide. Instead of saying that, he just shrugs again.
*****
They had been trying for a baby when they moved. Val wanted a baby. Dan -- Dan wasn't so sure; he couldn't imagine the two of them with an infant. He couldn't imagine someone made of the two of them, growing up with them. He couldn't imagine being a father. But it was what Val wanted, she said, and Dan owed her that much at the very least.
They made love in the dark, and it was awkward and embarrassing. They hugged, cuddled on the couch, slept next to each other in their bed and kissed each other's cheek in the morning, but they hadn't -- they'd lived more like brother and sister than husband and wife, ever since the first few months they were married.
They tried for two months, and nothing happened. They didn't talk about it at all, but they didn't try any more after that. Dan guessed Val had just changed her mind. As it ended up, it was just as well; probably Val would have just hated him even more, cursed him to hell that much stronger, if she'd been pregnant when everything else happened.
*****
Dan's never smoked; he's never been with someone who did before now. It smells, and it stains, and he knows all the health warnings he's heard ad nauseum through the media. It's a disgusting habit.
After supper at Duck's house, they sit outside on the back porch, watching the late summer sunset. Dan sips iced tea and he watches Duck smoke, one cigarette after another, elegant like an old-fashioned movie star, exhaling smoke like a fire-breathing dragon, flicking the lighter back and forth between his long and nimble fingers.
*****
He goes grocery shopping with Duck. Duck has a list: milk, bread, eggs, ground beef, ice cream, paper towels. He stops at the head of every aisle and checks the list against the signs hanging down before he pushes the cart on. He checks the prices on each shelf, the tiny little print showing how much you're paying per ounce or liter or sheet of paper, picking the cheapest ones most of the time, and splurging when Dan doesn't expect it.
He sends Dan over to the produce section to pick up the potatoes and apples while he goes to the deli and the meat counter. Dan finds himself standing in front of the pineapples, frozen to the spot. He can't even look up, away from the yellow spikes, though he can see people out of his peripheral vision, can hear them talking, can-- can imagine them looking, whispering, thinking. He thinks he's going to start shaking a little, and he curls his hands into fists at his sides and stares down at the fruit, taking deep breaths, trying not to think at all--
There's a warm hand in the middle of his back, and Duck says, "Hey. You ready to go?"
Dan closes his eyes and swallows gratefully. "Yeah. Sorry--"
"No problem," Duck says. He takes his hand off Dan, but Dan can still feel the warmth of Duck's palm through the back of his shirt as he follows Duck to the line for the register.
*****
Duck listens to country music in his truck. It's loud, and Duck sings along, full volume. He's not very good. He's kind of lousy, in fact, but it doesn't really matter, because it's obvious he doesn't care. He's doing it to himself, and he's enjoying it just as much this way.
Dan doesn't sing along, but he's started to hum.
*****
Duck likes apple cider, and homemade pasta salad, and being barefoot, and holding hands, and the roughness of the stubble on Dan's face when he forgets to shave. He likes watching PBS and sports games, and he likes the smell of paint, and he likes the feeling of making something with his own hands, and he likes to stand and lean against the doorway of a room and watch Dan, completely silent for however long it takes until Dan finally turns to look at him, and then he likes to kiss Dan, pressing his lips against Dan's jaw and then closing his eyes and turning his head up blindly to him, for whatever Dan wants.
Dan likes cowboy movies. He likes waking up and knowing he's still alive, that he's still got his second chance. He likes the ocean breeze off the coast in the evenings. He likes teaching himself to go out into town, a little more every week, and not notice how people are reacting. He likes Duck -- the kindness of his smile, the strength of his arms and thighs, the sweetness of his kiss, the patience of everything he does.
He doesn't know what else he likes yet, but he has plenty of time to find out.
"I don't know. I hadn't thought about it," Dan says. "Maybe I'll go back west." He shrugs.
"Where you were before, huh?" Duck says. He nods a little to himself, like that made sense. "I guess you were happier there." It's half a question, half not.
No, Dan thinks, but it was easier to hide. Instead of saying that, he just shrugs again.
*****
They had been trying for a baby when they moved. Val wanted a baby. Dan -- Dan wasn't so sure; he couldn't imagine the two of them with an infant. He couldn't imagine someone made of the two of them, growing up with them. He couldn't imagine being a father. But it was what Val wanted, she said, and Dan owed her that much at the very least.
They made love in the dark, and it was awkward and embarrassing. They hugged, cuddled on the couch, slept next to each other in their bed and kissed each other's cheek in the morning, but they hadn't -- they'd lived more like brother and sister than husband and wife, ever since the first few months they were married.
They tried for two months, and nothing happened. They didn't talk about it at all, but they didn't try any more after that. Dan guessed Val had just changed her mind. As it ended up, it was just as well; probably Val would have just hated him even more, cursed him to hell that much stronger, if she'd been pregnant when everything else happened.
*****
Dan's never smoked; he's never been with someone who did before now. It smells, and it stains, and he knows all the health warnings he's heard ad nauseum through the media. It's a disgusting habit.
After supper at Duck's house, they sit outside on the back porch, watching the late summer sunset. Dan sips iced tea and he watches Duck smoke, one cigarette after another, elegant like an old-fashioned movie star, exhaling smoke like a fire-breathing dragon, flicking the lighter back and forth between his long and nimble fingers.
*****
He goes grocery shopping with Duck. Duck has a list: milk, bread, eggs, ground beef, ice cream, paper towels. He stops at the head of every aisle and checks the list against the signs hanging down before he pushes the cart on. He checks the prices on each shelf, the tiny little print showing how much you're paying per ounce or liter or sheet of paper, picking the cheapest ones most of the time, and splurging when Dan doesn't expect it.
He sends Dan over to the produce section to pick up the potatoes and apples while he goes to the deli and the meat counter. Dan finds himself standing in front of the pineapples, frozen to the spot. He can't even look up, away from the yellow spikes, though he can see people out of his peripheral vision, can hear them talking, can-- can imagine them looking, whispering, thinking. He thinks he's going to start shaking a little, and he curls his hands into fists at his sides and stares down at the fruit, taking deep breaths, trying not to think at all--
There's a warm hand in the middle of his back, and Duck says, "Hey. You ready to go?"
Dan closes his eyes and swallows gratefully. "Yeah. Sorry--"
"No problem," Duck says. He takes his hand off Dan, but Dan can still feel the warmth of Duck's palm through the back of his shirt as he follows Duck to the line for the register.
*****
Duck listens to country music in his truck. It's loud, and Duck sings along, full volume. He's not very good. He's kind of lousy, in fact, but it doesn't really matter, because it's obvious he doesn't care. He's doing it to himself, and he's enjoying it just as much this way.
Dan doesn't sing along, but he's started to hum.
*****
Duck likes apple cider, and homemade pasta salad, and being barefoot, and holding hands, and the roughness of the stubble on Dan's face when he forgets to shave. He likes watching PBS and sports games, and he likes the smell of paint, and he likes the feeling of making something with his own hands, and he likes to stand and lean against the doorway of a room and watch Dan, completely silent for however long it takes until Dan finally turns to look at him, and then he likes to kiss Dan, pressing his lips against Dan's jaw and then closing his eyes and turning his head up blindly to him, for whatever Dan wants.
Dan likes cowboy movies. He likes waking up and knowing he's still alive, that he's still got his second chance. He likes the ocean breeze off the coast in the evenings. He likes teaching himself to go out into town, a little more every week, and not notice how people are reacting. He likes Duck -- the kindness of his smile, the strength of his arms and thighs, the sweetness of his kiss, the patience of everything he does.
He doesn't know what else he likes yet, but he has plenty of time to find out.
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29/1/06 01:52 (UTC)Thanks!
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29/1/06 02:48 (UTC)