The Heart is a Poor Judge Ch. 05

But he was also grateful. It would have been enough for someone to simply listen, to tolerate his insane ramblings. He stopped, steadying himself against the rail. A fat, yellow moon hung low in the sky; the tide had retreated so far that a normally-submerged line of jagged boulders (which locals called the sharks) were silhouetted in the water like an angry row of black teeth. He felt Miguel come to rest at his side.

"I was worried you would think I was crazy."

Miguel's brown eyes looked down at the ground. His short, dark brown hair stood firm in the breeze. "Why would you think that?"

"It's just so...weird. I don't know why it's happening."

"The mind is a mysterious place," he said. "It's just trying to make sense of the world. I don't need to tell you that there's stuff going on all around us, in real life, that is crazier than anything you just told me."

"I guess so."

"You're trying to cope. We all are."

"Yeah."

"So, what are you going to do about him?"

"I guess...if he comes again...I'll confront him, like you said."

Miguel was silent. A wave crashed so hard against the distant shore that all other sounds were momentarily drowned out. Gabe felt Miguel's arm move around his waist, hand slipping just slightly under his t-shirt, skimming the soft skin near his navel. He drew their bodies together. Gabe let himself relax, conforming to Miguel side.

Then, without a word, Miguel let go of him and started walking back in the direction they had come. The planks creaked under his feet. Gabe just stood there, watching his friend step away into darkness. At first he thought Miguel would stop, maybe throw a haughty grin over his shoulder, as if to say, "follow me home." But Miguel just kept walking—of course he did—and when Gabe couldn't bear it any longer, he ran to catch up.

Ten minutes later they stepped inside the condo, sweaty from the climb back to Gabe's paltry mid-rise. Gabe locked the deadbolt behind them. He filled two glasses of water at the kitchen sink.

"Sorry I don't have anything stronger."

Miguel grinned. "Another time."

"Maybe," said Gabe.

Miguel stepped into the living room. "I saw the stereo this morning. Are you planning to sell it to the next guy or what?"

His father's old hifi stood in an oak cabinet against the wall, flanked by wide tower speakers. It was last piece of furniture left in the room. "I needed something to listen to while I packed."

Miguel stepped over to it, lifting the dusty plexiglass lid off the turntable. "How about something to play on this?"

"The records are in that bottom drawer. They were my mother's. I don't listen to them."

Miguel was already down on his knees, pulling open the laminate drawer. He drew an album out at random, inspected it. "Oh, man, Connie Stevens?"

"You know who that is?"

"Are you kidding? My parents ate this shit up."

Gabe smiled. "So did my mother."

After a few seconds of fumbling over switches, Miguel got the album playing. Sixteen Reasons crackled to life through the giant old speakers.

Miguel's face lit up. "Fuck yeah. Love some good old-fashioned white-people music." He turned up the volume.

Gabe wanted to warn him about the neighbors, to explain that it was a quiet building, but realized how little that mattered now.

Miguel shuffled away from Gabe and began performing a ridiculous mock-twist. He closed his eyes, lost in the moment, or the music, or both, until Gabe felt his own presence fading. He joined the ranks of the ghosts in the room, looking on, admiration growing rapidly for this beautiful being who possessed the magical ability to let down his guard at any moment he wished.

Miguel opened his eyes. The music blared. "This is how they danced, right?" He did not look at Gabe. His eyes were focused, set straight ahead.

"All of them, I'm sure," Gabe shouted over the music. He felt about a thousand miles away from joining in, but the choice fled when Miguel suddenly pulled him by his wrist into the middle of the empty room.

"Put them here," Gabe was told as his hands were guided to Miguel's waist. "I'll put mine on your shoulders, like this." They stepped around in a slow circle, Miguel taking the lead. "It's a slow song anyway. Better to dance like this." The deep bass thrums expelled dust from the fabric speaker covers into the room. Miguel looked straight into his eyes. "You make a really good dance partner."

"I do?" he asked, too softly to be heard. He pulled himself close to Miguel's body, pressed his ear once again against his friend's broad chest. Perhaps it was too soon to go back down this road. Just as he sank into the soft tract of Miguel's sternum, and Miguel drew him in tighter, the song came to an end. Gabe felt robbed as their embrace slackened.

"Oh, man," said Miguel, peeling away, returning to the stereo cabinet to turn down the volume. "My folks used to put on shit like this when we were stuck in the car. My sister Rosa would jam her finger down her throat—you know, like it was so bad it was making her gag. She almost made herself throw up once, on accident. We laughed so hard."

Gabe stood still in wonder as Miguel talked about this distant, old life. It seemed the dance had not meant as much to him as it had to Gabe, who was still so swept up in the afterglow that it took him a second to realize the mood had changed.

Miguel looked through the dark windows, silent, hands in his pockets. He turned around. "We had a good time, all of us."

Gabe cleared his throat. "I always wondered what it would be like to have siblings."

Miguel shrugged, turning back to the windows. "I guess it was pretty good, looking back."

Gabe went to his side. He was tempted to try and recreate the moment down the boardwalk, this time on his terms, hooking his arm confidently around Miguel's sturdy waist, drawing their bodies together. But he could not gather the courage.

Miguel looked over. "Did you call me because you had no one else to call?"

It felt like an accusation. "I called Eddie first." Gabe tried his best not to sound defensive. "But I didn't want to take him from his family. It was only to get your number."

Miguel nodded.

Gabe hoped he would show mercy. Please don't make him say it. He had no friends; they both knew it, so there was no point in him saying it out loud.

Instead, Miguel said, "Funny how we're both loners."

Gabe turned to him. "You're not a loner."

Miguel scratched his head. "As far as I can tell, I am. I go sit at the pub and talk to Alice when I need a friend, but I wouldn't say we're that comfortable. She tries. It's me who pushes people away. And other than her...I mean, who else is there? Eddie?" Miguel snorted. "Eddie."

Gabe hadn't spent much time wondering about Miguel's social life. He had a vague image in his mind of weekend parties, though, and maybe a small cast of characters walking in and out of his apartment on occasion. "Why do you push people away?"

"I'm not sure." He turned to Gabe. "What about you?"

"I've always been this way."

"I used to be extremely social in high school," said Miguel. "In a lonely sort of way."

"What happened?"

"It all changed when I was kicked out. Everything fell apart."

"Do you miss it? The person you were in high school?"

Miguel shook his head. "I don't even know who that person was. Some guy trying to live someone else's life, I guess."

Gabe paused. "Miguel?"

"Yeah?"

"Where did you learn to dance like that?"

Miguel let out a burst of laughter that rattled Gabe. He stepped away and lay down on the carpet, arms and legs outstretched as if he were making a snow angel. He stared up at the ceiling. "That wasn't dancing, just stepping around." He paused, then caught his own breath, chest freezing in place as if he were about to say something more, but nothing came. His brown irises moved in tiny circles, following the slow blades of the ceiling fan.

Gabe retrieved the pile of blankets and pillows from along the wall and dragged them over to Miguel. Miguel took a blanket and spread it out over the low-pile carpet as if to mark off his territory, except that once he was finished, he invited Gabe inside its bounds, even placing two pillows side by side. Gabe came to rest next to him and both of them observed the lazy motion of the fan.

"Is this better than the balcony?" Gabe asked.

He felt Miguel's shoulder shrug against his own. "Either is fine."

Miguel became silent for a long time. Out of nowhere, after several minutes of utter silence, he asked, "Was he a good father?"

Gabe thought for a moment before answering. "He was. Of course he was. But I'm not sure he knew what to make of me."

"Did he want you to follow in his footsteps?"

"I believe he did. I think it was his plan all along."

Miguel paused. "You didn't have to, you know."

"I know," said Gabe. "But I wanted to."

Miguel released a long breath. "He must have been proud of you."

"If he was, I never heard anything about it."

Miguel didn't respond, but Gabe could guess what he was thinking. If Marco had been the proudest father alive, he still wouldn't have said a word about it, and Gabe suspected that he had been the same kind of mentor to Miguel.

Moments passed in silence. An old pop song tinkled through the stereo speakers at very low volume. Gabe started when Miguel suddenly cleared his throat, said, "Fuck, man, I miss him so much."

Gabe looked over in time to witness a tear carving a wet trail down to Miguel's ear, where it caught and pooled. "Me too, Miguel."

"Sometimes, if I'm stuck on something, I try to think of what advice he would give me. And his voice just comes to me, so clear, like he's only been gone a day."

"I think that's one of those things you never forget."

"Yeah?" said Miguel. "What do you remember about him?"

Gabe gathered his thoughts. "They way he would look at my mother. He would get home late and his shoulders would be hunched forward, he was so stressed out. Then he'd take one look at her and completely relax. You could see it in his eyes, his body, all of it melting away, like he was grateful just for the chance to take care of her, for one more day." Gabe felt himself filling with emotion. "Those are the kinds of things I miss. I'll never forget them."

Miguel nodded slowly, looked over. "We can talk about something else, if you want."

It was probably best that they did. But neither of them said anything for several minutes. Gabe could feel the conversation (or at least his own will to continue it) begin to expire. But rather than spoiling like milk, or meat, he imagined it simply drying up, like the kefir limes his mother kept in a hand-carved bowl, the final cluster of which he had thrown out only days earlier. Gabe and Miguel lay side by side in the cracked bottom of a lake bed, silent and still.

There came a soft click and a whir as the needle reached the outer limits of the record and the arm swung back toward its holder. Gabe stood and turned off the stereo, then the lights. He lay back down on his side, facing away from Miguel. He closed his eyes. He wasn't tired, but he could certainly pretend to be. His mind drifted back to the moment on the boardwalk, the feeling of Miguel's fingertips slipping under his shirt, brushing lightly against his skin, where they could have so easily stretched open the waistband of his underwear, moving slowly, slowly down...

He immediately developed an erection, which, in his current position, he had no incentive to hide. It stuck around for a long time. At first, he felt awkward to be in such a state with Miguel right behind him, but the feeling faded beneath the growing assumption that Miguel had fallen asleep. His arousal eventually waned as his mind drifted to other things. What time was it? He didn't wear a watch on the weekend, and the strobing blue digits of the VCR were long packed away. One o'clock? If so, then only barely. He wasn't used to going to bed this early.

Some time later (Gabe couldn't be sure how long exactly), Miguel stirred and then Gabe felt the air in the room shift, heard his leg joints pop as he stood up. Then Miguel whispered deliberately into the still room, "I can't sleep without a blanket on me."

Gabe said nothing. He heard the sounds of Miguel stripping off his clothes: the young man's belt clinking softly, t-shirt and jeans thudding to the floor. Gabe realized he must have dozed off at some point, because he vaguely remembered attempting to remove his own pants out of discomfort, but had apparently never finished. They were now tangled around his ankles.

Miguel stepped directly over him, knelt down, picked up another blanket that lay half-folded a few feet away. Gabe opened his eyes wider and witnessed the skin of Miguel's bare back glowing in the light of the moon. He stood there for a moment, holding the blanket, still as a statue. He reached out and softly closed the plexiglass lid of the turntable. Gabe closed his eyes again when he sensed Miguel was about to turn around.

The warm air stirred again as Miguel passed back over him. He felt the blanket thud to the floor, but Miguel did not lie back down. After a moment, from the sound of his breathing, Gabe determined that Miguel was still standing there, a few feet behind him in the dark. Maybe he was looking out the windows, or, just as likely, down at Gabe's moonlit body, bare legs capped off by an accordion of black denim.

In a moment of recklessness, Gabe kicked off his jeans.

"You awake?" Miguel whispered behind him.

Gabe rolled over. He saw the outline of Miguel's lean, toned body looming above him in striped boxer shorts. Gabe sat up and removed his t-shirt. He stood and faced Miguel wearing only his underwear. He was hard again. He reached out and Miguel took him into his arms. The moon was visible outside, big and bright, flooding the room with dreary light like the sun of an inverse world—one in which the actions soon to pass were completely permissible, of sound morality, categorically good.

Miguel kissed him and he kissed back eagerly, leaving no room for Miguel to doubt what it was Gabe desired. His legs felt weak and he let himself fall back to the blanket, pulling Miguel down with him. He wanted Miguel to surround him, wanted to be crushed under the weight of the young man's sweating body. Miguel let out a gentle burst of laughter as they fell, then muttered an obscenity, grinding his waist against Gabe's. Gabe reached tentatively for the waistband of his own underwear and dragged them down around his legs. He threw them aside and let Miguel see him. Miguel stood, removed his boxers and Gabe saw him for the first time, engorged and swinging above him. Gabe made himself vulnerable, but Miguel shook his head.

"You can," Gabe insisted.

"Not tonight," said Miguel in a low voice.

Miguel then knelt down, kissed him again and Gabe brought them back together at the waist. Miguel began the same thrusting motion as before. His breathing grew heavy and their mouths continued to meet, at times delicately, at others in wet, violent collisions. Miguel whimpered and released himself in several quick bursts between them. Gabe's immediately mixed with Miguel's. After, they lay pressed together, motionless. In a moment of absurdity, Gabe thought that suffocating under Miguel's entire weight would be the most incredible way to go. Miguel's hot skin met him all over, firm in places, soft in others, altogether a beautiful, suffocating shroud. Let it happen, he told himself. Just let it happen. But Miguel fell to Gabe's side, rolled onto his back and sighed with satisfaction, or perhaps exhaustion.

Gabe located his t-shirt. He wadded it in one hand, reached over and wiped up what glistened on Miguel's still heaving chest and stomach, then cleaned himself (where they both had mostly ended up). He cast the soiled t-shirt aside and lay still. If ever there was a moment for Miguel to speak up, it was now. But nothing came, and soon his heavy breaths developed the clatter of a light snore.

Gabe could hardly believe what he was hearing. What if he had wanted to talk it over? He didn't, of course, but that wasn't the point. It was the careless permission Miguel had just given himself. Permission to fall asleep right after an event that, surely, warranted at least a brief interval of sleepless doubt. A wave of fury moved through him. He looked over, watched Miguel lay sleeping next to him, big, strong, impervious. Gabe found he could not stay angry. In a manner of speaking, Miguel had committed an act of selflessness, had given him a gift—comprising not everything he had wanted, but enough to confirm the private rumor swirling between them all this time. Something was going on. Something powerful, something reciprocal.

They awoke seemingly in unison the next morning. Miguel gathered his clothes and began to put them on. Gabe remained seated on the blanket, tugging his pants awkwardly under his backside and up around his waist. He grabbed up his t-shirt, then, after noticing the manner in which it stuck to itself, dropped it immediately in a small heap on the floor. He had completely forgotten. He looked up at Miguel, who stood frozen, eyes darting between him and the shirt.

"I better go get another," Gabe said. He fully expected Miguel to cut the tension at this point, perhaps by laughing it off, maybe tossing in one of his effortless jokes for good measure. But instead Miguel confirmed, "You better," and then chuckled in a quiet way that sounded full of nerves as Gabe retreated to his bedroom.

When he came back out fully dressed, Miguel said, "So, listen, I've got about a million things to do before work on Monday."

"Of course," Gabe said quickly, with a bit too much force. "I can't thank you enough for coming over."

"Think nothing of it, my friend." Miguel slipped on his shoes and looked at him with the mad eyes of a dog begging to be let out.

Gabe opened the door and Miguel whisked through, muttering, "See you soon," and throwing up a wave as he walked toward the stairwell.

—

Miguel did not act any differently from usual when Gabe returned to the warehouse Monday night. The sky was overcast and the air was thick and hot. Sparse, fat raindrops began falling just as he lined up the car's mirror with he edge of the garage door. They increased in frequency as he backed in.

"How's life?" asked Miguel when Gabe got out.

Gabe replied in a word or two, then Miguel muttered something about being surprised by the rain, which now sounded in a dull roar from the metal roof overhead. It was loud enough that any conversation would have to be deliberate, face to face, and Miguel was too busy to stop and talk. Boredom eventually struck. Gabe ducked back into the car and closed the door. Less than half an hour later, the shriek of the first locking pin woke him from a nap he had not intended to take. Miguel heaved open the door, then signaled for Gabe to leave.

The warehouse returned to its echoey silence the next night. At first, Gabe had no reason to think Miguel was being standoffish. He smiled at Gabe and even joked about the meagerness of Gabe's facial hair, which was resigned to his chin and a thin line on his upper-lip. Gabe assured him that it would be shaved off as soon as he got a free moment. Miguel told him he should keep it, that it looked nice—a forward enough statement to put Gabe completely at ease.

It was within this state of repose that he found the courage to bring it up. "I wanted to tell you...the other night—that was fun. I had a good time, in case you were worried that we took it too far or anything."

Miguel marked the box he was holding with a big X, and then another. He carried it off toward a canvas bin along the south wall. "I don't see why we have to talk everything to death," he said from twenty feet away.