Set My Clocks Early
I confess, I messed up
“We really fucked up, didn’t we?” he says. He’s sat outside, and I’m watching him through the window, but I don’t tell him that. Instead, I just nod like he can see me through the phone.
He’s been sat on my parents’ porch for at least an hour and a half. I saw him through the curtain as I poured myself a glass of milk. I ignored him and went back upstairs, completely forgetting my drink. But the phone rang just now, and the milk was still cold when I picked it back up.
“Andrew,” he says.
“I love you,” he says.
“I miss you,” he says.
I laugh. I’m sat on the sofa. I pull my legs up to my chest and laugh into the phone so he can hear me. So the sound pushes its way through to his brain. I hope it hurts, but I hope I’m there to kiss it better.
“What if I told you to drop dead?” I ask.
“Then I’d call you a child.” He always liked to act so much older than me, and he still does, obviously. I roll my eyes at his choice of words. He’s sat on the bench, cradling the phone in both of his hands like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
“Do you know what my parents would do if they knew I was speaking to you?”
He lets his foot drop, and rest on the polished wood decking, but he doesn’t answer.
“They’d find you.” I take one last gulp of milk, and put the empty glass down on the side. “Michael, my dad would kill you without even thinking about it.”
“I love you,” he says.
“Andrew,” he says.
“I miss you,” he says.
I hang up. I can’t listen to him any longer. I hang up and I take my empty glass and put it in the kitchen. The wallpaper is suffocating, and I can’t breathe. I imagine my life, played out by actors who look nothing like me. The house is too warm.
My mother’s going to set me up with some pretty blonde girl from a good family. I’m sure she’ll be lovely, but she won’t make me happy. It’ll ruin my life, and hers too. I’ll go to college and move straight into a house exactly like this one. White picket fence, three bedrooms, four windows at the front that frame the door. We’ll have kids, and be blissfully unhappy.
I’m so melodramatic. It’s too hot. I can’t think. I pace through the house until I get to the front door. My hand forms a fist around the door handle, and my knuckle starts to go white. I take a mouthful of stale air and open the door, hoping that Michael is still outside.
He’s been sat on my parents’ porch for at least an hour and a half. I saw him through the curtain as I poured myself a glass of milk. I ignored him and went back upstairs, completely forgetting my drink. But the phone rang just now, and the milk was still cold when I picked it back up.
“Andrew,” he says.
“I love you,” he says.
“I miss you,” he says.
I laugh. I’m sat on the sofa. I pull my legs up to my chest and laugh into the phone so he can hear me. So the sound pushes its way through to his brain. I hope it hurts, but I hope I’m there to kiss it better.
“What if I told you to drop dead?” I ask.
“Then I’d call you a child.” He always liked to act so much older than me, and he still does, obviously. I roll my eyes at his choice of words. He’s sat on the bench, cradling the phone in both of his hands like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
“Do you know what my parents would do if they knew I was speaking to you?”
He lets his foot drop, and rest on the polished wood decking, but he doesn’t answer.
“They’d find you.” I take one last gulp of milk, and put the empty glass down on the side. “Michael, my dad would kill you without even thinking about it.”
“I love you,” he says.
“Andrew,” he says.
“I miss you,” he says.
I hang up. I can’t listen to him any longer. I hang up and I take my empty glass and put it in the kitchen. The wallpaper is suffocating, and I can’t breathe. I imagine my life, played out by actors who look nothing like me. The house is too warm.
My mother’s going to set me up with some pretty blonde girl from a good family. I’m sure she’ll be lovely, but she won’t make me happy. It’ll ruin my life, and hers too. I’ll go to college and move straight into a house exactly like this one. White picket fence, three bedrooms, four windows at the front that frame the door. We’ll have kids, and be blissfully unhappy.
I’m so melodramatic. It’s too hot. I can’t think. I pace through the house until I get to the front door. My hand forms a fist around the door handle, and my knuckle starts to go white. I take a mouthful of stale air and open the door, hoping that Michael is still outside.
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I like to live in a hopeful world where writing a story with gay characters doesn't automatically make it a slash story, but this is the internet. Just a little tiny something, I guess.The poem I quoted in the summary.