Perfect Teeth

Sometimes New York felt exactly like London. A crowded train platform, hoards of honking in the middle of the afternoon. But New York in the summer was uniquely its own, the humid wash of air that hit you waiting for the subway, the smell of piss baked into the sidewalk. Objectively, I could reason that I was contributing to the smell of New York in the summer, garbage and dog pee, as I stood on the sidewalk while a small black dog guffawed its way around a cast iron garden fence looking for the perfect peg to release on. But 5:45 in the morning is not the time to be objective, especially when it’s already reaching past 85 degrees, the wafting smell is strong and nauseating, and you’re only up this early because your dog has to pee and your partner won’t get up to take him out even when it is definitely their turn to do so.

Banana was still deciding which portion of the fence to pee on and I’d left my phone upstairs, so I had nothing else to focus on but the smell, the heat, and the sounds of the city already well past its way of waking up. I rarely had a reason to be up and outside this early in London, so despite the litany of complaints building in my head, I did enjoy my little slice of New York. The city felt less daunting, less like it belonged to everyone else. This stretch of sidewalk between 85th and Central Park West was mine.

“Alright,” I said to the pug. “Each fence post is going to be the same in the end, so make your decision quickly and let’s get on with it.”

Banana did not deign to acknowledge me, but within a few minutes we were done and headed upstairs.

Back in the apartment, things were much the same as I’d left it when I begrudgingly got out of bed. Curtains left open, slashes of light slowly making their way in. A few mugs left on the counter from the night before, a cascade of shoes by the door, stacks of half-finished books on a chair. Harry was still face down on the mattress, limbs strewn about, half under the covers, ass fully out. The air conditioning in the apartment was not as shoddy as his bitching would make one believe, but any excuse to be in the nude worked, I guess.

He didn’t wake up as I shut the door and turned the deadbolt behind me, neither did he stir when I clanged the keys into the ceramic bowl. After I released Banana from the lead, he bounded over to the bed, catapulting himself in the spot between Harry’s outstretched legs. I rolled my eyes as I schucked off my slippers and climbed into bed, fitting myself into the slim space remaining on the queen sized mattress.

“Harry,” I said as I lay down next to him, rolling onto my side to fit my body next to his.

“Harry.” I slid my hand along his torso, hip bone to shoulder, fingers gently trailing along the curve.

“Harry.” I propped myself up until I was half over him, body stretched across his back, lips brushed against his neck. “Baby, wake up.”

A gentle, reluctant stir.

“Haaaarry,” I crooned as I pressed the edge of my hip slightly into him. “Harry Barry Banana Bo Barry.”

“Guh,” he replied, grabbing my hand from where it was creeping up towards him and stopping my movement. “Shh.”

I made a sound against his back, a mix between what might have been a sexy-ish meow and a grunt. “Wake up.” I pressed my slightly opened mouth against his shoulder blade. “Please?”

“Pah.” He snuggled deeper into the pillow. There were a few incomprehensible syllables.

I moved so I was fully on top of him then, chest along his torso, legs fitted around his. He was sweaty from sleep, but still somehow managed to smell good, just the right side of musky. Banana looked momentarily disgruntled before settling back down for a snooze. “I need you to wake up now.” I said. “Up up up up up.” I accompanied this with a full-on body wiggle, shimming my body against his like a little dancing caterpillar, until I felt an actual stir and the breath change of someone finally rising.

“Y’alrigh’?” Harry turned his neck only slightly, one heavily-lidded eye peeking out from underneath a mess of hair.

“Guess what?” I said. Experience had taught me that this was not the time to stop shimmying, so I kept on. My core muscles were starting to hurt a little, but good to get your work out in early in the day, I thought.

“Wha?”

“It’s Wednesday morning.”

“An?”

“Wednesday, the day after Tuesday, before Thursday, smack dab in the middle of the traditional capitalist work week.”

A grumble that might’ve been “yeah” but that really meant “congratulations, you know your days, I’m going to resume sleeping.”

“Wednesday the 10th. Of July. In this year of 2019. The second half of a shit decade, remember? Tumultuous times, these?”

“Ez?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Shh.”

The wiggling was starting to get a little tiring, so I slowed down my pace, focusing more on a little jolting of the ankles, some knee action to keep the momentum alive. “Do you know what today is?”

No response.

“It’s Brimfield Antique Market day.” I punctuated this with a particularly jiggly leg movement. “As in, the largest flea market in the United States. As in, the day you set an alarm for 5:35 in the morning, which rang, which woke the dog, because you swore that we needed to be up and out of the house by 6:15 so we could beat traffic and hit the stalls before all the good shit is swiped.”

Harry grumbled, but after a second more of silence, he flopped himself over to his back, jolting both me and Banana in the process. Banana let out a little yip, I let out a grunt, and Harry finally opened both eyes, ever the picture of a sleepy angel, drool tracks and eye dust and all.

“Hmm.” A hand went out towards me, pulling me in close. “Think I vaguely remember something like that.”

“You also promised that you would be the one to take Banana out for a walk at this ungodly hour.”

Harry shook his head fervently. “Fake news. I would never.”

“There was another promise in there about an oat milk latte, I’m pretty sure. Maybe a breakfast burrito.”

“Uh huh.” Harry ducked his head into my shoulder as he wrapped his arms tighter, sticky skin against the soft cotton of my sleeping shirt. “Likely story.”

“I’m not the one with a hobby for antiquing, so I don’t know why you think I’d make this up.”

“It is not a hobby.” Harry sounded offended. “It is a passion. Brimfield is the largest antique market and is basically a rite of passage. You should feel lucky I didn’t set the alarm for 4:35 instead.”

“I’ll be lucky once I have a breakfast burrito in one hand and an oat milk latte in the other.”

“Will you accept my apologies in the form of some kisses? Maybe a particularly good grope with more to follow later after a successful day of deals?”

“Sorry, the only currency I accept is breakfast. Maybe try back later for bartering.”

Harry guffawed against my neck, pressing a kiss to the skin there before pulling back enough to look at me.

“Morning,” he said, a smile on his face, all heart-stopping dimple and bright eyes.

“Just barely,” I replied, as if unphased by the sun shining basically through him. Years of practice. “The sun’s only just risen.”

He shut me up with a kiss, a gentle press that lasted a few seconds longer than a normal good morning. When he pulled back, he was still smiling, and I fought back the urge to return it, but I knew the crinkles by my eyes were betraying me. Harry always looked the silliest in the morning, his hair wild with frizz, skin soft and creased from the pillows.

I’ve always been struck by him the most in the dawn, the hours before he has to start giving so much else of himself away. Sometimes the past would creep up on me these mornings, when we would wake up and grab for each other, blurry eyed and wanting comfort, and I’d catch a glimpse of his face between one moment and the next and remember him, but different, younger, stretched taut with youth and worry, heavy with expectation. The faces of two young adults trying to fall in love for the first time, the excitement of it all. The ways in which I have seen that face and the mind behind it change.

In the five years that we’ve known each other, I’ve woken up next to him often enough to witness the shifts. Sometimes months, almost an entire year would go by without seeing each other, just a few texts, maybe a long meandering email when we were both in-between friends and lovers. Our timeline ebbed and flowed. Close when the hiatus happened, father apart during an album recording, conversation almost nonexistent during a tour. The first month I moved to New York we spoke on the phone a few evenings a week, conversations to distract me from the enormity of shifting my life yet again, to keep him from all of the expectations and eventual decisions.

Sometime in the last year and a half, something shifted. I was fully settled in New York, assistant producing video content for a variety of websites, the third year into a lease on the Upper West Side. I had friends, a visually-impaired black pug, and a membership to the MoMA. Harry was off the high of his first worldwide solo tour and looking for a place to rest, eventually landing in New York as he chaired the Met Ball and took a break between work.

It was almost comical, how easy we fell back into each other when the circumstances allowed it. How time had eased most of our bruises, patched up wounds. It is striking how capable you find yourself when you aren’t expecting it, how one day you wake up and realize that the things you thought impossible suddenly don’t seem so scary anymore. Time and experience shift your perceptions, your capabilities. You still stumble through the conversations, but at least you can have them. You don’t always get everything right, but the big stuff is mostly okay, and you know how to navigate the stuff you don’t understand a little bit easier. When I was younger I used to think of adults as always just settling, each year accepting their sights a little bit lower, but I think it’s a matter of being able to differentiate what is truly important, what the big, life-altering goals actually look like.

Harry and the relationship we shared wasn’t much drama and excitement anymore, blessingly stable and steady for people who had such a tumbling start as we did, but that’s how most of the big stuff goes, doesn’t it? Not always with an announcement or a bang, but a consistent choice.

“I’m so excited.” Harry said. “We can go over the list of what we’re looking for when we’re in the car.”

“Breakfast.” I repeated again. “Need food first.”

With one last squeeze, Harry finally untangled himself from the bedsheets and headed towards the kitchen. Lucky for him, the space between the bed and the fridge was maybe two solid feet.

“We have drip coffee and oatmilk.” He pulled the brown paper bag out of the cabinet. “Raincheck on the espresso?”

“Harumph.” I said, but there wasn’t much behind it. I was definitely having a bit of an ogle as Harry set the yellow kettle on to boil, grabbed the supplies from the fridge, and started laying everything out. We’d had many, many discussions about the safety hazards regarding cooking naked, and he’d put an apron on for anything involving hot oil, but I also couldn’t deny that I didn’t totally enjoy it. Reverse male-gaze and objectification and all that.

“I’ve already packed a basket for this afternoon,” he said, turning on the hob. “We’ll need to fill up our water bottles before we go, but everything else is ready. I even stopped at the bank last night and took out money so we don’t have to worry about ATM lines. The map is downloaded on my phone, but we can discuss the pros and cons of where we want to start first on the way there, too.”

“Mhmm.” I knew I needed to get up and get dressed eventually, struggle my way into some linen shorts and a pair of Birkenstocks, but the bed was still perfectly indented and Banana had shuffled his way into the space by my hip.

“I’ve downloaded two episodes of On Being as well as a few playlists, so we’re on for a bit of variety, depending on the mood. I know how you are about atmosphere so I’ve kept it well-rounded, and I will give you the power to pick the music for the first hour as an apology for the alarm this morning.”

“Much appreciated.”

“Waseem said he’ll come round to pick up Banana for the day and I’ve given him the spare. I told him I’d let him know when we’re on our way back, but he’s fine with tomorrow morning too if we stay out later.”

“You think the antiquing will go into the wee hours of the evening?”

“It’s a wild world out there, Ez. One can never know what to expect.”

I rolled my eyes but laughed. “I’m glad you’re so prepared then.”

“It’s going to be a beautiful day, love.” Harry basically gleamed at me. “Now you’ve got five more minutes of lounging as I finish this up before you’re to be dressed, ready, and by the door, alright?”

“Not five minutes ago you were basically dead to the world and now you’re bossing me around. Unbelievable.”

“I’ve always been good at giving direction.” Harry winked and struck some desirable shapes.

“Sometimes I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this,” I fake harangued before flopping over dramatically.

I did know, actually, what I’d done to deserve it, both in practice and in luck. Being with Harry, crammed in my one-bedroom-though-technically-a-studio-with-den, I knew that there were matters of fate at play that I could not possibly understand for both of us. Timing, circumstance, how attraction sustains over years. Others, though, I could. The privacy and time afforded to him now that the band was over, the agency he had over his own schedule and decisions. My ability to set and communicate boundaries, a career not solely dependent on public perception of my character. People still cared and privacy was always a lingering concern, but with enough planning and discretion, we could go through our days and lives almost unhindered.

My YouTube career stalled and then fizzled as time passed and a new wave of influencers took over, but the content I was creating professionally now felt fulfilling. My Twitter was private, but my Instagram was up and open to the public, mostly followed by those willing to put up with inconsistent and often weird content relating to Banana or stickers found on New York City light posts. Every once and awhile, after an over-publicized event or a shot of Harry and I in certain restaurant circulated, a mean comment or message would sneak through, but it was easier to ignore when my entire life didn’t feel so contingent on everyone else’s approval.

Vaguely, I could register the sounds of Harry creating in the background, the almost-whistle of the kettle, the slosh and pour of coffee, the sizzle of a pan. I was on the verge of slipping down into an actual sleep when the bed dipped beside me, Harry’s hands brushing back a few strands of my hair.

“Ez,” he whispered. “Ez Pez, wake up. Food’s almost done. We’ve got to get going soon, your mum said they’ll meet us there at half eight.”

“Bah,” I protested.

“C’mon, love,” he leaned down to press a scatter of kisses along the side of my face, temple to chin. “Breakfast burritos on the counter.”

“No breakfast in bed?” I pouted.

“I’m smarter than that, Ezza. Now.” His other hand gave a little pat to my bum. “Up and at ‘em.”

I squinted my eyes at him in a hopefully (but probably not) menacing way. “One more kiss and I’ll allow it.”

Harry laughed but obliged. “Yes, ma’am.”

His hand rested on the side of my face, tilting my head backwards as he leaned down and kissed me, harder than before, enough energy in it to wake me up, our lips messily moving together for a few moments. It was a kiss on the cusp of more, the type to start an entire afternoon in bed if we had the time and allowed it, but now, maybe, it was just a promise. Something to look forward to, in the afternoons and evenings to come. A kiss we’ve shared many, many times before, one I’ve grown to long for when it was no longer mine, and one I’d relished in being able to come back to eventually.

“Alright,” I said when we finally came back up for air. I rested my nose gently against his, my hands along his neck. “Let’s go.”