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MiAlma
WANTED,THEADsaid.Bartenderforofficeholidayparty.Shouldbeeasy-going,LGBT-friendly,andhaveserver’slicenseandgreatreferences.Competitiveremuneration.
DamianclickedontheshowcontactinfolinkattheendoftheCraigslistad.Upcameaphonenumber,emailaddressandthenameAlma.
“Alma,”Damiansaidoutloud,enjoyinghowtheSpanishconsonantsmovedinhismouth.Ithadbeentoolongsincehe’dspokenthelanguageatlength,butitstillfeltrightonhistongue.Hecouldalmosthearhismother’svoiceasherepeatedtheword:“Alma.”
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“Hijodemialma,”shewouldcallhimwhenhehadneededitmost—childofmysoul.Whenhewassmall,he’dbeenplaguedbynightterrorsandnightmares,oftenwakingupinpitchblacknesstothesoundofhisownblood-curdlingscreams.Hismotherwouldpullhimtoherlap,whisperingintohisfeverishscalp,“Hijodemialma,notepreocupes.Mamiestáaquí.”
Childofmysoul,don’tworry.Mommyishere.
Heneverdoubtedherlove,notforoneminute—notuntilhewastwelveanditsuddenlydawnedonhimwhathisfascinationwithFranciscoPimenteldownthestreetactuallymeant.Heletthisknowledgeabouthimselfsimmer,hisfeargrowing
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everySundaywhenshedraggedhimtomassforthesacrament.Butitwastoomuchforaboytohold,andhislidblewoffoneSaturdayafternoonwhensheteasedhimfortheumpteenthtimeaboutthecutegorditawholivednextdoorandmadeswoonyeyesathimwheneverhewalkedby.
“WhyyoualwayssomeantoElena?She’ssuchasweetgirl,andsmart.Nicecurves,too.You’dthinkaboywouldnoticethat.”Shelookeddownatthecuttingboardofplantainsshe’djustfinishedslicing.“Handmeaspoon,wouldyou?”
EverythinginsideDamianwasroiling.Ithadroiledbefore,sethislidtoshaking.Buthe’dheldon,managedtokeepittightandlocked
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inplace.Hetriedsohardtoholdonagainthistime.Hepulledthewoodenspoonfromthedrawer.
Somethinginsidehimburst.“ShutupaboutElenaalready!”
Heslammedthespoonagainstthecounter.“Don’tyougetit?Idon’tcareabouthercurves!Idon’tcareaboutanygirl’scurves.I’ma—”Hechokedontheword,startedtocrylikealittleboy.“I’mafag,Mami.Soycundango.”
Hecouldn’tevenlookather,butitdidn’tmatter.Intwosecondsflatshehadherarmsaroundhim,pullinghimclose,herhandsmessyfromtheplantainsbutherbodywarmandcomforting.“Tuereselhijodemialma.Tequieroporsiempre.”Youarethechildofmysoul.Iwillalways
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loveyou.NoneofthismeanttheAlmalady
who’dplacedtheadwasLatina.He’dreadabookonceaboutpioneersin1800sMontanawithanAngloheroinewhoinexplicablyhadAlmaashername.MaybethisAlmawaswhite,too,namedforsomesuchancestor.Hepicturedasturdyolddykewithstrongarmsandknobbyhands,arthriticfromyearsofmanuallabor.
Intheend,itdidn’tmatterwhoshewasorwhatshelookedlike,aslongasshepaidwhatshepromised.Damianhadjuststartedworkatanewplace—aswankyjointthatwasamoveupfromhispreviousjob.Butwiththelowestseniority,hehadn’tmanagedtosnaganyofthemost
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lucrativeshiftsyet.Mostlyhe’dbeworkingdays,acrappytimefortipsevenatChristmas.Hecouldusethemoney.
Hepickeduphisphoneanddialedthenumber.
“Hello,thisisAlmaLarsen,”avoicesaidontheotherendoftheline.Damianstartled.Thevoicewasdeep,andnotawomanlydeep.NotNinaSimoneoragrandmawho’dsmokedthreepacksadayherentirelife.ItwasBarryWhitedeep,thekindofvoicethatmadeaman’sballsstirandhisbigtoeshootupinhisboot.
“Y-yes,hello,”Damianstammered.Damianneverstammered.Hewassmoothandcollected.Nothingcouldblowhis
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Loggerhead
IMETJAKEwhenIwaswritingapieceaboutculinaryprofessionalswhohadenteredthetrademid-career.IswearIdidn’thaveakinkformeninchef’suniforms,butwhenhewalkedoutofthekitcheninhisblackpantsandwhitedouble-breastedshirt,withabigsmilethatwrinkledthecornersofhisbrowneyesintoaconglomerateofcrow’sfeet–well,Ialmostswooned.
IfollowedJakearoundthekitchenasheworked,inspectingthedeliveriesandshowingthelinecookstherightwaytocutceleryrootsothatitcurledintospiralsasfineasangelhair.Inbetweenhisothertasks,andsometimesduring,heansweredmy
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questions.Theotherchefswouldbecurtattimeslikethis,distractedbytheirdailychoresandthelatestemergencytoarisebeforetherestaurantopenedfortheday.They’dbesparingwiththeirwords–untiloneofthekitchenstaffmadeabeginner’smistakeandI’dlearnjusthowmuch,andhowloudly,achefcouldtalk.
Jakewasdifferent.Therewasnoyelling,andthehubbubofthekitchenneverboiledintochaos.Hewascharmingandexpansive.Evenashecarefullydissectedhalibutheadsfortheirprizedcheeks,Ifeltlikeallhisattentionwasonme.
Hewasabetterfirstdatethanmostofmyactualfirstdates.
Afterthearticlewentup,I
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grumbledtomyeditor,“Toobadit’sagainstjournalisticethicstosleepwithaninterviewee.”
Shelookedupfromhercomputer,hereyebrowscurvedlikethetopsoftwoquestionmarks.“JakePark?”
“AmIthatobvious?”Shesmirked.“Justahunch.”Then
sheadded,“Restaurantsaren’tyourusualbeat.Ithinkit’sokayforyoutofallinlovewithhimaslongasyoudon’twriteabouthimagain.”
“Whosaidanythingaboutfallinginlove?”
“Youdidn’thaveto,”shesaid.“Iknowhowtoreadbetweenthelines.”
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ThefirsttimeIsleptoverathisplacewasduringoneofthosefour-footsnowdumpstheEasternseaboardweatherpatternbestoweduponNewYorkeveryfewyears.Transithadtrickleddowntoabareminimum,andifIlefthisapartmenttherewasariskIwouldn’tseehimagainfordays.
Itwasn’tariskIwaswillingtotake.
IwokeupthatmorningwithJake’sheadagainstmychestandhistortoiseshellcatcurledaroundmyankles.IwatchedJake’sheadriseandfallwitheachbreathItook.Herehewas,trustingmenottoharmhimwhilehelayunconsciousanddefenselessinhisownbed.Sleepingbesidesomeonewas,insomeways,a
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moreintimateactthanhavingsexwiththem.
Thelightcomingthroughthewindowwasgray.Itwashardtotellifitwasstillnightorjustdarkbecauseoftheclouds.IgotupandpulledonthesweatsJakehadgottenoutformethenightbefore.Thesweatshirtwasduskyblue,fadedfromyearsofwashings.He’dtoldmeitwasfromhisdaysrunninghigh-schooltrackinFlorida.Onthefrontwasaline-drawingofamassiveturtleandthewords“LangfordLoggerheads”printedingreenbeneathit.
Jakestirred,grumblingsomethingunderhisbreathasheturnedontohisbackandopenedhiseyes.Whenhesawme,hesmiled.“You’rehere,”he
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saidwithadegreeofaweusuallyreservedforfireworksandtheGrandCanyon.
“OfcourseIam.”“Ilikeseeingyouinmyclothes,”
hesaid.“Ilikebeinginthem.”Icouldn’t
holdeyecontactwithhimanymore.Iwasn’tusedtobeinglookedatlikeoneoftheSevenNaturalWondersoftheWorld.
Ipointedtotheturtleonthefrontofhisshirt.“Everseenoneinthewild?”Isaid.
“Iwasaturtleguideforafewyearsbeforemovinguphere.You?”
Ishookmyhead.“I’veneverbeenfarsouthenough.I’vealwaysbeencurious,though.EversinceIreadabouttheminRangerRick.”
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“YoureadRangerRickwhenyouwereakid,too?Iknewyouwereperfect.”
Iblushed.“Shutup.”“I’mserious.”Hesatupinbed
andreachedformyhips,pullingmebackintothesheetswithhim.“Weshouldgoonaturtlewalksometime.I’lltakeyoubackhomefornestingseason.”
“Takemehomewithyou?”Iteased.“Aren’tyoumovingalittlefast?”
“No,”hesaidwiththesolidconfidenceonlyathirty-five-year-oldinlovecanhave.“Notatall.”
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ReadingtheSigns
TWENTY-THREE-YEAR-oldTheoDeJongwasintrouble.Deep,deeptrouble.
Herehewas,fivethousandmilesfromhomeattheUniversityofNewMexico,forarareopportunitytostudywithafewhundredoftheworld’smostbrilliantlinguists.
Andinsteadofpayingattentiononhisfirstdayofthesummersession,hismind—andeyes—keptwanderingovertothemantwodesksaheadofhim.
“AlfonsoGrossman,”themanhadsaidwhenthey’dintroducedthemselvesbeforeclass,speakingandfingerspellinghisnameatthesametime.
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“Iknowwhoyouare,”TheohadansweredinEnglish,hisheartalmostbeatingoutofhischestasheshookAlfonso’shand.Dr.GrossmanwasanAmericanlinguistwho’dbeentravelingtoNicaraguaforalmosttwodecadestohelpdocumenttheevolutionofthecountry’ssignlanguage.“I’vereadyourpapers.I’mabitofafanboy.”Theobithistongueafterthelastwordslippedout,butitwastoolate.Besides,itwastrue.“Intellectuallyspeaking,ofcourse.”Thatwasalsotrue.TheohadneverseenaphotoofAlfonsobefore,andinhiswildestdreamscouldn’thaveimaginedhowappealingtheAmericanwouldbe,withhisheadfullofsalt-and-peppercurlsandcrow’sfeetatthecornersof
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hiseyesthatmadehimlooklikehewasperpetuallysmiling.
Thecrow’sfeetgrewdeeperasAlfonsobrokeintoanactualgrin.Itwasanicelookonhim.Adorable.Theofeltsomethingtugathisheart.“What’syourarea?”Alfonsosaid.
“DutchSignLanguage.Myparentsaredeaf,soit’smyfirstlanguage.I’mdoingacomparativestudyofthedialectsformymaster’sthesis.”
“Oh!”Alfonsobouncedonhistoesandbroughthishandstogetherinanexcitedclap.“Ineedtohearmoreaboutthat.Iadoredialectology,Mr.—”HeglancedatTheo’snametag.“Mr.DeJong.”
“Youdon’tneedtobesoformal.”“OnlyIdon’tknowhowtosay
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yourfirstname.Isit‘tay-o’or‘thee-o’?”
“‘Tay-o’ishowwesayitinHolland,butwhatever’seasiestforyou.”
Alfonsobeamed.“Ilike‘tay-o.’”Theofelthimselfblushing.He
hopedhissunburncamouflagedit.Now,Theosatathisdeskinhis
ComparativeSyntaxofSignedLanguagesseminar,gazingatAlfonso’scurlsandthenapeofhisneckandthewayhisT-shirtclungtohisshoulders.Hisintellectualcrushwasfasttransformingintoafull-blownone.
Ah,well.Maybetherewasnothingwrongwithaharmlessinfatuation.Aslongasitdidn’tdistractfrom—
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AmovementfromthefrontoftheroomgotTheo’sattention.Itwastheirprofessor,andshewasgesturingathim.“Whatcountryareyoufrom?”shesaidinAmericanSignLanguage.AninterpreterechoedherwordsinEnglish.
“TheNetherlands.Holland,”TheoansweredinEnglish.He’dstudiedASLonlineformonthsinpreparationforthistrip,butthesignsuddenlyescapedhim.
“CanyougiveusanexampleofapossibleclassifierinDutchSignLanguage?”
Thankgoodnessshe’daskedaneasyquestion,becausehehadn’tprocessedawordofwhatshe’dsignedbeforethatpoint.Hestoodupandwalkedtothefrontoftheroom
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sotherestoftheclasscouldsee,tryingnottopayattentiontoAlfonsoturninginhisseat,hisdarkbrowneyesfixedonTheo’sface.
“I’llshowyouaninstancewhereaclassifiercanbeusedtoindicateeyeglasses,asin‘Theeyeglassesfelloffmyface,’”TheosaidinEnglish,pausingfortheinterpretertorepeathisstatementinASLbeforehebegansigninginhismotherlanguage.
“Neat,”wastheprofessor’sresponse.“Let’sgetsomeexamplesfromJapaneseSignLanguagenext.”
Theowentbacktohisdeskasanotherstudenttookhisplaceatthefrontoftheroom.Outofthecornerofhiseye,hethoughthesawAlfonso’sheadmovingwithhim,followinghimrightbacktohisdesk.
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ButwhenTheolookedover,Alfonso’sfacewasburiedinhisnotebook.
TheoresolvednottowasteanymoretimestaringatAlfonso.HewasonlyintheUnitedStatesforsixweeksandcouldsurelysurvivewithoutharboringastupidcrush.
ButthentheprofessorcalledAlfonsotothefronttoshowexamplesfromNicaraguanSignLanguage,andTheonoticedthatinadditiontothecrow’sfeet,adimpleformedinAlfonso’srightcheekwhenhesmiled.
Hewassoverrukkelijk,astheysayinDutch.Gorgeous.
Theowasfucked.
***
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BornofFire
HUNDREDSOFYEARSago,whenIrelandwasstillundertheruleofitsoldlaws,aplagueofchangelingsstruckthepeninsulaofFanadinCountyDonegalonthecountry’snorthernshore.Itseemedanewborncouldn’tbearoundlongerthanafewmonthsbeforethefairiesswitcheditwithoneoftheirownelderlypeoplewho,thoughagedanddecrepit,couldnotatfirstbedistinguishedfromthehumanbabeitreplaced.Onlyafterseveralweekswouldtheswitchbecomeapparentasthechangeling’sdeceptivemagicworeoffanditsbody,thoughstillintheformofachild,wouldbegintorevealitsage,itsskinturninggrayandwitheringto
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wrinkles,anditsfleshwastingawayuntilitseemedamereskeleton.
SowhencholeraturnedthewidowedBridgetCarr’sbabyintoabagofbones,itwasnaturalforhertothinkhewasnolongertrulyherbabybutachangeling,withtherealfruitofherwombkidnappedtosomefairymoundfaraway.
Whenthefairiestookachild,therewasonlyonewaytogetitback:putthechangelingonthefireasifitwerealog,lettingtheflameslickuntilitcriedoutandswoopedupthechimneytoescapethepain.Withthespellbroken,thefairieshadnochoicebuttoimmediatelyreturnthefamily’srightfulchildtoitscradle.Inthisway,SineadMcIntyrehadbeenreturnedtoherparents,ashadJamie
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CallahanandLetitiaFreel.Bridgetwentaboutthe
preparations,throwingpeatonthehearthuntiltheflamesroared.Shetookherbabyfromhiscradleandloweredhimtotheflame,praying,“Ifofthedevil,burnawayfrommyhome,andifofGodandthesaints,showyoumeannoharm.”
Thebabycriedastheheatgrewnearer.Bridgetthoughtthismustmeanthespellwasworkingandsoonthechangelingwouldflee.Butwhenhisbootiesandbonnetcaughtfireandheletoutashrillshriek,kickingandflailing,hisgrayskinturningpinkwithfury,sherealizedhererror.Thiswasthepointwhenthechangelingoughttosproutwingsandevaporateupthechimney,butthebabystayeda
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solidpresenceinherarms,despitehisclothestonguingwithflame.
“Ach,childofmywomb!”Bridgetclutchedthebabytoherbreast,wrappinghershawlaroundhimtoquenchtheflames,anddousedhimwithwaterfromthetub.Butmuchdamagewasalreadydone.Hisrightearwasbadlysingedandtheskinofhisrightfootandankleburnedaway.Bridgetfeltterribleandcouldbarelydressthewoundsbecauseofhercrying.
Still,hewasabletosuckle,andthatwasthekeytohissurvival.HismothercalledhimAodhántomean“bornoffire.”Helived,thoughwithhisbodyforeveraltered.Whentheskinhealed,itwaspinkandugly,gnarledinsomeplacesliketreebark,
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smoothandhairlesselsewhere.Hisrightearwasjustalittleknob,andburnscarsrandownhisneckandtheedgeofhischeek.Thenewskinthatgrewoverhisfootwastightandrigid,andhistoesbecametiny,immobilestubs.Hewasneverabletorunorwalkaswellastheotherchildreninthevillage.
Aodhándeemedhimselflucky.Deathwasnotuncommonwherehelived,anddeathamongchildrenwasaregularoccurrence.Hehadsurvivedinfancy,andthatwasenoughforhim.Heconsidereditanextrabonusthateveryoneinthevillagewastoopoortohavestairsintheirhouses,sotheonlytimehehadtoclimbupanddownthemwithhisinflexiblefootwaswhengoingtoMassonSundays.
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GhostofaChance
THENIGHTImetFrankhadbeenaslowoneattheuniversitylibrary.Mostofthestudentsweretoodrunktobestudying.We’dwonourhomecominggameagainstourarchrivalsthatafternoon,transformingtheeveningintoacampus-widebacchanal.EvenupwhereIwasonthelibrary’sfourthfloor,withallthewindowstightlyshut,Icouldhearcelebratoryhorn-blowingandjingoisticchantsfloatingupfromthestreet.Imanagedtoignorethem,focusinginsteadonthesoothingwhoosh-whooshoftheairblowingthroughtheHVACpipesabovemyheadasItappedawayatmylaptop,occasionallypausingto
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consultoneofthemanybooksspreadoutonthetableinfrontofme.
Iwasaseriousseniorwhodidn’tcaremuchformyuniversity’sconsistentrankinginCampusmagazine’stoptenlistofpartyschools.IenrolledbecauseitalsoconsistentlyrankedinUSNews&WorldReport’stoptenlistofpublicresearchuniversities.Besides,Iwasfromin-state,andthetuitionwasrelativelycheap.Allmymajorlifedecisionsuptothatpointhadbeenbasedonlogicandprudence.Ididn’tparty,andIdidn’tdatemuch.MyparentsjokedIhadbeenanoldmansincethedayIwasborn.IpreferredtosayIwasmaturebeyondmyyears.
Severalofthefluorescentceilinglightsflickeredoffastheyalwaysdid
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aroundmidnight—partofthecampus’efforttosaveelectricity.Ialwaysfeltalittlespookedatthathourasmyeyesadjustedtothenewdimness.BackwhenI’dbeenlittleandspenteverysummerwithmygrandparents,mybubbelikedtoentertainmewithstoriesofspiritsbothterrifyingandbenevolent—ghosts,demons,dybbuks,golems,andibbur.Beingaloneatthislatehourtendedtogetmethinkingabouttheterrifyingones.Iturnedthetablelampontochaseawaymytrepidation.Thelibrarywasopenuntiltwointhemorning,andIintendedtostayuntilclosing.
AsIturnedbacktomycomputer,Iheardsomeonehummingfromamidthestacks.ItwasatuneIrecognized
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butcouldn’tputafingeron—classicbig-bandmusicfromanearlierera.ItsoundedtomelikesomethingFrankSinatrahadmadefamousonceuponatime,ormaybeanothermemberoftheRatPack.
Funny.Ihadn’tnoticedanyoneinthestacksearlier.ButIdidtendtogetabsorbedinmywork.Ileanedbackinmychairandpeekeddowntherowofbookshelves.Theownerofthevoicestoodinthemiddleoftheclassicssection,runninghisfingersalongthespinesasifhewerereadingthetitlesinBraille.
Hemusthavefeltmyeyesonhim,becausehelookedup.Myheartdidasomersaultinmychest.Hewasastunningmarriageofbothhandsomeandpretty,withachiseled
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jawanddelicateblueeyes.Hisskinwassopale,itwasalmostluminous.
“Whatsongisthat?”Isaid.“I’msorry,wasIsinging?Ididn’t
realize—DidIdisturbyou?”“Notatall.Itwasnice.”“Oh.Thankyou.”Heloweredhis
gaze.“‘SeptemberSong.’”“Becauseit’sSeptember?”“Alwaysgoesthroughmyhead
thistimeofyear,eversinceIfirstheardSammyDavisJr.singit.Sinatrasangit,too—butI’mpartialtoSammy.”Hisaccentwasdistinctive,likesomethingoutofaHepburn-Tracymoviefromthe1940s,eachvowelpronouncedwithasweet,glidingweight.ItwasclassicuppercrustNewEngland,ablue-bloodedvoicetogowithhisblue-
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bloodedlook:short,darkhairgelledinplacelikeayoungJohnF.Kennedy’s;apinkpoloshirttuckedintobeigechinos;socklessfeetensconcedinwell-oiledpennyloafers;andawhitecableknitsweaterhungneatlyoverhisshoulders,itsarmsjoinedtogetheroverhischestlikelovers’claspedhands.
IrealizedIwasstaringandshouldprobablysaysomething,buttheonlythingsIcouldrememberaboutSammyDavisJr.atthatmomentwerethathe’dsung“CandyMan”andwasJewishlikeme.Neitherseemedthemostsuaveapproach.AsoverachievingasIwas,Ihadnevermasteredtheartofconversingwithattractivemen.SoIchangedthe
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subject,pointingtothebooks.“DoyoustudyGreek?”
Heshookhishead.“Iusedto,butnotanymore.JustthoughtI’dcomedownhereandbrowsetheshelvesforoldtimes’sake.”
“Findanythinginteresting?”Theyoungman’spaleblueeyes
metmine.Hesmiledwithoutavertinghisgaze.“PerhapsIhave.”
Didhemeanme?Myfacewentwarm,butItriedtoactasifmensaidsuchthingstomeeveryday.Iscootedoutofmychairandwalkedovertowherehestood.“I’mJeremy.JeremyAnderson”
Istartedtoreachoutforashake,butattheexactsamemomentheshovedhishandsinhispockets.Isavedfacebypattingmyfingersover
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FarFromHome
“CONNECTWITHMATEO,”Rajivsaidtohisrig,pullingitfromhisearandholdingitaninchinfrontofhislefteye.Itscannedhisretinawithsoothingbluelight.Rajivhadprogrammedthedevicetoverifyhisidentitybyretinalscanbackwhentheyweredating,justbeforeRajivsentMateotheirfirstsext.Thelastthinghewantedwastodrophisrigsomewhereandhavearandompersonaccesstheirentireonlinesexlife.
Rajivreinsertedtherigintohisrightearlobeandcheckeditinthemirrorashewaitedforthecalltoconnect.Itwasasimple-lookingrig,agoldstudthesamefinishashis
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weddingring.He’dpreferredagoldrigeversincereadinginhiscollegehistoricalanthropologycourseaboutgaymenofthelatetwentiethcenturywearingearringsintherightlobetoidentifyeachother.Althoughgaymenhardlyneededtohideanylonger,helikedthewaysomethingascurrentasarigcouldconnecthimtothepast.
“Hello,love.Canyouseeme?Iseeyou.”Mateo’svoicecamethroughbeforehisimage,whichslowlytranspiredinthreedimensionsontheemptysquareoffloorinfrontofRajiv’sloungechair.
“Notquiteyet,”saidRajiv.Warp-speedcommunicationstechnologyhadimprovedinrecentyears,butholographicimageswerestillslowin
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comingonlineduringlivechats.Mateoappearedfirstasaclusterofroughyellow,brown,andgrayoctagonsthatsubdividedintosmallerpixelsuntilfinallytheyformeddistinct,lifelikelines.Thenthecolorsdiversified,transformingasepiaimageintoacolorfulandmostlylifelikereplicaofarealitytakingplace250millionmilesaway.
Mateosatonafoldoutchairnexttoapop-updesk,thesortsoftemporaryfurniturethatwerehallmarksofanewoutpost.ThecameraandrelaygaveMateo’sbrownskinanartificiallybluishtingedespitethebeige-yafternoonsunlightcominginthroughhiswindow,andathinhaloofcoloredpixelsradiatedfromhisbodylikespecksofdust
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brightenedbyapolychromaticsun.IfRajivunfocusedhiseyes,thepixelsdisappearedandRajivcouldalmostconvincehimselfthatMateowasreallyintheroomwithhim,bodyaswellassoul.
Rajivdidn’tlethisvisionblur,though.Mateo’sshirtwasoff,hismuscularchestchiseledlikefinesandstone,andhismoreprivateembellishmentsbulgingagainstthefrontofgraysweatpants.Rajivdidn’twanttomissanyofthosedetails.“Iseeyounow,hotstuff.”
“So,it’sgoingtobethatkindofnight?”
“Itcanifyouwantittobe.”Rajivhadtheurgetobrushhishandovertheflannel-coveredlump,tofeelitsheatasitgrewbeneathhistouch.
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SweeterThanBlood
IWASAveganbeforeJohnturnedmeintoabloodsucker,andIstilllikemybeetjuiceasmuchasIdidbackthen.SowhenJohnfinisheshisnightshiftatthehospital,weusuallymeetatthegaydistrict’stwenty-four–hourjuicebar.That’swherewearenow,atatablebythewindow,Johncounselingmeonhowtobealessmiserablevampire.
Hesetshisglassdownwithaflourish,asifhe’sabouttomakeapronouncement.“Keith,you’reamasochisttoworkinabarbershop.”
“AmI?”Henodsandwidenshiseyes.
“Thetemptationmustbeagonizingwithallthoserazorbladesaround.
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Don’tyousometimeswanttopressalittletoohardwhenyou’reshavinganunsuspectingcustomer?Maketheslightestnick?”Heleansinconspiratorially.“IknowIwould.”
Ofcourseittemptsme.Still,I’mnotwithoutscruples.Inolongerhaveasoul,butitspresenceorabsenceshouldn’tmakeadifferencesinceIneverbelievedinsoulswhenIhadone.Besides,nickingcustomerswouldbebadforbusiness.Theundeadhavetopaytherentsomehowiftheydon’twanttodwellinsewersandoldcemeteries.IwasabarberbeforeIbecameavampire,andI’mabarbernow.Noteverythinghastochangewithdeath.
Itakeasipofmybeetjuice.It’ssweetandiron-richlikeblood,andit
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stainsmytonguethesamedeepcolor.Withalittlesaltadded,it’sheavenly.“Maybeyoushouldhavetakenmyworkintoaccountbeforeyouchangedme.Orprovidedsomesortofvocationalrehabilitationtoeasethetransition.”
“Iwould,iftheVampyreGuildofferedinsuranceforthissortofsituation.”John’ssmileathisownjokeexposeshiseyeteeth.Theydon’tlookmuchsharperthananormalhuman’s.NowonderIfellpreytohimsoeasilythatnight.
“IfonlytherewereaVampyreGuild.Satanicritualsatcemeteries,livesacrifices,plansforworlddomination—soundsalotsexierthanthelifeI’mleadingnow.”Ilookaroundthejuicebar.Customersfile
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inandoutforhangover-preventingvitamin-and-mineralfixesafterall-nightbenders.Drunkpeoplesmellterrible.Theirbloodisallpissandbitterness.
Johnrollshiseyes.“Asifyou’dlikethatanybetter.You’retoomuchofasoftieforthatkindofthing.Mostofusare.”
“Justsaying.ThinkhowmuchyouallcouldaccomplishifyoualliedyourselveswiththeDarkLord.”
“It’snot‘them,’Keith.It’s‘us.’Youneedtostartacceptingthat.”
“Idon’thavetoacceptanythingIdon’twantto.”Itrytobelieveit,eventhoughanachegrowsatthebackofmytongueaswespeak,alongingforbloodthatcanonlybeameliorated,butnotslaked,bythe
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beetjuiceIkeepsipping.Johnreachesacrossthetableand
takesmyhand.“YouknowIdidn’tmeantochangeyou,darling.Youwerejustsosexy.AllIcouldthinkaboutwasmakingyoucome.I’msorryIgotcarriedaway.IfIcouldtravelbackintime,youknowIwould.”Hepouts.It’snotanact.
ForamomentIrememberwhatIsawinhimthatfirstnight.Hewaspretty.Pale.Anemicbutnotsickly.Helookedlikeapieceoffinechina,hisskinalmosttranslucentandoffsetbythickblackeyelashesandadarkbrownheadofhair.Later,whenIcametoonthetilefloorofthebathroomstall,hisbeautywasnolongersohaunting.Hisskinwasruddyandopaque,hischeeksstained
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withtears.HeburiedhiscurlsintomyshoulderandcriedI’msorry,I’msorryuntilthewordslosttheirmeaning.
“Iknow,but‘sorry’won’timprovemysituation.Anddon’tcallme‘darling.’”
“Iwishyouwouldn’tbesocold.We’reinthesameboat.Whynotbefriendsinsteadofjustsireandspawn?”
Inspiteofmyself,Igivehishandasoftsqueeze.“Bepatient.AfterafewhundredyearsmyresentmentmightfadeenoughthatIcanlookatyouwithoutwantingtopunchyouintheface.”
“Iguessthat’ssomething.”Hepullshishandbackandlooksdownathisownglass:alsobeet,butlaced
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RoughLove
MICHAELANDIweren’tvirginswhenwemet,butwewereeachother’sfirstseriousboyfriends.Itwasinevitabletherewouldbemisstepsalongtheway.
IthoughtIcouldpredictsomeofthem.Wewerefromwildlydifferentbackgrounds:hewasEastCoastandIwasFarWest.HewasurbanandIwasrural.HewasblackandIwaswhite.HewasJewishandI’dbeenraisedinalittletownwherethefirstquestionanyoneaskedwhentheymetyouwas,“Whatchurchdoyougoto?”Itwasalmostinevitableourdifferenceswouldresultinsomekindofmisunderstanding.
Butourfirstbigkerfufflebowled
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meoverallthesame.Imethimtheseconddayofmy
junioryearatcollege,inamorningShakespeareseminarI’dmanagedtosneakintomyscheduleeventhoughitwastechnicallyforEnglishmajorsandIwasdoublinginhistoryofartandchemistry.Iwasgettingmytabletoutwhenhestrolledin.IswearIstoppedbreathingassoonasIlookedupandsawhim.
Orrather,hisass.Myeyesstoppedbeforetheycouldgoanyhigher.Hewaswearingapairofmustard-coloredstretchjeanswithabackseamthatperfectlysplithisbehindintotwosucculentbunsasroundandsteamingasapairofdinnerrollsfreshoutoftheoven.
IliketotellpeopleIfellinlove
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withhimatfirstsight.Butlet’sbehonest:itwaspure,unadulteratedlust.I’dneverseensuchanappetizingass,anditwasn’tforwantoflooking.I’dspentmyfreshmanyearshakingoffmyconservativeIdahoupbringingandtransformingmyselfintoaproudgayslut,buryingmysheathedcockinasmanymanlybottomsaspresentedthemselvestome.Myfavoritesweretherepressedmachofootballplayer-typeswhopretendedtobetopsuntiltheclothescameoff,thenbeggedforagoodpoundingassoonasIskirtedaspit-slickedfingerovertheirpuckers.Iftheywantedmetospankandbitetheirprettykeisters,well,allthebetter.Ilovedthespringinessofawell-muscledtushandwouldhave
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beenhappytoprodandpokethebestofthemforhours,ifonlymydickwouldlastsolong.
ButMichael’sasswasevenbetterthanaquarterback’sripplingderrière.Noamountofworkingoutcouldhavecreatedsuchperkyperfection.ItwasagiftfromGod,morebeautifulthanthesmoothmarblerumpofMichelangelo’sDavid.
“Um,hello?”Avoicecamefromsomewhereabovemyhead.Thepersonowningtheflawlessbacksideturnedaround,removingitfrommyfieldofvisionandreplacingitwithanequallyflawlessfrontside.I’mprettysuremygaspwasaudible.HehadabulgeasbigasMountRainier.
Itwasmorethanmymindcouldcomprehendatsuchanearlyhour.I
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lookedforsomethinglessintimidatingtofocuson,myeyesskimmingoverhisfittedbluepoloshirtandgoldenarmsuntilIfoundhisface.Iprobablygaspedagain.Themanwasgorgeous,withaplump,kissablemouthandbrowneyesrimmedwithvelvetylashes.“Er,hi.”
Hislipscurledintoalopsidedgrin.Histeethshowedwhenhesmiled.Theywereperfect—nottoobigandnottoosmall,andslightlyroundedatthecornersinsteadofsharpsquares.Theyremindedmeoffreshwaterpearls.Oneofhisteethinthebottomrowwasslightlycrooked,whichlentalaissez-fairesortofjoytohisgrin.Ilikedthat.Hesatdownnexttome,allcasual,asifgettingvisuallygropedbyotherguyswasan
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everydayoccurrenceforhim.“Youanassman,huh?”
Heatspreadfrommychesttomyears.WhenIblush,IturntheapproximatecolorofacherryFrootLoop.NotwhatIwantedtolooklikeatthemoment—notifIwasgoingtomakeagoodimpressiononMr.PerfectAss.“Sorry.Iwasn’ttryingto,um,objectifyyou.Ormakeyouuncomfortable.”
Hissmilegrew.“I’mnotuncomfortable.Asforobjectifyingme,wecanstartthede-objectificationprocessassoonasclassisthroughifyouletmetakeyououtforcoffee.We’llgettoknoweachotherasthemultifacetedhumanbeingsweare.”Helookedmeupanddown,hiseyeslingeringonmychest.I’dbeendoing
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alotofweightsthatsummer,anditwasinthebestshapeithadeverbeen.IwasgladI’dchosenatightgrayT-shirtthatmorningtoshowoffitscontours.Heraisedoneeyebrowandleanedinclose,likehehadasecrettoshare.“AndmaybeI’lllearntostopobjectifyingyou.”
“Um,sure,”Isaid,flusteredinawayIhadn’tbeeninyears.
Heextendedhishandformetoshake.“MichaelKeen.”
Itookit.Itwaswarmandstrong,withthincallusesonhisfingertipsandthepadsofhispalms.I’dneverbeenmuchofahand-holder,butIwasovercomebytheurgetohangontohimaslongasIcould.Thewayourhandsfittogetherfascinatedme,theridgesandcurvessnugging
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againsteachotherlikeasecondskin.“BlakePeterson,”Isaid,feigningtheconfidenceIwishedIhad.
Itturnedoutwedidn’thavetowaitforcoffeeforthede-objectificationprocesstobegin.Theprofessorbelievedininteractivelearning,andsincewe’dbeenrequiredtoreadfourofShakespeare’scomediesthatsummer,wehadplentytotalkabout.Michaelwasabitofagenius,andfunnytoboot.Bythetimeourtwohourswereup,Iwasswooningoverhisbrainsasmuchashisbutt.
“Stillupforcoffee?”hesaidwhentheprofessorletusout.“OrdidIboreyoutoomuchinclass?”
“Yesonthecoffee,noontheboringme.Theopposite.IthinkI
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PacificRimming
THEFIRSTTIMEwemethimwasattheShorepineBoginPacificRimNationalParkReserve,justamileinfromVancouverIsland’swesterncoast.Thebogisastrangepieceoftemperaterainforestsodifferentfromthenearbybeaches,itswatersstillandquiet,nothingliketheever-moving,ever-crashingwavesoftheshore.Wherethebeachissand,rocks,andtheiodine-richscentofkelp,thebogismoss,ghostlystuntedpines,andthesweet-sharpsmellofacidicbrine.
Wearrivedjustaftersunrise.Ken,myhusband,hadreaditwasthebesttimetospotbirds.Theonlywaytotraversethebogwithoutsinkinginto
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itwasbysteppingontotheboardwalkthathoveredafootortwoaboveitsmossysurface.Andthebestwaytoseebirdswasbylookingthroughbinoculars.
Binocularsaregreatforseeingthingsthatarefaraway,buttheyblockeverythingelseout.That’showwemanagednottoseetheyoungmanuntilwerealmostontopofhim.
Hewascrouchedattheedgeoftheboardwalkjusttenyardsaheadofusandpeeringatsomethingovertheside,asstillasagreatblueheronwaitingforprey.Abadmetaphorforabogwherenofishlive,butthat’showIthoughtofhim,anyway.Theperiwinkle-grayofhisT-shirtandhisblack,slightlymussedhaironlyaddedtotheheron-likeeffect.A
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cowlickstuckoutinthebackinanapproximationofthebird’sfeatheredcrest.Hislegswerefoldedlikeaheron’stoo,tightasapocketknife,hisarmsasclosetohissidesasrestingwings.Theirdarkhairsweredelicateplumageagainsthispaleskin.
HewasmorestunningthananyothercreatureI’dspottedthatmorning—withtheexceptionofmyhusband,ofcourse.Idroppedmybinocularsandletthemhangagainstmychest.InudgedKen’selbowandpointedintheman’sdirection.Iknewhe’dappreciatethesightasmuchasIdid.
Ken’sbreathdidasharpintake—loudenoughformetoappreciate,butnotloudenoughtobreakthesilence
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ofthebog.“You’reagoodspotter,”hesigned,hishandsclosetohisbodyinawhisper,thenwinked.
Webothlooked.Themanmusthavebeenflexibletoholdthatsamepositionforsolong,soIguessedhewaseitheryoungerthanusordidalotofyoga.Ienviedhisflexibility,andIalsoenviedthejeansstretchedoverhiscurvesandangleslikeasecondskin,highlightingthemuscledroundnessofhisass.Ithoveredjustinchesabovethewoodenplanksoftheboardwalk.Iftheboardwalkhadbeenahuman,thepositionwouldhavebeenacrueltease:You’dliketotouchme,butyoucan’t.Myhandstingledwiththelongingtofeelthatass,topressagainstitandpartthesolidfleshuntilthecreviceatthe
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centeropenedwide.KenandIwalkedalittlecloser.
Hiseyessparkledwithmischief.“Stopdrooling,”hesigned.“Thisecosystemisveryfragile,andyoumightupsetthebalanceoftheentirebogifyourspitgetsinit.”Hislipshadthatsmug-flirtatiousquirktheyalwaysgetwhenhe’steasing.
Iplayedalong,swipingthebackofmyhandovermymouthtocatchanyerrantdrool.“There.Thebogissafefrommylust.”
Kenlaughed—anabrupt,melodiousbarkthatstartledthestranger.Hewhippedhisheadaround,hiseyeswide.
Theysoftenedastheyflickedoverus,registeringthematchingweddingbandsaroundourringfingers.I
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didn’tmisstheglanceacrossthefrontofourtrousers—Iwasalreadysportingabitofabulge—orthewayhiseyesmovedmoreslowly,calmlyastheymovedbackupourbodies,seductiveinthewaytheylingeredonourarmsandchestsbeforemakingcontactwithourfacesagain.
Wewalkedcloserandherose,gallantandgracefulasabird.
Hewasdefinitelyyoungerthanbothofus.Therewasnosaltinhispepper-darkhair,andhissmoothskinbarelywrinkledevenwhenhesmiled.Iguessedhewastenyearsourjunior,probablyinhislatetwenties—whichwouldactuallymaketheagegapslightlymorethantenyears,consideringIwasturningfortythenextday.
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Fortynolongerseemedsoold,withthewaythestrangerlookedatme.
Hegaveasmallwave.“Goodmorning.Niceday,isn’tit?”
“Sureis,”Ianswered.Kenturnedtowardme,hidinghis
handsfromthestranger.“Seethewayhe’slookingatus?Totallygay.Tellhimhehasanicebutt.”
Irolledmyeyes.“Youtellhim.”“Sorry,Ididn’trealize…”the
youngmanstarted,andthenhishandsbegantomoveclumsilyasifhereallywereabirdandtryingtoformshapeswiththetipsofhiswings.“YouDeaf?IknowAmericanSignLanguagesmall.”Hesqueezedhispalmstooclosetogethertoemphasizetheminusculesizeofhis
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knowledge,ignorantthathiswordchoiceandsyntaxhadalreadycluedusin.
Ken’sexpressionwasamixofsmittenandcondescending,similartowhathegivesoneofourdogswhentheylearnanewtrick.“I’mDeafandmyhusbandisahearingchildofDeafparents.Yousignverywell.Wheredidyoulearn?”Kenarticulatedthewordssoslowlyitlookedlikehisarmsweremovingthroughmolasses,butitwasclearthehottiehadneversignedwithanactualhumanbeingbefore.Hissuntannedfaceturnedpinkwithexasperationandhelookedreadytofaintfromdizziness.
“Sorry,don’tunderstand.”Hottiefrowned,hisplumplowerlipjutting
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outslightly.“Neversign.Learnfromi-n-t-e-r-n-e-t.”Hefingerspelledthelastwordwithadizzyingbouncebetweeneachletter.
Kenputafriendlyhandonhottie’sforearm.Myhusbandisbothpatientandanincorrigibleflirt.“Don’tworry,Ireadlipstoo.AndMike”—Kenpointedatme—“ishearingandacertifiedinterpreter.We’lldookay.Whatwereyoulookingatjustnow,anyway?Wecamehereforbirds,butallI’veseensofararerobins.”
“Whichwecanseeathome,”Iadded.
Hottielaughed.“Metoo.Myname’sJasonbytheway.”HelookedstraightatKenashespoketomakethelip-readingeasier,whichI
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thoughtwassweet.IcouldtellKendidtoo,thewayhiseyesmeltedalittle.
Kenshookhishand.“Nicetomeetyou,Jason.I’mKen.”
Jasonbithisbottomlip.Icouldpracticallyseethesparkbetweenthem,burstinglittleflaresofheatintothetepidmorningair.Theirpalmslingered.Mydickrosetohalf-mast.
“Ihaven’tseenmanybirdshere,”Jasonsaidwhenhefinally,reluctantly,letgoofKen’shand,thenshookmine.Hishandwaswarmbutdry,thepadsofhispalmsslightlycallused.“Buttheplantsareawesome.Come,look.”Hecrouchedbackdownandwefollowed,eachoneithersideofhim.Hesmelledgood,allsun-warmedskinandatraceof
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toSpanish.WhenwritinginEnglish,it’s
commonamongAmericanSignLanguageuserstocapitalize“Deaf”torefertoacultureorculturalidentity,andtowrite“deaf”whenreferringspecificallytoapartialorcompletelackofhearing.Similarly,“Hearing”isoftencapitalizedtorefertopeopleorculturalpractices,butnotcapitalizedinmedicalterminologysuchas“hearingloss”or“hearingimpaired.”Ihavereflectedtheseconventions.
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