Dark Thunder

When it's over, he gets up and takes the plates to the kitchen and tosses them into the sink. I run along behind him with the glasses, and I can't shake the feeling that we're moving toward something more than the kitchen. He runs some water over the dishes and starts loading the dishwasher while I stand around behind him trying to think of something to say. It's hard enough for me to make small talk when I'm sober, and it's impossible for me to think of anything clever to say now.

"We should unpack," I say.

He sighs and shrugs. "'Kay," he says.

We do.

After that, it's night, so we lay in bed together. I reach for him and he hesitates before pulling me into his arms. When he does, it's a stiff and somehow professional embrace.

"I'm sorry," I say. "It makes it easier for me."

"Yeah."

"Don't write me off!" It comes out louder than I mean it to and elicits a sharp intake of breath from Gene.

"I'm not," he says.

"If you're pissed, just say so," I say. I don't like his resigned tone; it feels like he's giving up. On what, I try not to think of.

"I'm done being pissed," he says.

"What does that mean?"

"Just what I said." He lets go of me and turns onto his side, settling. "Goodnight."

I sit up on one elbow, trying not to panic. "Gene."

He doesn't answer.

"Gene!"

Nothing.

"Gene?"

*****

I hope that the rest of the trip will be better, but it isn't.

He loses some of his frostiness, but things are never quite like they were the first night again; it's like we've crossed some invisible line in the sand that I didn't know he'd drawn. We make love a few more times, but it's half-hearted, at least on his part; he finishes and then finishes me and gets up to take a shower. He doesn't talk to me much, either.

I try everything. I don't smoke for eight straight days, hoping he'll notice my abstinence and come down from Silent Mountain to talk to me. I do the laundry, I shovel the walk, I stoke the fires, but none of it seems to help; he's still out of my reach. On day nine, I break and head back to the closet while he watches cartoons.

Time starts to get funny.

I'll go into the closet for ten minutes and come out to discover that nine hours have passed and that he's been looking for me. I stare at the walls and the ceilings for hours at a time while Gene busies himself with something, until nightfall, when he comes to bed and we have a session of mechanical sex. We don't kiss anymore.

He's pulling away from me, and I have no idea what to do. I try to get touchy-feely with him; now that I can get high again, it seems like the most natural thing in the world. But I'm beginning to realize how he must have felt all those times I froze up or pulled away when he tried to hold me or when I told him to get away from me while we were out. It's like a shot of cold water the first time, a bucket the second, and like oceans every time after that. I was rude and cold and hurtful and now I'm paying for it.

I'm also stupid, because I don't consider for a second that he might leave me.

*****

I've just come out of the closet again, and I'm sitting on the bed Indian style and staring at the fire. I'm looking for the horse, but I don't see him; all I can find is a small rabbit. I reason that the horse, who I've named Fred, must be stabled near the back of the fire where I can't see him.

I haven't seen Gene in a few hours; he mumbled something about a walk when he left the bed this morning, and I was too far gone to ask when he would be back. I ate another five sandwiches and some chicken from the fridge, then came back to my new favorite place to silence the scary and increasingly vocal part of my mind that told me I was ruining everything. I'm contemplating calling for Fred to come out when Gene walks into the the room. He's been crying.

I've never seen Gene cry before, and it has a violent sobering effect on me; suddenly Fred is forgotten and the little voice in my head finds a way around Dark Thunder and calls me an asshole.

He's trying to hold it together for me, but it isn't working.

He's wearing one of those puffy winter jackets that won't let his arms hang straight at his sides and a knitted hat with a puffball on it. He's got on these orange snow boots, and even through my worry I take the time to notice how adorable he looks.

He ambles over to the bed and sits down, his jacket making that slidey noise as he moves. I crawl over to him and wrap my arms around his shoulders, kissing him on the cheek. I press my face into his, and he starts to cry again. His hands reach up and hold my arm, and he rocks a little. After five minutes or so, he calms down again, and turns to face me. His eyes are red and swollen and his lips still tremble, but he looks determined.

"We let it get weird," he says.

These aren't the words I was expecting. "What?" I say.

"I promised..." He hiccups. "I promised that I wouldn't let things get too weird. But they did."

I'm not sure where he's going with this, so I don't say anything.

"Have you ever been in love, Richie?" He's started crying again, but his voice barely wavers.

"I'm in love right now," I say. I kiss him on the cheek again. "I'm in love with you."

He squeezes his eyes shut to stem the flow of tears, but it doesn't work. He opens them again, and they flow anyway.

"I am, too," he says, but it's really more of a choke. "This is the first time I've ever really been in love."

I turn his face toward mine and I kiss him again, this time on the lips. "They why are you crying?"

His shoulders start to shake and he has to shut his eyes again. I wait.

"R-R-Richie," he says, "I t-t-think t-this is o-over."

"What's over?"

"This. U-Us."

"Why would you say something like that?" I say. I let go of him and get off the bed and stand in front of him. Maybe I can stare him down and make him stop talking.

"We're not good, Richie."

"We are!" I say. "We are good! I love you, and you love me! You love me...you just said so! You love me!"

"We're not good for each other." He's whispering and not looking at me.

"You're great for me!" He's all I have, but I don't say this; I think it might make things even worse.

"No," he whispers. Now he does look at me, and it's a look of sorrow and angst, but not one of regret. "I'm not. I make you uncomfortable in your own skin. I make you disgusted with yourself. I make you ashamed of who you are. I make you hurt."

"I'll get over it!" I'm yelling. I don't care. "I will, I swear! Eventually I'll stop being so ungrateful and I won't feel so bad-"

"Richie," he says. "No."

"Yes!"

"You hate yourself even when I'm not there. I can tell. You can't even think of me without cringing and thinking of the things we've done together. You can't touch me unless the lights are off and we're fucking."

I embrace him again and tackle him backwards onto the bed, kissing his face. "I can," I say. "See?" I kiss him some more.

He reaches up and stils my face with his hands. "You're high, Richie."

"So? So what?" His hands are still on the sides of my face, and I place mine over his. "We get high. Lots of people do it. So what?"

"Not like this," he says. "You need it, or you can't be with me. Did you honestly think I didn't notice the way you would sneak off before we had sex or went out together? That I didn't smell it on you? That I couldn't feel how you were if you didn't have it?"

"I'll stop," I say. "I'll do whatever you tell me to, Gene! Just stop...stop saying that stuff about us, okay?"

"I don't have any friends anymore, Richie," he says. "I've given up everything, everyone in my lfe so that I can focus on you and be with you all the time, do you understand that?"

"I-"

"Did you know that my mom begged me to come to Italy to spend the holdiay with her? Did you? But I told her about you and how you needed me to be there for you because you were going through a rough time. But it's not a rough time, is it Richie? This is how it's going to be forever with you, isn't it?"

I stare at him because I can't think of an answer he wants to hear that isn't a lie.

"I love you, I love love you so much, but I'm losing myself. I don't even know who I am anymore. It's like I'm back in the closet again, afraid that someone is going to find out about us. But I've already been through this, Richie! I can't do it all over again? Do you understand that? You understand that, don't you?"

I climb off him and sit on my knees on the bed beside him. Again, I can't speak.

"We're going back tomorrow," he says, as though I'm unaware of this. "I should move out, I think. I'll pay my half for the rest of the year, don't worry," he adds, like this will be my primary concern.

I can't look at him; I can't say anything. I can't think. I get up and go into the bathroom and lock the door.

*****

I've been in the bathroom sitting on the closed toilet for about two hours.

I think.

There's no clock in here, so I'm not a hundred percent sure, but I've been counting to sixty using the Mississippi method and I've done it more than a hundred times. It's boring, but when you're counting in your head you can't think of anything but the numbers.

I don't have any pot in here.

I need some, but it's in the bedroom, with Gene, and I can't go back in there to face him. Not yet.

This can't really be over.

"This isn't over." Saying out loud makes me feel better, so I do it again.

I'll find a way to fix this. We'll go back to California and I'll toss all of the Dark Thunder out and we'll make love and Gene won't leave me. Simple. Easy.

I think again of the trapeze and our swinging above the abyss. My hands are getting sweaty and Gene has started to try and pull away from me. I've still got him, oh yes, but if he keeps up his twisting and writhing I might just drop him. He'd fall.

And then, I'd have no reason to hang on.

*****

We're packing again.

It's morning, and the sun is out for the first time in almost a week. I point this out to Gene and smile at him. I've decided to pretend that last night never happened so that I can keep my sanity.

He doesn't reply, but I don't let that discourage me; he'll come around. I keep talking on the drive to the airport, through the security line, and during the flight. I don't give him any Benadryl this time, but he's so sullen that he can't even be scared. I pretend not to notice this, or the fact that I must look crazy to the other passengers.

When we get to the apartment he goes in before me and sets his bag in his corner. He takes off his jacket and tosses it with the bag. He kicks off his shoes.

"My mom got me a place over on Garnet," he says.

He's looking at the floor, and even though I can't hear a shake in his voice, I know he's crying again. I leave my bag near the door and walk over to him. I put my hands on his shoulders and kiss him on the lips. He tries to twist away, but I don't let him, and before we know it we're naked and breathing hard. When we're done, we lay in my bed, looking out the window at the dark clouds forming outside. Gene's still crying.

"Well, you'd better call her," I say. I wrap an arm around him. It makes me cringe inside, but this time I know it doesn't show on the outside. "Since you won't be needing that place after all."

He puts his hands over his eyes and his shoulders shake, and I pull him close to me and kiss the top of his head and run my fingers through his hair. I try to enjoy being close to him, to love the feel of him, but it isn't working; all I feel is the dread that I've always felt. It's better if I don't focus on his touch, so I start counting again.

"Richie," he finally says. He sounds so dejected and lonely that I kiss him on the head again.

"Yeah?"

"I'll always love you."

I smile. I feel foolish for being so afraid he would leave me. "I'll always love you, too," I say.

"I hope you'll be happy one day," he says. Before I can respond, somebody knocks on the door. It startles me, because nobody ever knocks on our door. I jump out of bed, pulling on a pair of boxers. Gene gets up too, pulling on his jeans. I run over to open the door.

It's a woman I've never seen before. She's fortyish, and she's got long, blonde hair that's braided down her back. Her skirt is made of something that I'm pretty sure in hemp. She looks sad.

"You must be Richard," she says. She reaches for my hand. I give it to her. "I wish we could have met before...this."

I step aside and let her in. "Before what?"

"Mom," Gene says. He runs up to her and hugs her. "Mom, I need to leave right now."

"But-"

"Mom!" He's crying again.

"Okay..." she says. She runs her hands through his hair, and I'm a little jealous. "Okay, we can come back and get your stuff later."

He's picked up his shirt and buttoned it wrong, and he's leaning on his mother like he can't stand up without her. My breathing picks up, and before I know it, I'm panicking.

"What...what's happening?" I say.

His face is so screwed up that I barely recognize him. "I sorry..." he says. Water is dripping off his face like he's in the shower. "I'm so so sorry, Richie, I love you, please don't hate me but I can't I just..." The rest of his words are muffled by his tears and his mother's shoulder. I try to take a deep breath and not pass out.

"I think we should go," she says. She looks genuinely sorry for taking him away from me. "He'll be back to get his things...sometime." She all but carries him out the door and it closes behind her. I stand there in their wake, not sure what to do.

*****

I straighten up the room.

I spend hours in my closet, bundling my socks and rolling my underwear and hanging up the clothes that have piled up on the floor. I try not to look at Gene's side of the room.

Once that's done, I take all the sheets and stuff off my bed and then put them back on. I vacuum. I clean the fridge and the counter tops. I mop. And dust.

And when all of it's done, I go back to the bed and sit on it, wondering what I'm supposed to do next. Usually, me and Gene would go somewhere or do something. But he's not here. I try to think of what I used to do before I knew him, and I can't; I must have been doing something before we met, but for the life of me, I can't figure out what it was.

He gave me definition, which was something I'd never even thought to look for before we were together. It was like I was suddenly somebody, really somebody, because I was with him. I had a reason to cook and go out and walk on the beach and smile. Now, I can't think of anything I enjoy, that I can even tolerate, without him to come home to, to ground me. I'm completely lost.

So I light up.

*****

I'm only in class for fifteen minutes the next day before I realize that I don't care about anything anyone is saying or doing. So I leave.

I'm pretty baked, but it's the first time I ever asked myself why I was even in college. I didn't particularly like biology; it was just something I knew I wouldn't fail. Did I want to be a doctor? A nurse? A cell biologist? Who knew? If Gene was here, I would ask him.

But he isn't. He's gone. Completely.

I shift in my seat to try and turn my thoughts away from him. I was used to the dread and the shame I felt when we were together, but this feeling is something else; this...this feeling could destroy me if I didn't find a way to get rid of it.

I wish I could talk to someone, but I don't have any friends. I've never had any friends, really, just acquaintainces that served as reassurances that I wasn't a complete loser. I realize that Gene is the only one who knows me. Who's ever known me.

I walk around the campus for a few more hours, floating around in limbo, hoping maybe I'll run into Gene.

I don't.

*****

I decide to call him.

He still hasn't been by to get his things even though it's been almost two weeks, so I decide to use this as an excuse to talk to him. I dial the number and hang up three times before I get up the nerve to wait for someone to answer. As it's ringing, it occurs to me that his mom might answer, and I don't know what to say to her. Maybe I should-

"Hello?" It's him. He sounds sad.

I can't find my voice right away. "Hi," I say, trying to sound cheerful. I just sound squeaky.

"Richie?" He sounds both happy and disappointed at the same time. I marvel at the depth of his feelings, and I'm a little envious; I haven't been able to feel anything since he left me.

"Yeah. Um, I was wondering if you wanted to come by. You know, to get your stuff."

"Oh," he says. "Yeah." I hear him sigh. "Are you busy right now?"

"No!" I say. It's too fast. "No, I'm totally free right now."

"Okay," he says. "Um, I'm on my way then."

He hangs up, and I'm so exhilarated it scares me a little. I'm not accustomed to feeling so much, and after months of feeling little more than vague shame punctuated by bursts of ecstasy, this wave of happiness has me feeling more than a little unstable. I'm still trying to collect myself when he knocks on the door.

I sprint over, and I know he can hear me running from the other side of the door. I'm beaming, but I can't help myself; I'm so thrilled to see him that the grin stays on my face despite my conscious efforts at hiding it.

I open the door, and there he is with his big puff of red hair and his lanky frame. He steps toward me to come in and I snatch him into an embrace. He starts to pull away at first, but then he settles into my arms and stays there until I let him go. The door swings shut behind him.

I step back to look at him some more. "Hi," I say.

"Hi."

He walks over to his side of the room and I follow him like a puppy. When he stops suddenly and I run into him, he turns around, and he's wearing a look I've never seen before. He looks scared.

"What's wrong?"

He sighs and puts an arm around me. "We should talk," he says. He walks me over to the little table in our kitchen and we sit down, facing each other. He takes my hand.

"You do understand what's happened here, don't you, Richie? I mean, you realize that we're not together anymore, right?"

The smile on my face slips a little, and there's suddenly something uncomfortable moving inside my chest. "Well," I say, "I know we had a fight, but that doesn't mean we can't be together anymore..."

"Richie," he says. He's whispering, like he's afraid loud noises will hurt me. "It's over. We're over. And nothing is going to change that."

For a long time I simply look at him, searching for any falter in his expression, any sign that maybe the world isn't ending; that he's not really leaving, leaving me. Alone.

I don't find one.

And then the hard, uncomfortable thing in my chest falls apart, and so do I. My eyes fill up and he blurs along with the rest of the kitchen. I can't take a breath, all I can do is exhale until there's nothing left in me. His arms are around me and I think we're on the floor, but I can't be sure.

"So, w-what?" I say. "I d-don't mean a-anything to you? You're just going to leave me here a-alone now?"

"Rich-"

"You said you loved me!" I throw his arm off me. "You told me I filled you up, that I completed you! What happened to that? Were you lying?"

"No-"

"You made me a real person!" I'm standing up now, and I'm facing a blob of what I assume to be him. "I'm nobody without you! Nothing! I never have been!"

"I can't be everything for you!" he yells. "I can't be the only thing that matters to you! You have to have your own fucking identity! You don't love me, Richie, not like you think. You just don't want to be empty! They're not the same thing!"

"So now I love you too much?" I take a noisy breath. "Is that it?"

"Yeah," he says. "I think it is." He wipes his eyes with one hand and starts back toward his side of the bedroom. He snatches some of his clothes that are on the floor and takes his suitcase, still unpacked from our trip to Colorado. He doesn't own much else, so he heads for the door.