LOVER'S DEGREE (A short story) boyxboy

Chapter 2:

I was getting ready to go home, clearing my desk of the day's clutter. As I picked up the think manila folder containing the applicant's files, something fell to the floor. I bent to retrieve it and saw that it was his picture, framed in silver. It was taken in Tagaytay a year ago. He was smiling as he sat on the grass after trying, and failing, to mount the horse three times. His fleshy legs were splayed, muscles bulging in his jeans. His eyes turned into narrow slits because of that smile. I used to tease him about his eyes that disappear whenever he smiled. His eyes were almond-shaped, the pupils brownish gray.

Memories of that day came to me. It was three weeks after our second anniversary and it was the only time we found to go out and celebrate. We spent the weekend thinking of nothing else but the two of us. We were both very happy. Not only for the fact that we lasted that long but also because after that, we would move to the house that we both saved up of. We were leacing the cramped apartment in Malate for the quiet suburbs of Roxas District. He was attentive to my needs as I was to him; we didn't fight, we were just basically being what we were; Lovers.

Lovers. That was always how he introduced me to his friends, even his clients. This is my lover, he would say. No qualms, no hesitation. His family had known about us from the beginning of our relationship. He had been independent since he was eighteen and when I moved in with him, no one was more prudish than I was. I admit that his conviction, his confidence in our relationship is something that I didn't have/ I loved him, yes, but I didn't have the guts to flaunt him that was he sometimes did me. 

I was never proud of him. He didn't move well within my circle of friends. At one point, he even dismissed our intellectual dissections as mere snobbery. They alienated people like him who didn't share my need to pick someone else's brains one in a while. I know, too that my friends didn't like him. You're so different from him, one would say. He's rather dense, another would add. But my friends and I didn't influence one another. We made mistakes and learned from them pretty much on our own. We consoled each other, gave support but when it came to decisions, we didn't impose our will on each other.

While driving home, I thought that we were unlike as any two lovers could be. I preferred dark-colored suits while he wore his gym attire just about anywhere. He could never understand any of Tori Amos' songs. He ate a lot of meat; I liked fish better. I drank liters of coffee, which he abhorred. I smoked, he didn't; he drank and I didn't.

I noticed the billboard of Meryl Streep's movie again and beside it an ad for another Jet Lee movie. I knew if he saw that Ad, he would drag me to see it with him. The first time, I promised him I would just sleep, as he did when we watched the movies that I liked. But I didn't fall asleep. I didn't like the movie but I could only sleep in total darkness.

He couldn't, by the way. He needs to see at least one light turned on to be able to sleep. I always had to wait for him to fall asleep so I could turn off the light. I used to like watching him sleep, even though he snored. Sometimes he would do so in my arms and I would just look at him.

Am I going to miss him when we part? I thought so. To my dismay, I thought he had grown on me. Three years of living together, being with the same person could do that to anyone, I guessed.

As the car turned into the driveway I rehearsed my parting speech so that I'd be ready by the time he arrived at eight o'clock. When I got out of my car, I saw that the lights in the house were on. He had forgotten to turn them off again! I got in quickly and smelled something. I went straight into the kitchen and saw a simmering wok-full of fish escabeche , the only dish he knew how to cook. Rice was alraedy cooked, too. But he was nowhere. I called him. No response. I turned off the gas stove before the sauce dried and went up to our room.

While removing my shoes before going in, I noticed his sneakers lying by the bathroom door. Shaking my head, I put them beside mine and went inside the room. I changed into my shorts and a white shirt. He wasn't in bed. In the bathroom maybe. I knocked and called out his name. I heard a groan. I pushed the door but it wouldn't open all the way. I saw his legs, clad in gray flannel shorts, blocking the door.

I squeezed in, sweat running on the side of my face. He lay on his side by the toilet bowl, barely lifting his head upon my entrance. I checked his head for any injuries. There was none. But he was burning hot. His shirt hung by the mirror. I took it and tried to put it on him. He told me he got dizzy as he was washing his face. "You have a fever"., He nodded.

I helped him up, even though he outweighed me by almost thirty pounds, and got him to bed.  I went back to the bathroom to get thermometer and put it in his mouth.

He was saying something, but with the instrument, I couldn't understand it. I took it out, then read. Forty degrees Centigrade. How wsa he able to cook with this temperature?

"Dinner's ready, " He finally managed to say.

"Yes, I saw it.", I smiled. "Looks good."

"Only dish I know."

"And my favorite."

He smiled, so heartbreakingly sweet, and started to say something else but I hushed him, telling him to rest, asking him what he wanted. He clung to me tightly. The heat from his fever came up in waves I could almost see. His breath was  hotter on the side of my neck and it sounded pained, labored.

"I love you.", 

The words nearly choked me, "I know..."

I let go and touched his forehead, brushing the locks of hair that stuck to his forehead. It felt hot and dry. He opened his eyes slightly and whispered that my touch felt good. I asked him if he wanted to eat and he said his throat was sore.

"Let's go to Dr. Alejandro, then".

" Prescription's in the bag."

I went to his bag and took it. He had purchased his own medicines. Tablets for the fever, capsules for the sore throat. An aspirator for his sporadic ashthma attacks was also in the bag. How long had he been feeling this way? Since last night. when I ignored him? Had he been sick when I spoke coldly to him before I went to lunch?

I went downstairs and filled a glass with water. I returned to the room and gave him the medicines according to the prescription. I covered him with his favorite blanket, turnes the lamp on then left the room.

I went back to the kitchen to tidy up. When I saw the food, I realized I was very hungry.

One-fifty, the clock boldy declared. Ten minutes before the next dose of medicines. I had closed the book I was reading and looked at his sleeping figure. I changed his shirt an hour ago when it got soaked with sweat. He was lying on his back, his mouth half-open. His snores, worsened by his asthma, punctured the silence.

The sight was the same as this morning, but now all I could feel was love. I don't know why. For all his idiosyncrasies, for all his qualities I didn't like, I couldn't  seem to hate him. When I saw him lying on the bathroom floor, feverish, when he held me tightly, his breath searing my neck, I knew right then and there that I really loved him.

Maybe he has grown on me. Maybe I'm stupid, too, for feeling this way. Or maybe I shouldn't care and just concentrate on loving him the way he loved me, even though he didn't please me all the time.

He kicked the covers off the bed again. I covered his chest then kissed his forehead. I prepared his next dose of medicines as he opened his eyes, softly asking for the time.

_ END_

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