One Thousand Words of Pride

Thoughts on Dating a Perfectionist

There's a large black poster hanging above Shaun's desk, stretching from a few inches above his computer screen all the way to the ceiling. Centered around a bright, pink triangle, it seems to dominate this side of the room. A line of white capital letters beneath the triangle boldly asserts that SILENCE = DEATH.

It was disconcerting the first time I came in here two weeks ago, and learning what it meant made matters even more unnerving. On the other hand, Shaun was visibly surprised when I told him I had never seen a poster like this one before. Or that I didn't know what it meant.

That was about a month after he learned that I, like him, was gay. And about a week after we started doing what we later decided to simply label dating. Its intensity went back and forth a lot, from just talking, to full-on making out, to even more than that at times.

He's officially my boyfriend now. My first ever, and at seventeen no less. I have no idea whether that makes me a late bloomer, early bird, or neither. Not that it matters, probably.

"What, you've never heard of it?" he wondered when I first asked him about it. "You have to know your history, Toby. Even if it's just to honor all the people who died back in the eighties."

Honor them all openly and appropriately. It was easy for him to say. Shaun had been out for over a year at this point, and he was never afraid to show it. This summer during pride month, he went as far as to wear a rainbow-colored heart necklace and nail polish every single day. It's mind-blowing in retrospect. I don't think I could ever do that.

"Someone's daydreaming."

Blinking, I find myself sitting next to him on his bed.

He looked up from his phone a moment ago, and I didn't even notice. That's right. He only wanted to respond to a text real quick. Still, I kind of drifted off. I do that sometimes.

He's smiling at me, and I return it despite my confusion. What were we talking about again?

"I...sorry," I say. "Mind's wandering off again."

"I can see that. Off to where?"

"This and that," I muse. "Trying to remember everything you told me about your poster."

"Huh." He gives me a peck on the cheek. "You know it'll be thirty years since Keith Haring died this Sunday."

"Who?"

"A gay artist, back in those times. He didn't design that poster, I think. But he was still big for the movement. Died from AIDS, too. Believe it or not."

"Yeah, that's not really something I like to think about."

"No-one does."

I look down. He's wearing orange nail polish today, and I wonder if it's got something to do with that artist of his. Probably not. Either way, one or the other kid went on teasing him about it almost all the way home from school. None of it bothered him. I don't know how he does it.

I lean back, lying down on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

"I wonder what I would do in his situation."

"What, being an artist?"

"No, I mean, if I got told I had, like, a year left to live. I have no idea what I'd do with the time. Probably nothing, cause I'm a teenage deadbeat without money or anything."

"Yeah, so what?" he groans, lying down next to me. "It's not like it would matter in the end. Other people would travel the world, try and fail to write a book, try to find themselves, that kind of junk. They'll still die in the end, no wiser than you."

This would be the point where I could go on about some kind of potential afterlife, but I know Shaun doesn't believe in that. And even if he did, he already told me most religions and their gods would want us in hell anyway, so what's the point?

I'm not sure. I've never been very religious, myself.

"Maybe you just worry too much," he mumbles, holding my hand. I try no to flinch at the physical contact, but I still can't prevent a frown from appearing on my face.

"Of course I worry," I say. "It's another year and a half until I finish high school. Then what?"

"You'll figure it out."

"What if I won't?"

"What if you get sick, and you won't even have that long to live?" he wonders. "Then you'll spend the rest of your existence in high school, wondering what might have been."

"Afraid to paint my nails," I say. He squeezes my hand as I do. "I was being serious though."

"When you talked about dying next year, or about not knowing what to do with the rest of your life after that?"

"Both."

"I'm just saying, don't worry about it."

"Easy for you to say," I muse. "You never worry about anything."

He rolls onto his side, leaning over me.

"You think I never worry."

"That's what I'm saying."

"Then how come I never evade your personal questions with some lighter conversation whenever you ask them?" he asks. I'm dumbstruck for a moment, trying to figure out what he's trying to say.

"Anyway," he adds. "Wanna watch a movie or something?"

"I..." My eyes narrow. "Oh, I see what you did there. And yeah, sure. I can't wait to see Paris is Burning for the millionth time."

It would be the forth time, to be fair. Still, he was really insistent on having me see it from every angle, or whatever he calls it. So I can understand his process, apparently.

"Maybe not," he says, and I'm honestly relieved. He quickly kisses me, then gets up and walks to the other side of the room. "I'll try and pick something you'll like this time."

I sit up, reluctantly.

"Don't get sick on your way there."

"That's the plan."