Prettyboy

27: X Will Never Compose, Y Will Never Commit

It was very difficult for me to do the day-to-day, commonplace, "How was your day?" That is what I mean by saying that Gerard made me want to change my notorious ways and habits. Even the night before, thinking about the possibility of him stepping into my apartment made me jittery, so much that I pressured myself into tidying around, something I didn't even do for Robert. It was surreal, the whole situation, when I finally wrapped my mind around the fact that he was standing in the middle of my living room. When he perched himself on my couch and sat back, relaxing his muscles. When the corners of his mouth quirked up, in my living room. He was right there, in front of me, smiling.

So, I said:

"How've you been?"

He grinned widely before replying. He was smiley that day; perhaps it was the sun, which had made an unusual whole appearance. "You're asking me how my day's been?" he frowned.

"I am," I discovered.

"Don't you know me at all?" the words came out immediately, the friendly tone in his voice an ostensible comparison to what he was meaning to say. Yes, I did indeed recall a time when he used to be absolutely repelled by the attempt of small talk, but I supposed things had changed. I thought him being close to me after such a long time would change the Earth's orbit around the sun. But then, he was failing to appreciate that it wasn't small talk I had been trying to make; I was genuinely interested in learning how his day had been, as if I had been there, by his side.

"I am seriously curious to know how your day's been—"

When I tried to point this out to him I was interrupted, as he'd gotten the gist.

"—I got a call this morning from a boy in San Francisco who disclosed to me his suicide plans because he cannot handle the situation at home," he blurted out, face expressionless. "So, that was that. I had to call several other people to do something about it. Because, naturally, you have to do something about it. Then, I headed out to go to my normal-paying job and this local priest who's been lately harassing my colleague, Craig, followed me about on my way to work, telling me why certain people deserve to go to Purgatory. He made a fool of himself at the subway, and a lady was kind enough to tell him to fuck off, so he did." He placed his hands on his lap, twisting his fingers painfully, a questionable juxtaposition to his resigned countenance. He went on, "Then, I went to work and waiting tables is always mundane, but I got off early because not a single soul wanted to lunch out today. Ain't that great? My day's been amazing so far."

"Well," I thought out loud, "I'm glad I asked."

He hummed. "I was trying to bore you. Remind me to write it all down in a diary next time and give it to you when you ask that question."

I stood up and went to sit beside him on the couch. My arm, despite myself, extended so that my hand reached out to touch his shoulder,, trying to come up with something to say but everything seemed trivial and not worth saying. I didn't think he wanted to hear it, either. In the end, we ended up breathing in and out invigoratingly in silence, as he leaned into my touch and relaxed his back on the couch. Everything about him, his face, his stance, divulged one fact; he needed a break.

"You look better today," he pointed out, eventually. I nodded, wondering if he knew why because I seemed to know why. He shifted in his seat so that he turned his body to face me. "I got scared for a second there."

"Why in the world?" I wondered. "I am okay. I've always been okay. Always will."

"It's like the time I left," he said, his hand coming up to cup the side of my face, "and I got the news that you got pneumonia. You and your psychosomatics."