Part 2 (1/2)
George spins around, startled to be discovered. He lets out an embarra.s.sed whoop, s.h.i.+elds his crotch, and dashes by, near enough for Robin to reach out and slap his a.s.s. Robin can feel the damp heat rising off George's skin.
Through the bathroom door, George shouts, ”I came out of the shower, and I heard this song, and I was, like-”
”Empty apartment, dance naked.”
”You know I love me some Prince.”
”I'll come in more quietly next time.” Robin affects this kind of flirtation with George sometimes, a little steam valve meant to release whatever tension might naturally build between gay friends sharing an apartment but not a bed. This tension wasn't something he'd expected going into the summer, since he and George did not, it seemed, have any unresolved questions about who they were to each other. But George isn't the diminutive science geek he was in high school. He's been building up his body, dropping to the floor of the apartment once a day for push-ups and sit-ups in a tank top that reveals the sweet dusting of hair at the center of his developing chest. Robin has imagined running his fingers over those newly tight muscles, and he imagines more than that in this moment. But then George reemerges from the bathroom in his ugly plaid robe. Its indigo and turquoise stripes seem designed to make its wearer look as unattractive as possible.
”I thought you'd still be at work,” Robin says.
”I asked to leave early. I thought you were out with Peter.”
”He ordered us Greek food and then broke up with me.”
”What?”
The phone rings, and Robin grabs it, wis.h.i.+ng for Peter, but instead it's someone named Matthias. ”Mah-TEE-uss,” in some northern European accent, calling for ”Gay-org.” George takes the phone without explanation and stretches the cord as far as it goes, which in this case means back into the bathroom.
Robin steps to the window, propped open because they have no air conditioning, just a ceiling fan that stirs up the heat. Maybe Peter's out there, maybe he came back and is waiting for you to notice him, ready to apologize and ask you for another chance. Maybe Peter's out there, maybe he came back and is waiting for you to notice him, ready to apologize and ask you for another chance. But, no, just the neighborhood boys doing their thing. Above the trees on 41st Street, the sky is a haze of pastel twilight, a glimpse of a fading day. But, no, just the neighborhood boys doing their thing. Above the trees on 41st Street, the sky is a haze of pastel twilight, a glimpse of a fading day.
At the far end of the living room is a waist-high countertop that opens to the kitchen. George walks from the bathroom to the fridge, pulling bottles of Old Latrobe from a six-pack he probably bought at the corner bar on his way home from work. He hands one across the counter to Robin, who drinks deeply, feeling the earthy, cold liquid move into the hollow center of his torso.
”So, what happened?” George asks him.
”You first. I want details.”
”About?”
Imitating the voice on the phone, Robin says, ”Matthias.”
”Did you see him in the restaurant today?” George asks.
”One of the Germans?”
”He's actually Danish. The tall guy, with the punky hair?”
”That guy? How'd you know he was gay?” guy? How'd you know he was gay?”
”He practically followed me into the kitchen. You should have seen Cesar's reaction to that.” George looks down at the floor; he might be hiding a smile. ”I gave him my number.”
”Wow. That's superfast. Maybe some kind of record for you.”
”What was strange was how he was so sure I I was gay,” George says. ”That never happens. Especially with white boys.” was gay,” George says. ”That never happens. Especially with white boys.”
”Georgie, when you stare-”
”I know, I need to wear dark gla.s.ses.”
”Because your eyes go up and down a man- your eyes go up and down a man-”
”-like searchlights. Thank you, Joan Crawford.” Thank you, Joan Crawford.”
”That was Rosalind Russell.”
George slugs from his beer until foam spills from his lips. Then he wipes his mouth and lets out a resonant belch.
”That's right,” Robin says. ”Wash down the gay movie reference with a brewski.”
”He's leaving town tomorrow.”
”Ah, that's that's why you left work early. You're gonna see him tonight.” why you left work early. You're gonna see him tonight.”
”Maybe.” George steps around to Robin's side of the counter and hops up onto one of their two barstools, his bare legs dangling below the robe. ”Hey, I looked up something in the university catalog today. It's not too late for me to apply for semester abroad programs. How slammin' would that be, if I was in London at the same time?”
”That would be major major.” In an instant, the entire picture of London seems to click into place: the two of them sharing a flat, Robin going off to rehearsal, George doing an interns.h.i.+p at some kind of national health clinic, meeting up at night to go dancing at that world-famous club, Heaven...”But wait-don't change the subject, Georgie. You need to get get some.” some.”
”OK, we both know it's been a long time.” He arches his back and howls, ”Matthias, have your way with me.” The robe slouches open. Robin finds himself staring again, staring at George George. So weird.
George says, ”I'll call this guy back. I will. But first tell me what stupid Peter said to you.”
Robin frowns. He relocates to the couch, facing the window, looking out at the dimming sky. Where to start? How about this: ”He thinks I'm going to give him the virus.”
”Don't even joke.”
”I'm not.”
”You took the test, Robin.”
”They say it can hide for a while in your bloodstream. Undetected.”
”I know,” George says. ”But you can't make yourself crazy about every p.e.n.i.s that's been in your mouth.”
Robin doesn't say what he's thinking, what George is probably thinking, too. It's not so much p.e.n.i.ses-in-mouth that worries him, it's c.o.c.ks-up-a.s.s. In New York City. For years now. Only lately did anyone recommend using a condom, only lately did they even have a name for this: AIDS.
George follows him across the room. ”What did he actually say to you?”
”Something about the last time, when I let him f.u.c.k me with no rubber.”
”You what what?”
”Not for very long. He didn't shoot.” Robin feels his face warm up; he knows how this must sound to George, can see him getting agitated.
”But that's riskier for you than him. Why is he putting it all on you?”
”I'm the one with the history.”