TRADING SPACES

Part 13: For Your Eyes Only  


 

Brian

Christ. Christ. After reading all the papers, all the fucking fine print, I shuffle the sheets together into a neat stack, add a paper clip, fold them precisely in half, edge perfectly meeting edge, then I lean sideways in my chair and shove them deep into the bottom of my wastepaper basket.

As I sit upright again, I see Ginger sticking her head around my office door, saying "knock-knock." I hate people who say "knock-knock." Why can't they just fucking knock?

"Yes?"

"I know you said no interruptions, but Mr. Taylor's on line one and you usually take his calls, don’t you?"

Mr. Taylor.

With an acknowledging nod, I reach for the phone and, once Ginger retreats from the doorway, I take a deep breath and punch the button for line one. "Hey."

"Hey, am I bothering you?"

"You're always bothering me. What's up?"

"Brian, can you pick me up tonight? If you need to work late I can catch the bus."

"Mr. Wonderful standing you up?"

"My boss is out of town. The bus is fine, I just thought, in case you're not working late. . ."

"Okay," I acquiesce, "I'll come get you. Five-thirty okay?" I've got a four o'clock meeting near Burbank, it's no big deal to swing by Simpson Studios.

"Sure. Um, Brian, did you remember to get those papers from personnel?"

"What papers?" I lean sideways and glance under my desk at the wastepaper basket.

"Duh?"

"Oh, those papers. If I have time I'll take a walk down to personnel later today." When he says nothing, I add offhandedly, "It's not like there's any fucking hurry."

"No," he agrees, "But you told me there's like a thirty-day waiting period before medical benefits kick in. Right?"

"Are you planning to fall down and break your leg any time soon?"

Justin says nothing for a moment, then I hear him sigh. "Okay, well, whatever. See you later."

"Later." I hang up and sit unmoving for a moment, one hand still on the phone. Then I shake my head, lean over sideways and dig through the debris in my wastepaper basket. The papers are on the bottom, only slightly scrunched; I smooth them out on my desk top and then shove them into my briefcase and snap it closed.



Justin

"Did you read these?" I look up at Brian and he nods casually.

"Yep."

We're at the table in our tiny dining alcove, dinner's over and we're savoring the last drops of wine in our glasses. After taking his dishes to the sink, Brian made a detour through the living room, stopping at his desk to open his briefcase. When he came back he dropped a sheaf of papers on the table in front of me. Bradford and Slate's Application for Domestic Partnership Benefits.

"It says we also have to register with the State of California."

"I guess." Brian sits back down again. He takes a swig of wine and looks at me over the rim of the glass.

I glance through the papers again. Besides the agency's documents, there's a form called California Declaration of Domestic Partnership. "Brian - this is like - like, a marriage license."

"No it's not."

"The state has a registry - they keep track of us. 'Same-sex committed partners registration.’ We both have to sign the form and have it notarized, and then if we separate, we have to notify them - we have to legally terminate the relationship. And this form says we'll get an official State of California certificate to commemorate our commitment. 'Suitable for framing,' it says."

"Isn't that touching?"

"Don’t belittle it, Brian. Just don't, okay?"

"Belittle what?" He sets down his wine glass and gets quickly to his feet. He fixes me with a hard stare and says firmly, "Justin, there's nothing to belittle. This is all just a formality, it's a process I agreed to so that you can get medical benefits. That's all it is - don't try to turn it into something else."

"Brian, you said I'd be your spouse. You said it."

"That was a joke. I didn't know. . ."

When his voice trails off and he leans back against the wall, crossing his arms and staring off over my head, I'm forced to ask, "You didn't know what?"

"I didn't know you'd take it all so seriously," he says at last, looking back at me and raising his eyebrows.

I stand up too and return his serious look, and raise my own eyebrows in conscious imitation. "Bradford and Slate take it seriously," I point out, lifting the agency's form and dropping it back on the table. Then I pick up the state form and wave it at him. "California takes it seriously."

He says nothing, just shrugs his shoulders. We stand staring at each other for a few moments, it's a face-off. Then I pick up our empty glasses and turn for the kitchen. "Okay," I say over my shoulder, "Let's just forget it."

He follows me into the kitchen and leans against the counter as I rinse our glasses in the sink. "I didn't say forget about it," he says reasonably. "I just said, let's not make a big deal about it."

Setting the glasses on the counter, I turn and lean against the refrigerator. "Define 'make a big deal.'"

He frowns. "No fucking 'commitment ceremony,'" he mocks. "We just sign the papers and pay the fee and be done with it. No fucking 'certificate suitable for framing.'"

"It's just a business arrangement then. Nothing else. Right?"

Brian stares back at me. He's wearing that 'don't back me into a corner' look. I know him all right. Nobody knows him better than me.

I expect him to say yes. I expect him to be fucking high-handed and say yeah, it's just a fucking business arrangement. But he surprises me, Brian surprises me.

Reaching out his hand, Brian runs a finger down my shoulder and my arm. With a tiny half-smile he murmurs, "We'll know it's more than that. You and me."
I'm moved, but not all that much. Not as much as I would have been six months ago. "So," I conclude, "It'll be our little secret?"

At first Brian doesn't answer, he looks surprised. Then he shrugs. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing." I give up. "It's fine. I'll sign the papers." I move back to the dining room, sit down at the table and pick up the documents again.

Brian sits down too. "You can't just sign, we have to go to a notary. I'll check the phone book, or better yet, the internet. There's probably a million of 'em in LA."

"I'll do it," I offer, "I didn't bring any work home tonight and class was cancelled. I have time."

"Okay." Brian sits there a moment longer, then I hear him sigh and he gets up, goes into the living room, logs onto his computer.



Brian

I know that I'm being just about as contrary as a man can be. But recognizing that doesn't mean I can change it.

Well, of course I can change it, I can do anything I want. I just don't want to, I don't fucking want to.

Commitment. Christ, I fucking hate that word.

I was surprised one day a couple weeks ago when I was having lunch with Matt Bradford - an unusual occurrence, normally I skip lunch unless a client is involved, and Matt has a club where he eats and relaxes with friends most days (according to Ginger who got the information from Matt's assistant and passed it on to me).

We were to have had a luncheon meeting at Al Dente's that day but the client cancelled at the last minute and Matt said to me, what the hell, let's go eat. Al Dente's is an attractive Italian restaurant not far from the office, their scampi is excellent and I made a mental note to bring Justin there for dinner soon, he loves Italian food. We were halfway through our salads, talking desultorily about recent changes in the design team makeup, when Matt speared a tomato with his fork and waved it at me. "How's your young friend?" he asked, "Your partner, I mean."

Matt shoved the tomato into his mouth and while he was chewing, I said, "Fine, thanks. By the way, Jack Hoskins will have proofs of the Callahan presentation to show you this afternoon."

"Mmm-hmm." Matt wiped his mouth with his napkin and continued, "I'm sorry, I've forgotten his name - Jason, wasn't it?"

"Justin."

"He is your partner, right?"

"Yes," I answered, suddenly wary.

"Been together a long time, have you?"

Matt's curiosity caught me unawares, why was he suddenly interested in Justin? He'd met him only once, at the Jackenzie dinner, and he'd never asked about him after that. I remember that I'd been expecting repercussions after my coming-out at the dinner party - what repercussions I didn't know - but nothing had been said, at least to my face, since that night a couple months ago.

"We've been together a while," I answer finally, taking a sip of wine and casually glancing around the room, wondering what the fuck brought this on?

"It just occurred to me the other day," Matt said, answering my unvoiced question, "That you've been at the agency almost three months now and that'll make you eligible for medical benefits soon. I wasn't sure if personnel explained all that to you when you started."

"Explained what?"

"Our board of directors instituted domestic partners benefits a few years ago, in line with the state policy. I think California's one of just a handful of states that does that, right? Did you have it in Pennsylvania?"

"No." I wasn't sure but it seemed highly unlikely.

"Did they explain it? Our personnel office staff."

"No. Well," I hedged, "They said they'd notify me when it was time to sign up for insurance, I know there's several providers to choose from – Kaiser, Blue Cross. I didn't pay much attention at the time but I knew it was coming up soon."

"I'll have a word with Steve Gareth, the director of personnel," Matt concluded, then leaned back and smiled at the waitress as she delivered steaming plates to our table. "It's important that all our employees are made aware of the benefits package at Bradford and Slate. Ahh, yes thank you," that was for the waitress brandishing a cheese grater. She sprinkled cheese on top of Matt's spaghetti al forno and departed. "'Equal opportunity' isn't equal if folks don't know about it."

"You mean my - Justin - will get medical insurance too?" This was a surprise to me, a fucking welcome surprise. Without insurance, even a minor accident could become a major catastrophe. Justin's more-than-part-time-but-less-than-full-time job at Simpson's provides no medical insurance.

"Yes, yes, full benefits," Matt confirmed, winding his fork around an impossibly large wad of spaghetti. "Be sure you get those forms filled out. Mmm, this pasta is fantastic. How's yours?"

"Fantastic," I agreed, forking a perfect curly shrimp into my mouth, smiling at the delicious piquant taste of the shrimp, and smiling at the amazingly fabulous news that soon Justin would be able to get medical care if he needed it, without wiping out the little financial security we have right now.

What I didn't realize until I'd picked up the paperwork in personnel and brought it back to my office to peruse, was that in order for Justin to be eligible for benefits, our partnership has to be formalized; we have to register with the State of California. We have to sign papers confirming that we are in a committed relationship. And I knew exactly what would happen when Justin wrapped his tenacious little brain around that information.

And I was right. I took no pleasure in being proved right, instead I was thrown on the defensive first by Justin's joyous reaction to the necessity of registering our partnership, and then by his gritted-teeth concession to my demand that we keep it all secret. I didn't say 'secret,' Justin did; but I realize that that's exactly what I want to keep it. Secret, silent, a for-your-eyes-only type of thing.

I want to be committed to Justin, well I am committed. More or less. And he's committed to me. The only difference is, he wants to celebrate it. And I don't. I just fucking do not.

Why?

If I were a man who talks to himself, I’d probably be asking, what the fuck am I scared of? Am I afraid that if Justin walks away from me again, after submitting myself to the trappings of what comes just about as close to marriage as two queers can get, I’ll be left looking even more ridiculous than I did the first time? Am I afraid that breeching this last bastion of my independence, my vaunted disdain for ritual, totally fucks up my image, my fucking SELF-image, of an unfettered free spirit, needing no one and being needed by no one?

I’m not a man who talks to himself, so I don’t have to answer that.



Justin

We're leaving the notary's office and Brian hands me the manila envelope with our signed domestic partnership papers, then he puts his arm around my shoulders as we walk around the building to the parking lot in back. He lets me go and unlocks the door, then as we're buckling ourselves in, Brian asks, "Hungry? I want to take you to Al Dente's, it's a great Italian place on Fuller Street."

"Mmm, Italian," I force myself to sound eager; I'm covering up the vaguely let-down feeling I've had since we signed all the partnership paperwork, silently writing our names on half a dozen dotted lines each ticked with a red x. The notary was a bald man, overweight, taciturn, incurious. He stamped a seal on each page and countersigned our signatures, collected his fee and wished us good day, all without cracking a smile or uttering an unnecessary word.

A few days ago, somewhat diffidently, I had shared with Brian information I’d discovered about domestic partnership registration in WeHo. I printed out an article I found online which said that the city of West Hollywood has a registry similar to the state of California, and that many same-sex couples who register there get all dressed up, invite their friends and families, have flowers and take photographs, and celebrate the registration just like straight couples do who get married at city hall. I wasn’t really surprised that Brian had shivered dramatically, made a face and declared, “Sounds hideous.”

I know that for Brian, our visit to the notary was exactly what he wanted it to be, an unemotional, businesslike proceeding. A legality, a necessity, an unremarkable act that will result in providing me with benefits from his employment at Bradford and Slate. Medical insurance mostly, but also other benefits like vision and dental insurance, and he said that I'll now be the beneficiary named on his life insurance policy.

As we drive to the restaurant, I try to lighten up the heavy feeling in my chest by chattering about a new assignment in my water color class at school, and about the job I'm working on at Simpson's - I'm helping to create some original artwork of cartoon forest animals who, for some unknown reason, are excited about a new margarine product being introduced next spring.

The restaurant is pretty, it's decorated in pink and red, Brian says the food is really good here and he urges me to try the scampi. When the wine steward comes to our table, I expect Brian to ask for a white wine, probably Pinot Grigio, his favorite with seafood and pasta. Instead he glances across the table at me and asks off-handedly, "Feel like some champagne? For a change."

"Champagne?" I'm surprised. "Sure."

"Dom," Brian tells the steward, who inclines his head and moves away.

"Dom!" I exclaim, then lean forward over the table and whisper. "Wow."

Brian shrugs. "It's not every day we. . .visit a notary public. So why not?"

I'm grinning and suddenly I feel so much better. And even better when Brian echoes my smile, reaching across the table to take my hand.

"Hungry?" he asks.

"Starving!" I agree, and when the waiter appears, Brian orders an appetizer, my favorite, deep-fried calamari. He eats only one bite and leaves the rest for me.

"Signor," the wine steward's back with our bottle, which he opens with a subdued pop! and then pours champagne into both our glasses.

When he leaves the bottle in an ice bucket and disappears, Brian raises his glass in a toast. "To - calamari," he says, with a twinkle in his eye.

"To calamari," I repeat and we smile at each other as we sip our delicious bubbly champagne.



Brian

I'm home alone on a Saturday when the mailman delivers our certificate from Sacramento, our 'suitable for framing' certificate of domestic partnership. For the briefest moment I am tempted to rip up the document, or to hide it in my briefcase and take it to work to shove into the paper shredder there. Instead I leave it on the table for Justin to find when he comes home.

Earlier today Robert and his Uncle Jerry came by to pick up Justin, the three went to a double feature presentation of the first two Lord of the Rings films. Robert's apparently a Tolkien fan and Justin loves the films too. I read the books in college but I'm not really interested in the supernatural so the movies hold no appeal for me. I'm glad Justin's staying in touch with his d'Or friends and this outing has my blessing. Especially because I've got a major presentation next week and I need the whole weekend to concentrate on it, without interruptions.

I've forgotten about the document by the time Justin gets home, and I only remember it much later in the evening when we sit down to a light dinner of soup and sandwiches. The envelope is gone from the table and I wonder why Justin didn't mention it. Then he calls me to come fill my soup bowl, we sit down to eat and he chatters happily about the movies. Some audience members came in costume, dressed as wizards and hobbits and elves, and Justin fills me in on Robert’s theory that Frodo and Samwise were getting it on.

It's not until we've undressed and climbed into bed, sliding across the cool sheets to meet in the middle, our bodies as always pulled together as if by some super-strong magnetic field, that I remember the certificate.

"Did you find the envelope from Sacramento?" I ask as our hands slide around each other's bodies and we rub our skin together, the scent of Justin's shampoo filling my nostrils. I'll bet if I were standing in Saks at the men's toiletries counter and I opened a bottle of Justin's shampoo for a sniff, I'd get a hard-on right there in the middle of the store.

"Mmm-hmm," he answers, "I put it in the bottom drawer of the mahogany chest in the spare room." Then he pushes his face against mine and slides his warm wet tongue around my lips, and I forget the certificate and the mahogany chest and the spare room and lose myself inside Justin's mouth. His smell and taste block out every thought but desire for his beautiful sensual body pressed so tightly to mine.



Justin

As soon as Brian gets home, I tell him to listen to the message machine. He quirks an eyebrow at me and shakes his head in silent question but I can tell that he's immediately on the alert. "It's okay, just important," I tell him, trying to allay his fear. If he's feeling fear. "Everybody's okay." Probably a slight exaggeration.

I take Brian's briefcase from his hand and he moves quickly to his desk in the corner of the living room and punches buttons on the answering machine. The first message is from our cleaners and I just wave my hand saying, "Next one, next one." So Brian pushes the button again.

"Brian? It's Michael."

I can see Brian brace himself and take a deep breath.

"Brian, everything is okay, don't worry, but can you please call me right away? It's Mom. I mean, she's okay but I need you to call me right away."

"Is she dead?" Brian asks the machine, and I say quickly, "Brian, she's fine, I went ahead and called Michael. He said she's fine, everybody's fine, but he insisted I wait till you get home and tell you to listen to his message right away."

Michael had also told me to mind my own business, but I didn't need to share that with Brian. Besides, I could tell that Michael was upset, worried, maybe scared, so I tried not to take it personally. The thing is, Debbie is my business; if something happened to Debbie, that is my business too. She's been my second mom for years now.

Brian drops down in his chair, picks up the phone and punches number two. I'm number one so I don't mind that Michael is number two. Brian reaches up to loosen his tie and when he glances up at me I decide that maybe he wants me to leave the room so I turn away. "Come back here,'" he says, his voice rough. "Come back."

So I move close to Brian and lean my hip against the side of his chair. I'm in touching range in case he needs to grab onto me.

"Michael." Brian says into the phone, "What the fuck is going on?" He listens for a minute, then he asks, "When?" and my heart stops beating for a second, two, three, till I hear him say, "Good, that's good." Then I can start breathing again.

"They're keeping her overnight?" he asks and looks up at me and nods, silently mouths "she's okay" and gives me a smile. Then he continues talking to Michael. "Mikey, that's a normal precaution, they always keep people overnight. If the doctor says it wasn't a stroke, then it wasn't - quit borrowing trouble. Mmm-hmm," he's listening again. "What the fuck is a T.I.A.?"

"Transient Ischemic Attack," I whisper.

"Transient what?" he's asking Michael. "Oh, a pre-stroke. What the fuck is a pre-stroke?"

Brian's quiet a bit longer, then he says soothingly, "Mikey, if the doctors are releasing her tomorrow, it can't be too bad. You say her blood pressure's back to normal now, that's a good sign that she's okay. Your blood pressure goes up when you get scared, she was probably scared."

A moment later Brian laughs. "Well, you know Deb's back to normal when she tells the doctor to go fuck himself. Okay. Yes." He listens a bit more and then says, "Mikey, I'll be there tomorrow night. I can take Friday off work, spend the weekend in Pittsburgh, and be back here for work Monday morning."

Brian slips his arm around my waist and pulls me in close. He's nodding and then he says loudly, "Michael, shut the fuck up. It's no big deal to come home for a couple days. You want me to, don't you?"

Rhetorical question.

"Okay, let me go now so I can call the airlines. I'll e-mail you with the information, you can pick me up at the airport. Hopefully tomorrow afternoon, I'll let you know." A moment later Brian says dryly, "I'll tell him. Okay. Okay, Mikey. Me too. Always have, always will." Then he clicks off the phone and replaces it on the answering machine.

Brian leans back in the chair and pulls me around to stand between his outstretched legs, pulls me down to sit on his lap. "Michael said to tell you he's sorry he snapped at you."

"Hmm. So Debbie had a T.I.A. - when?"

"How do you know about T.I.A.s?"

"My grandma had some a few years ago, so I researched it on the 'net. They're like pre-strokes or mini-strokes, people get some of the symptoms of a real stroke - pain down the arm, a bad headache, dizziness, stuff like that. They're not really dangerous - Grandma's doctor told Mom that they're nature's warning signs that you need to take it easy. Not get too stressed out."

"Imagine Debbie taking it easy?"

"She's probably too old to work any more, she works too hard at the diner."

"She's always worked too hard," Brian confirms. "Can you imagine Mikey telling her she's going to have to take it easy now?"

"God, no." I almost shudder, I can hear Debbie screeching at him now.

"That's why," Brian concludes, "I need to go home this weekend. To help Mikey talk some sense into her. If that's humanly possible."

"And to be moral support for Michael," I add. It's true and it not only doesn't bother me, I'm glad of it. Brian's a good friend, he's Michael's best friend. Of course he wants to be there for him.

"So," Brian concludes, squeezing me and smiling, "Can you get tomorrow off work?"

"You want me to go with you?" I'm surprised.

"Don't ask stupid questions."

I slide my arms around Brian's neck and smack a loud kiss on his lips. "I could get off work, but Brian, we really can't afford the airfare for both of us. I don't mind staying here. Honest."

He hesitates. "It will be expensive," he admits, "And the jeep's overdue for a tune-up, and we need to get you a new easel, that one at Art Mart you like is three hundred dollars."

"Oh, I don't need that," I say hastily but he contradicts me.

"Yeah you do. But - you really don't mind, not coming along? We haven't been back home for months now."

"I don't mind," I lie cheerfully. "I've got a big project for my class that's coming due in a couple weeks. Besides," I add, "It's not like a vacation, it's not for fun - it's a sort of medical necessity type of thing. It's okay with me."

Brian exhales a big chuff of air. "Okay. Let me get up and go change my clothes, then I need to call the airlines, see if I can get a ticket for tomorrow. Is something burning?"

"No, asshole," I frown, jumping up off his lap, "You're smelling genuine Cajun blackened catfish."

"Smells awfully blackened," Brian comments as he gets up and heads off down the hall. "But," he adds generously, "I'll withhold judgment till I taste it."



Brian

We're ready to leave for the airport, my suitcase is by the door and I'm shrugging on my jacket; October is warm in southern California but it will be cold back home in Pittsburgh. Justin grabs my arm and drags me over to the sofa, protesting all the way. "We need to leave right now or we'll be late, I'll miss my plane."

"Sit down for a minute," Justin insists, "This will only take a second, I’ll be right back. I have something to show you.”

“What, a going-away present?”

He doesn’t answer, he moves quickly down the hall and into the second bedroom which finally, thank God, Justin is turning into a studio. So I perch on the edge of the sofa, tapping my foot impatiently and fiddling with a stack of magazines in the middle of the coffee table.

Then he’s back, he’s holding a large sheet of paper and he hands it to me without a word. It’s a picture.

I’m stunned into silence. My heart’s in my throat, literally in my throat, choking me. I can’t speak and I just sit staring at the picture. Justin misinterprets my silence.

“Don’t worry, Brian, nobody will ever see this. It’s strictly for your eyes only.”

“Justin, it’s – beautiful.”

An understatement. Justin scanned our certificate of domestic partnership ‘suitable for framing’ and copied it in the center of a larger sheet of heavy white paper. Around the wide margin he painted water color images – small pictures of me, of him, of both of us together, laughing and smiling and even, in one corner, kissing with our eyes shut. Around the perimeter he painted a pale narrow never-ending rainbow intertwined with tiny scrawled words: partners – lovers – friends, partners – lovers – friends.

For the first time I understand what this certificate means to Justin. For him it’s not merely a paper that’s tangible proof we are partners, it’s not some legal document he can hold over my head as a threat to bind me to him whether I like it or not. Instead it’s a sort of tribute to all of the good and bad things we’ve been through together that led us to this place and tied us to each other forever. (Maybe forever.) It’s true that we are partners, we are lovers, we are friends.

“It’s beautiful,” I say again, and now I can smile up at him. I grab his hand and pull him down next to me on the sofa and circle his shoulders with one arm, pull him tight against my chest and kiss his lips. Carefully I lay the paper on the coffee table so my other arm is free to pull him even tighter and we kiss and kiss and kiss till there’s no breath left in our bodies, and we pull apart, gasping for air and laughing.

I look at him there squeezed tight in my arms, his face flushed pink with kisses and laughter, and I almost say the words, I can almost say the words. I struggle with it for a moment, struggling either to say the words or struggling not to say the words, but in the end I just pull him tight against me again, and I tell him with kisses instead of with words.



Justin

"Brian, what if the plane - crashed, or something? We haven't been separated like this since we became spouses."

"I am not a spouse."

"Brian, if I am YOUR spouse, then you are MY spouse."

"Fuck."

"It's the truth."

"Fuck the truth."

"So anyway," I insist, "What if something happened to one of us while we're apart? And you never said the words to me. You'd feel terrible."

"If I were dead, I wouldn't feel anything."

"You know what I mean! Can't you PLEASE say it, just once? I won't secretly record it or anything."

"Leave me alone, I'm going to miss my plane. Just fucking kiss me goodbye, I'll be back in two days, for Christ's sake!"

Giving up, my shoulders slumping, I reach up to hug him and we share a quick kiss. Neither of us cares that we're in the airport, a very public place surging with raging heterosexuals, which is another thing I love about Brian. He squeezes me tight then pushes me away, and he hurries off to join the queue through the metal detector.

I stand watching, waiting to see if he'll turn and wave (highly unlikely, I was lucky to get the kiss). He makes it through the gate, stands exasperatedly as the security guard passes a wand over him - luckily he doesn't make it beep - then he grabs his carry-on from the x-ray machine and moves off toward his gate. Just as I'm about to turn away and leave the terminal, I see that Brian stops abruptly in his tracks. He pulls something from his pocket - it's his phone - and turns to look over his shoulder, surveying the crowd.

Then he spies me and I raise a hand to wave, but he doesn't wave back. Instead he punches the phone and holds it to his ear, just as my phone starts beeping. Curious, I pull it out and hold it to my ear.

Of course it's Brian.

"Okay," he says, "Okay. Can you hear me?"

"Yes, what is it - did you forget something?"

"Fuck you. Fuck you, you little asshole."

"What? Brian - what?"

"Okay," he says again, and even in the distance I can see him frowning and shaking his head.

"Okay, all right," he growls. "I love you, you fucking little jerk-off drama princess twat."

"Brian!"

"Did you hear me?"

"Yes! Oh yes!" I'm gulping, I have to swallow this huge lump in my throat. I want desperately to jump over the barrier and run to fling myself into his arms.

Brian reads my mind. "Don't even think about it. Gotta go."

"Wait!" I exclaim just as he's about to click off his phone.

He returns it to his ear and growls, "What?"

"Brian, say it again. Please? Just one more time."

"Fuck." He's silent, glaring at me across the distance, then he shakes his head again. "Fuck you, Justin. Christ! I love you. Now shut the fuck up and go home."

"Brian, I love you too!"

"No shit," he growls. "And now this fucking plane better crash, that's all I've got to say. Good-bye, Justin."

"Good-bye, Brian!"

But he's already clicked off the phone, turned his back and he's moving quickly through the crowd toward the gate.

1/16/04
 

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