Nothing and Everything
A Quickening Adagio
Conor downed one last shot and slid several dollar bills across the slippery, wooden counter. It was after midnight by the time he got home. The sinking moonlight darted in and out of the hallway as he fumbled with his keys. When the clock finally clicked and the door swung open, a warm, familiar-smelling air flooded his senses. He was home.
Janet’s eyes fluttered open as he crawled into bed beside her, running a hand down her pale face. “I missed you,” her voice was hoarse, coated with sleep. “Me too.” Conor shut his eyes, sinking into the mattress. Home, sleep, comfort, monotony.
“I wish you hadn’t gone.”
“Me too.”
“You had fun?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Conor’s mind wandered back to honeysuckle vines and trombone riffs, warm hands and scuffed leather shoes…
“Without me?” Janet’s voice had a sudden, familiar edge as if Conor had said something wrong, something offensive. He felt angry, defensive.
“You told me to go.”
“Yeah, but–“
“But what?”
“It’s just that– Oh, leave it.”
“Leave what?”
“I said leave it!”
Conor hated these increasingly frequent arguments, discussions, as Janet had recently christened them. He hated the way her eyes flared with irritated intensity, the way he could do no right. He hated the way she turned over, leaving him staring at the back of her mussed-up hair. He hated the way her breathing slowed, constant, sleeping. And as the moon sunk lower and lower in the sky, Conor began to think.
*******
Across town, Gerard woke with a start. The sky outside was beginning to gray. His head throbbed. The constant pulsations seemed to be pounding his eyeballs out of his skull. The room was unfamiliar to him, as was the bed, as was the man sleeping next to him. Attractive, decided Gerard, but not overly so. Pushing some oily strands of hair out of his eyes, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The floor felt solid, constant beneath his feet. He hastily pulled his tuxedo shirt over his head and laced up his scuffed leather shoes.
There was a bathroom down the narrow hallway. The cold water felt good on his face. Realizing his clothes smelled like vodka and stale sweat, he splashed some water on his shirt too. For good measure. Gerard smirked at his reflection in the greasy mirror.
Two shady blocks and an attempted mugging later, Gerard found his beat up car parked beneath a 24-hour adult movie store. The garish neon signs gave the morning fog a dusty, iridescent sheen. His car was unlocked, the glove compartment torn open, stray tissues and band aids flung about the car. The cheap car stereo was torn out, leaving a gaping wire-lined hole in the dashboard. Fuck! Fuck life. Fuck fucking everything. He kicked the curb, his car, a fat pigeon rooting for bread crumbs. He jumped into the driver’s seat, cracking his already throbbing head on the doorframe. As he sped off down the dark streets, he decided he had had enough of one-night-stands.
There was a face, a troubled, beautiful face imprinted in his mind. The face was floating away, down garden paths, past trombone players in the gold-braided jackets. “FUCK!” Gerard ran a red light to the disapproval of the drivers around him. He raced off, away from the accusatory car horns. Gerard, unlike Conor, never needed to stop and think.
Janet’s eyes fluttered open as he crawled into bed beside her, running a hand down her pale face. “I missed you,” her voice was hoarse, coated with sleep. “Me too.” Conor shut his eyes, sinking into the mattress. Home, sleep, comfort, monotony.
“I wish you hadn’t gone.”
“Me too.”
“You had fun?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Conor’s mind wandered back to honeysuckle vines and trombone riffs, warm hands and scuffed leather shoes…
“Without me?” Janet’s voice had a sudden, familiar edge as if Conor had said something wrong, something offensive. He felt angry, defensive.
“You told me to go.”
“Yeah, but–“
“But what?”
“It’s just that– Oh, leave it.”
“Leave what?”
“I said leave it!”
Conor hated these increasingly frequent arguments, discussions, as Janet had recently christened them. He hated the way her eyes flared with irritated intensity, the way he could do no right. He hated the way she turned over, leaving him staring at the back of her mussed-up hair. He hated the way her breathing slowed, constant, sleeping. And as the moon sunk lower and lower in the sky, Conor began to think.
*******
Across town, Gerard woke with a start. The sky outside was beginning to gray. His head throbbed. The constant pulsations seemed to be pounding his eyeballs out of his skull. The room was unfamiliar to him, as was the bed, as was the man sleeping next to him. Attractive, decided Gerard, but not overly so. Pushing some oily strands of hair out of his eyes, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The floor felt solid, constant beneath his feet. He hastily pulled his tuxedo shirt over his head and laced up his scuffed leather shoes.
There was a bathroom down the narrow hallway. The cold water felt good on his face. Realizing his clothes smelled like vodka and stale sweat, he splashed some water on his shirt too. For good measure. Gerard smirked at his reflection in the greasy mirror.
Two shady blocks and an attempted mugging later, Gerard found his beat up car parked beneath a 24-hour adult movie store. The garish neon signs gave the morning fog a dusty, iridescent sheen. His car was unlocked, the glove compartment torn open, stray tissues and band aids flung about the car. The cheap car stereo was torn out, leaving a gaping wire-lined hole in the dashboard. Fuck! Fuck life. Fuck fucking everything. He kicked the curb, his car, a fat pigeon rooting for bread crumbs. He jumped into the driver’s seat, cracking his already throbbing head on the doorframe. As he sped off down the dark streets, he decided he had had enough of one-night-stands.
There was a face, a troubled, beautiful face imprinted in his mind. The face was floating away, down garden paths, past trombone players in the gold-braided jackets. “FUCK!” Gerard ran a red light to the disapproval of the drivers around him. He raced off, away from the accusatory car horns. Gerard, unlike Conor, never needed to stop and think.