All I Never Wanted

Part One, Chapter Five- A Beginning and Bacon

Dion and I hold hands on the bus home. Peoples' glances slide over us and for once I don’t tread the possibility that they’ll stop, trip over something they can’t put their finger on. Dion’s thumb traces mine, smoothing out the shredded cuticles. He circles the knoll of my knuckle, running his nail through the creases on my fingers. He stares out the window, a small smile playing on his lips. A small curl of hair has come loose and my hand itches to tuck it back in place, but I stop. I like watching him, unchecked, unaware. He watches the roads to home, bronzed streetlight washing over him and receding like a tide. I can feel my eyelids starting to grow heavy again, like small fishing sinkers are tied to my eyelashes. They drag my eyelids down until fighting for vision is fruitless. Until I can no longer see the stark fluorescent white of the bus, the sharp graffiti, only feel Dion’s forefinger stroking the length of mine.

We get off the bus at my apartment. I wanted more than anything to get off the bus early, direct him to his stop and walk alone, where he couldn’t see me and so he didn’t have to know where I live. But in the last few minutes, its begun to rain with the force of someone spilling a long kept secret, unchecked and inconsiderate of anything else around it. Neither of us have an umbrella so we both grit out teeth, thank the driver and dive off the bus, curling into one another. We’re right outside my apartment and it’s so cold and miserable outside that for once it actually seems like a decent option.

“Wow, bloody hell, this came down fast didn’t it?” Dion says, squinting up at the sky against the torrential downpour. It’s the kind of rain that if you are caught in, there’s no point in trying to find shelter; you’re soaked through in seconds.

“Sure did,” I say. I want to continue, but my teeth have started chattering as the cold has pushed through to lick my veins. Dion puts his arm around me and pulls me close so I can siphon the wet warmth that radiates through his shirt. I’m not expecting him to kiss me when he does. It’s messy, I’m caught unawares. There’s rain in our mouths and noses and its freezing, but not where our lips touch. It might just be the warmest spot in the whole city tonight. I don’t want to, but I’m suddenly scared of what might happen if I let him go home. I don’t want to say it, but I’m unsure that to stop looking at him is the right thing to do. So I do it, I invite Dion in.                             

  “You wanna come in?” We walk up the stairs to my flat and nobody mentions how Dion is going to get home tonight, because we both know he isn’t.

The last person had been Rush. And so, this is the part that I’ve always been worried about. The idea of anyone touching me like that ever again was so abhorrent. Dion’s different. He touches not only my body, but my home. I leave the flat to get to the light, and Dion walked through the door and bought his own light with him. As soon as he walked in, it felt like a breeze, something new. Something as good and sweet as him is new to this place. Nevertheless, I try to galvanise myself against the shame, try not to look too hard for underlying thoughts that are surely there in his face. The surprise that is Dion continues, because as he looks around my tiny, dirty flat which I hadn’t bothered to clean this week, I see nothing at all, just observation.

“It smells like you,” he says, quietly. “Thank you for inviting me in.” I smile, even though this strikes me as odd – I would call being invited into this flat a courtesy.                                                                                                  

“It’s no problem; do you want anything to drink?”                                 

“I think I might sit down for a bit, actually. I’m stuffed.”