A Winter in Rome

by Francis Gideon

  "But now it's different."

  "How so?"

  "She… she wants you, too."

  Alan nodded, taking this in. I could feel him smile against my skin.

  "I knew you liked her."

  "There's a lot to like. But," Alan said, pausing and tipping my head up to him. "Are you okay? Or are you asking if I'm jealous because you're afraid you are?"

  "Fuck. I don't know. I don't think so, but if she's with you and I'm with you, then it's like … a triangle. Aren't you ever—"

  "Collapse it, Craig. Triangles are for movies and art projects."

  "And this?"

  "This is what it is. I know that's not always a good answer, and Rebecca yells at me when I try to answer art students' questions that way, but it's all I really have."

  I looked up at him, trying to figure out the lines on his face. Since he was older than me, I had often thought that with age came the fact that he just knew more. But there were times like this, where even his words failed him. Where we both had been conditioned by the same society that told us we always had to choose between one or the other. As much as we resisted the choice, forged our own ways, we didn't always have the words to explain why or how something mattered. Sybil was an anomaly to both of us. Not just because she wanted Alan and he wanted her, but because of what she had whispered to me in the dark so many times. Of what I called her when we were both naked and the same, but how those things changed when we went outside and into the world.

  "Sybil is different," I said, struggling to find the right words without insulting her—and everything she could be in the future. "I don't know how else to explain it. I don't even know if I understand, or if I'm making things up."

  "So let her do the talking with me."

  I swallowed hard. Was there supposed to be a discussion? I understood who we were together without words. I thought that was all there had to be—but now that there was a possibility of a story between her and Alan that I didn't have access to, I kept relying on all I had ever known of her to try and to fill in the gaps.

  "Shhh," Alan said, touching my lips. "I can hear your head thinking. It's a quiet roar."

  "I'm sorry. I'll get better."

  "You're fine as you are. But I know what you mean," Alan said with a breathy sigh, "I suppose that's why I paint. When I can't figure out something for a lecture, a journal article, I just paint and show that to the class instead. It's a lot easier than picking one side or another. At least in art, you can blend the colours together."

  "I know. It's why I like music so much, I think. It's just sound. You don't have to prove anything and nothing is taken away. You don't have to pick words or instruments. It's just there."

  Alan rubbed his thumb against me, as if trying to coax out more answers from me. From where I was lying down in his bed, I could see the corkboard and calendar. Just barely, but I saw the corner and it was enough to get the full picture.

  "I added more things to the board," I said, "and there's a calendar now for all three of us. So we can keep track. She's… she's coming by tonight to talk to you."

  "Then we have lots of time to ourselves—just you and me—until then." Alan turned to me, pressing a kiss against my lips. Because there was nothing left to say, I allowed myself to led into his arms, and then, into sleep for the afternoon.

  Chapter Seven

  When I woke up, I could smell paint. Paint and coffee, and then the small, sweet smell of blueberry muffins. Sybil was here, and probably hadn't slept all that well if she was bringing baked goods. If I stood still long enough I could hear her soft, sarcastic laugh as Alan tried to tell her some high art theory that she knew was pure crap.

  "No, no. You tried to tell me that on the phone, and I still think it's stupid. Even when I can see you here and now, trying to implement it."

  "Okay, fine, you're right, dear Sybil. I cannot change your mind."

  I tensed, trying to hear it all without disturbing them, before I glanced out through the small crack in the door. She was here. He was here, and they were talking while I watched. It felt like some movie I wasn't allowed to see just yet. Would they want me here? Alan knew I was still in the bed, and Sybil had probably seen my car in the parking space. That must mean this was okay, so I stayed where I was.

  I could see Alan's new canvas. Stretched across the corners were small bursts of gold against black, glittering like stars. He hadn't painted like that in a long time, not since the summer when he wasn't busy with too many classes or the grant applications. He told me he had drawn and sketched what he needed to in Rome, but this was different. He only broke out canvas like this when he was commissioned, doing a show, or inspiration really hit him. He had tried to tell me that inspiration was bullshit and ridiculous—real art was about work—but sometimes he slipped into a stereotype. Sometimes he emulated everything that the true artist was supposed to be.

  While I sometimes fawned over that image, Sybil was there to knock him down. She stood with her arms crossed, rolling her eyes at most of what he was doing and talking about. She had her small canvas bag with her, a notebook sticking out of the corner. When Alan tried to raise another point, she pulled out a pen and wandered toward the calendar. She wrote in her schedule while glancing at her notebook, and then took a few pieces of paper I couldn't recognize and clipped them to the corkboard.

  "I can do this now, right?" she asked.

  "You can do whatever you want," he answered.

  "You can't let me get away with anything, just because I'm new. I want to be treated as an equal. I always do."

  "That's… that's not quite right."

  "What?" She turned around, her arms folded. I bit my lip, watching the scene play out. A small flash of ire crossed her face, before Alan continued.

  "It's not fair to come into this and think we're all going to be equal. That's an illusion—like the scales can ever be perfectly balanced. Even if I was just with Craig, I wouldn't say we're equal. Sometimes he loves me more and I'm a selfish dick. Then other times, I take care of him and he doesn't notice I'm there."

  She laughed, well familiar with this.

  "And with more people involved, well, it gets harder. We're not all in the same position, the same emotional level, when we're coming into this. We don't all have the same needs. If we try to measure who gets what act of love and what that means, we're going to be upset."

  Sybil crossed her arms, tucking her pen and notebook away. I knew her movements, her subtle nod, and understanding. "So what do we do, then?"

  "I'm a fan of equality—because that's not a tit-for-tat type of game. It's not a game. A relationship is a give and take, but never balanced. Over time, yes—but not always. Equality is more about seeing to individual need, not a need by comparison." He scratched the back of his neck, getting paint there. "I…I hope I'm making sense."

  "You are actually. A ridiculous amount. I'm probably going to steal that line about the difference between equal and equality for the phone lines, just so you know."

  Though I couldn't see his face, I could hear the smile in his voice. "Good. See that you do."

  "You have paint on you, by the way. Here, let me get that."

  Sybil moved forward a few steps, grabbing one of the old rags Alan kept on his painting desk and dabbed it in the water by his wet pallet. Alan felt the back of his neck, rubbing the paint in more, and then leaned down to accept Sybil's help. From where I stood, I could see their eyes meet, their skin touch, and the spark between them. It shimmered like the gold paint Alan was using to paint the galaxy. And all of it could exist without me in the centre of their world.

  I leaned against the wall in the apartment. I was not jealous—this is what I wanted. But I wondered about Alan's words about equality, and what our individual needs really meant. Could we survive? I breathed in and out and tried to become okay without answers, without knowing anything for sure.

  "There," she said. "Got it all."

  "Thank you, Sybil."

&nbs
p; There was a lingering silence, one that I knew all too well. But I couldn't move. Not yet. I heard the shuffle of their feet as Alan walked over to the bookshelf. "I have something I want to show you. Something that reminded me of you when I read it in Italy."

  I held my breath, hoping it wasn't anything to do with Patti Smith. I didn't want to hear him read Just Kids to her, and realize it was a party trick that he used to get inside people's pants. I wanted that line of seduction to be creative—just mine.

  "It's Walt Whitman," he said, and I let out a breath. "I read the entire work of Leaves of Grass while I was gone because someone actually wanted it translated. So I was reading their English version, making sure it matched up with what I thought it sounded like. This one in particular I like."

  As he spoke, the words rang off the walls, down the rafters, and out into the balcony. I glanced out the window, expecting to see the snow that had covered everything perfectly the night before, but there were only small piles left. Water dripped down from the ledge as he continued to read from "The Song of Myself". The entire poem was about how Whitman, upon looking at his country, realized how connected everyone was. How he was part of the earth and air and everything else. All of his references were attached together in some great mythological web, constantly referencing and threading back to the source.

  But when Alan and Sybil spoke, I saw Whitman's mysteries fall away and our own begin. We were not the voice of a country, like Whitman was for America—but then again, I knew that no one really could be the voice for an entire country. Anyone who thought they were was kidding themselves. When Whitman said he contained multitudes, he was talking about himself, his identity, and how we're all in transition in some way. I knew that now—I could see that in front of me with Sybil and Alan. We were just three people, caught in the middle of something larger, and feeling our way to the edges of the apartment. We were just in love.

  "I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven / O suns—O grass of graves—O perpetual transfers and promotions / if you do not say anything, how can I say anything?" Alan read, then paused as if it was the end. "There's more, but I don't want to read it. I think that's enough."

  "Thanks," Sybil said. "I liked it."

  I turned away from the door, and back under the covers, just as I heard them kiss.

  *~*~*

  In the bedroom, I remembered what Alan had once told me about Eden.

  "It's a memory, Eden. We remember it and create it, but it was never real."

  "What'd you mean? Why are you even thinking in Biblical analogies? You don't strike me as the religious type."

  "I'm not, not really. But some of the best art came from that book. Some parts may inspire the worse in people, but you're focusing on the wrong things. Look at the beauty, look at…"

  "Eden, right," I said with a roll of my eyes. "Paradise. I get it, okay. But tell me about memory. What do you mean?"

  Alan smiled and grazed his fingers across my skin. "We always remember things like a story. With a beginning, middle, and end. We remember it in full colour. We remember it in gold—so we can create our own golden age in our minds."

  I nodded along, watching his lips move. He had scruff on his face from not shaving after staying up too late too many nights. I ran my fingers over the bumps on his skin, wondering if he'd look good with a beard.

  "Are you paying attention?"

  "Of course I am," I teased. "But I'm not one of your students anymore."

  "I know that," he told me. "I'm telling you this as a colleague."

  So I listened again, because he was finally acknowledging that I knew what Eden was like, too. Eden was childhood, and as soon as you realized time passed, then you got older, and the fantasy of an endless summer fizzled. But it was only after you realized time passed, and you got older, that you made meaningful connections. If summer never ended, then there'd be no time for winter, and no time to realize how lucky you were.

  "And you can't undo it," Alan warned. "Eden may still be around, but you can't ever get back in. That was the purpose of the apple, remember that. Eve ate it, and now we're not allowed to go back. We've all already eaten the apple, and so now, we know better."

  "And yet, you're still here with me."

  He smiled. "I'm hardly paradise."

  "But you're something that makes me happy. Even if we can't have something perfect, isn't this all we really need?"

  He kissed me as a response, but his hands still wandered and lingered, as if he still didn't know the right answer. I used to think that Alan's musings about Eden were because he was afraid to go outside, afraid to be seen with me in case someone broke us apart. But now, as I lay on our bed and heard his whispers to Sybil, I understood even more. Eden was where you could take all the pathways, both and at the same time. You didn't have to choose between knowledge or love, because you had both.

  Inside the bedroom, I heard the same speech about Eden from Alan's lips again, this time telling Sybil. But it wasn't a pick up line or an attempt at seduction. He was telling her as a colleague, because he had worked through these issues with a new ending.

  "Maybe," he said, "with the three of us here, there's hope."

  Chapter Eight

  "Sybil cut her hair."

  Alan's voice startled me as soon as I got in the door. He turned around from his slanted drawing desk, his eyes wide and excited. He seemed practically giddy, to the point where I wondered if Sybil had ever left.

  "Really?" I asked, hanging up my coat then glancing around. "Is she here?"

  "No… but I have a picture," Alan said, fishing it out of his blazer pocket. It struck me as odd that he had selfies of her on his phone, but I didn't want to question it. I wandered over to his desk, and while he flicked through his iPhone albums, he slid an arm around my waist. I saw a photo of her with long hair, some of it trimmed on the edges. But nothing too drastic—not like the buzz cut she and I would joke about her getting.

  "She… looks the same?"

  "Look closer." Alan handed me the phone completely. I zoomed in on the camera. As I did, I saw Alan's reflection in her eyes. A dark image, looming in her pupils, but present. I felt my heart skip, seeing it there, seeing the way she looked at him. Her smile in the photo wasn't something I had seen in a long time; there was a light to her eyes that only really came during poetry slams.

  "You notice it yet?"

  "Um." I scrolled up, examining her roots. Then I realized the sides of her hair had been shorn. Around her ears and around her neckline, the hair was buzzed. But the top was still fine.

  "I think it's called an upper cut? Undercut?" Alan said. His arm came around me more, so he could touch the iPhone screen to the next image. Sybil lifted her hair up in this picture, exposing the softer side underneath, a goofy smile on her face. Alan smiled at the image, and as I looked at him, I saw the way he looked at her. Without her being there, I could feel the way they were together and it sent a vibration through me.

  "What do you think?" Alan asked, referring to her hair. "Kind of the best of both worlds."

  "Yeah, I guess so." I remembered how she used to let me pull her hair when she went down on me—and then I realized Alan probably knew that now, too. Right? Could I ask? I shuddered again as Alan's fingers clasped at my side.

  "You okay? Do you not like her hair?"

  "No. I mean. I've been telling her to cut it short for years, if she wanted too. It was just a surprise. She listened to you?"

  "She did it here. I let her use my hair clippers after I got out of the shower. It was nice."

  Again, I saw the look in his eyes, sudden and contemplative. I never thought I'd get to see that look with him—and for Sybil, too. I knew, abstractly, that she and Alan were together; they had been for several weeks now. I heard them kiss the first night, and then talk on and off, though I tried not to listen, as they negotiated what they wanted. They had had coffee with me the next morning, discussed it more, and it was fine. Rendered in language and terms, the rel
ationship made sense. But the visceral nature of the photos on his phone made me pause.

  As Alan made me coffee in the kitchen, he reiterated some of the experience of shaving someone's head—"something I haven't done since grad school!"—and I tried to figure out what was bothering me, what was still nagging in my mind.

  "Rebecca shaved her head once. Thank God she did it herself and didn't get me involved, or else she would have blamed me for how miserable she was afterwards."

  "Why'd she do it, then?"

  "Just wanted to try it out. A dare or something, maybe. Her hair is all curls, you know? I can imagine her just wanting to say fuck it for a while and go bald. But I don't ask questions with Becca, merely appreciate her company."

  "But that's…" I trailed off, trying to order my thoughts. "That's not all you did with Becca, isn't it?"

  He tilted his head. "Well. We were together for a bit before I came out in university. Just like…"

  "I know—like Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe. So what's so different now?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Rebecca's a woman," I said.

  "And beautiful. She's charming. We had fun. But people change, and she could never do the open thing. I didn't think I could for a while…"

  I grew frustrated suddenly, feeling as if Alan was being deliberately obtuse. "And Sybil's not beautiful? Charming? I'm failing to see how they're different, Alan."

  "Sybil is handsome, beautiful, everything," he said slowly. He extended his hand across the kitchen island, which I took, though I was still confused. His phone buzzed between us; without looking, I knew it would be Sybil, with her new shaved head coming up as the icon. Alan smiled, but allowed the message to clear and focused his attention on me.

  "Sybil and Rebecca are very different people. So my relationship with each of them is going to be very different."

  "But…" I didn't want to bring up how he had always identified as gay. That wasn't the point—but it made me wonder why he didn't just come out and say he was bisexual. Claim something else, say he was more like me. There were patches of his life that I still couldn't account for or figure out.