A Winter in Rome

by Francis Gideon

  "Oh. Oh," Alan moaned. His hand traced around me, towards my cock. I hadn't been touching myself, so his fingers were a shock. I reached out—but instead of grabbing him, I latched onto Sybil's legs. I quivered, not wanting to come yet, and bit down on the blanket.

  "Oh," Alan repeated. His hands moved back to my waist as I felt him finish. Normally, he would just pull out and then he'd take me in his mouth—or I'd come on his chest. But the parameters were different. Sybil got onto her knees on the bed, placing a hand on my back as she lifted up to kiss Alan. A slow, languid kiss that signalled to me it was going to be a long, long night. A good one—but I was already tired. I rolled over, onto my back as Alan's body met with Sybil's. She moved next to him easily. I found myself captivated by the two of them—probably in the very same way she had been captivated before.

  Alan, who somehow had the foresight to leave a towel by the bed, used it in a split second to clean before he readied himself at the edge of the bed. Sybil's legs flung over his shoulders, and with a careful ease I couldn't have imagined, he began to kiss her thighs, then trace his tongue to her folds.

  "Fuck," Sybil said. Her thighs were slick on his face. He didn't seem to mind. She directed him with the touch of her hands to his hair—and eventually, he realized what he needed to do right then.

  "Suck—yes. Like that." Sybil hitched in a breath as his lips rounded her cock. I moved up towards the bed, until I was next to her face. She reached out for me, attempting to grab my still-hard cock, but I only wanted her hand. We interlocked fingers before she sunk back into the mattress.

  Within moments, she writhed on the bed. Alan bit her thigh—lightly, I could tell—but in the aftershocks of her orgasm, she nearly screamed with pleasure.

  "Fuck. Fuck." She turned over, her face into my hands and then looked up at me with a grin.

  "You're not done yet," she said with a smirk.

  I let her pull me on top of her. I kissed my way around her neck and her nipples, before I traced my cock up and down her slicked body. In my mind, I could still see the image of Alan's tongue inside her, his face where my dick now was. I had to bite my tongue to keep my imagination from sending me over the edge, before I slid into her. She was so wet, I wasn't sure I could really get much friction at all. But I knew at this point, we all had gotten what we needed. It didn't matter if it lasted sixty seconds, or another hour of just touching and kissing, this was all I had ever needed or wanted for the night.

  Fuck an art show, I thought as Alan came up behind me, touching my back as if to cheer me on. We are the works of art.

  Chapter Ten

  "You weren't at the gallery," Rebecca said. I held the phone to my ear, the grogginess of my voice clearly apparent. "I take it you had some other arrangements come up?"

  I rolled over on the bed, trying to block out the sun. How could we have not pulled the blinds shut after last night? I suddenly panicked, wondering if we had fucked like that with everything out in the open. It was oddly funny, especially since I was pretty sure across from us was an older couple who never left and probably saw the whole thing, if they cared to look.

  "Hello? Wakey-wakey."

  "I'm here, Becca. Just calm down. My head is swimming."

  "Ah. Drinking again?"

  I grabbed a shirt from the ground, no idea if it was mine or someone else's, and then some pants. I glanced at Alan, still sleeping like a rock on the edge of the bed, and Sybil now taking up the warm space I had left. She raised her head to me, but when I ushered her away with a wave, she fell right back asleep and used Alan as a brace against the morning light.

  "Not exactly," I told Becca. I held the phone with my chin and put on my pants. "But I thought you were working, or I probably wouldn't have answered this."

  "Didn't you just have a shift?"

  "I did. But who knows? They've been short-staffed lately."

  "Well, I need you," Rebecca said, turning serious.

  "Is everything all right?"

  "Yes. But can you meet me at your work? I'll buy you coffee—and breakfast if you want."

  I glanced at the calendar. So far as I knew, we all had the day off, though it was a Wednesday. "Sure. I can do that. Just give me fifteen minutes."

  "Knowing you and Alan… I'll give you half an hour. See you then!"

  She hung up before I could be affronted at her presumption that I'd be late. I was getting better at being on time, I really was. But as I threw my shirt on over my head, I caught sight of the canvas in the corner. The blue and yellow handprints were now dried. I glanced at Alan's paints and silently thanked Becca for the extra minutes.

  I picked orange for my handprint, because it reminded me of the sunlight at that moment, and then headed on my way.

  *~*~*

  Sometimes my skin felt itchy around Rebecca. When she talked, she was so sure of herself in a different way than Alan. Maybe because I had first met Alan when he was hung over, and then I knew what he looked like naked, I never got to see him as an immortal god figure or genius. He actively worked again that ethos, anyway. But even if I didn't think artists were geniuses anymore, Rebecca was something else. Tall and loud, she was a woman who wouldn't take no for an answer. That's why I always figured my skin felt itchy around her. I felt as if I was a fake, a fraud. She made me want to claw out of my skin.

  Was this how Sybil felt? I wondered as we waited in line for our coffees. Was that how being transgender felt? No, I told myself with little deliberation. Sybil had always lectured me about how the wrong body narrative fell apart once you began to live it, began to speak about it. Being trans, for her, was always about language. Her skin was made of words, and Alan's was made of paint and gesso. Mine was just always fucking itchy.

  "What are you thinking about?" Rebecca asked me.

  I touched my neck. "Nothing."

  "Liar."

  "Fine. I'm tired and wondering why you've woken me from my slumber."

  With her coffee in her hand, she led us to a seat by the front window. The café had put out blinking white lights around the window frame that flickered as we sat down.

  "You like working here?"

  "It's okay. I'm not working now, so I have distance and can romanticize the place, you know?"

  She smirked—an Alan-like gesture that I adored. I looked back to where Alan often sat to grade papers. A man with his baby stroller was there instead, rocking his daughter with his toe as he typed away on a laptop.

  "I figured you'd say that."

  "So you're pre-interviewing me now?"

  "More or less."

  "Oh, God," I said, suddenly realizing. Rebecca had called me, not to harp on about the show I had missed, but another project. "Why am I here, Becca? Don't avoid the question."

  "You know I got a grant, right?"

  "I did. Congrats, but I thought we had your party already?"

  "We did, and you didn't attend."

  "Alan was in Rome. It would have been awkward."

  "You only think so; awkwardness rarely lasts the first few minutes over the threshold."

  I felt that itch again. I pressed my palms to the table to keep from scratching. "Okay, so you have a grant. And Ashleigh's been working with you more. Your point?"

  "I always have lots of work, Craig. I could use a hand."

  I laughed. "I have no skills."

  "Oh, bullshit. You deal with artists—and academics, and counsellors, and all walks of life every day. That's hardly 'not a skill'."

  "I know. I just..."

  "You're looking for meaning? For passion?"

  I shrugged.

  "What do you want in a job, Craig? Is serving coffee fulfilling you?"

  "Yeah, oddly enough," I said. "I like it here. I know it."

  "Nice try, but you're bored. You need to change things."

  I got quiet. I wondered how transparent my skin was—if she could see the stray tear I had cried in the kitchen before Alan and Sybil had nursed me back to more-or-less health. There was a
sudden crash in the back of the café, as if someone couldn't handle a latte machine. I had to fight the impulse to get up and help. I really didn't want to have this conversation—especially since it wasn't the first time. Early on in my relationship with Alan and Sybil, Rebecca had offered me a small job at her gallery. It was a mostly volunteer position, with occasional commissions if I could sell pieces, but there was no pressure. When I asked her why she offered it to me, she had merely said she liked me. And that because I had tried drawing, but it didn't pan out, I should explore other areas of interest.

  I supposed that was why I had taken so many different classes during undergrad, including one of hers, but she had shaken her head when I showed up on the first day. Classes were to produce skill, not to produce connections, she lamented to me that day. She had tried to offer me another job afterwards, but had soon let it go when I showed just as much resistance. It was easy for her to find someone else; she had Layla, then Mark, then Ashley, and now Ashleigh. Rebecca always had people around her, passing by, except for Alan. He was an anchor for her—and since I had been around as long as I had, I was becoming her anchor, too.

  "You know," she started again, trying to get my attention back from the kitchen, "there is this person who does academic work on third spaces."

  "Third spaces?"

  "It's a concept about interaction. Everyone interacts with people based on where they live and who they live with. First space is home—second space is work. Most of our primary relationships are formed in these places, but they're not everything a healthy, social being needs. A third space, like a coffee bar—or for me, usually a gallery not associated with the university—fits the definition. A different kind of social interaction happens in these places. And they're so, so important for community and belonging."

  "I have belonging," I said. "You saw it in the space painting."

  "That's not what I meant. As lovely as your little arrangement is with Alan and Sybil, you still need other people. We all need a third space. This is what people fought for when they created coffee houses for public commons or universities. So the fact that you and Alan both cross those places off your lists, since you work in them concerns me greatly."

  "You don't need to be worried about me."

  "I disagree." She took a sip of her coffee, then ran her fingers around the edges, eyeing me. "Someone bought that painting of you guys, by the way."

  "They did?"

  "Yeah. And you would know if you had gone to the show. If you had a community outside your door."

  I sighed. She wasn't going to let it go, so I tried to at least humour her. Rebecca and I had both seen Alan in his most vulnerable states. Sure, Rebecca's was ten years ago, and she didn't want a relationship with him like that anymore, but she knew things that only a few people did. She knew Sybil too, from a talk she had done in a Women's Studies class. There were links between all of us and Rebecca was trying to get us tangled up even more. Not in a romantic relationship, but as a community. A third space. "Okay, so it's a good concept. People need them—but that's all I'll say for now."

  "It's progress. I wanted you to at least think about it, Craig. A job in a different place could be good for you."

  I nodded and thanked her without sounding too curt. It's not that I didn't want to consider on a deeper level what she was saying—but my skin was getting too itchy again. Sensing this, she began to tell me about Ashleigh and how she was doing. How she didn't drink, so going out to bars was harder for her, though she had found a bar that didn't serve alcohol.

  "A bar with no liquor?"

  "Yeah. It's neat. But it allows people to connect."

  I rolled my eyes. God, no wonder she and Alan were friends. They excelled at beating dead horses.

  "You know," I countered. "We're more connected than ever before because of our phones. The internet is great thing, too. Thriving. I hear it's doing well."

  "That's good, Craig. Hang out on message boards, find something. But even when you love people, you need friends. We can't get everything from our significant others. Even if we have two, and they have one another."

  "I know."

  "Okay. Just making sure."

  She sipped her coffee again, her brown curls falling over her face. She remained quiet this time around, no longer offering small gossip from her graduate students. She looked out the café window, smiled at the man with his laptop and daughter, but refused to say another word. Finally, I caved.

  "You should at least tell me what the job is. Not that I'll take it. I'd just like to be informed."

  "Yes, of course. A learning experience." She winked as her smile grew. "So one of the perks of my position at the university—and the art gallery—is that as soon as an artist dies, I get to know about it and can call dibs on their unfinished projects. After proper mourning, of course."

  "Of course," I mocked.

  "And well," Rebecca went on, "it turns out that one of the local painters was a closet singer. There are tapes and tapes filled with stuff. We want to archive it for future research, but we also want to sell it. So you'll be working with old records, digitizing them, transcribing lyrics, creating CDs…"

  "You don't need to say anything else, Rebecca," I cut her off.

  "Oh?"

  "Yeah. I mean, it basically sounds like I'd be listening to music all day. I like music, so I guess I'll take it… but only if you don't gloat."

  She bit her lip as she mock-considered my request. Then, with another large smirk, she extended her hand. "Okay, Craig Hanna. We have a deal."

  *~*~*

  Hey Alan (and Sybil, since I'm sure you're still there), I texted as I waited by my car. I hadn't gone back to the apartment after meeting with Rebecca. I needed to walk around the city for a while. Toronto, I always thought, was conducive to walking. You could start in Kensington Market and then wander down towards Nathan Phillip's Square with the statue of Winston Churchill, then wander more, take a street car, and end up outside OCAD all over again. I probably stayed there the longest. The university would always hold some strange power over me, even as the buildings kept getting older and slowly more covered with moss. I had thought I would never leave.

  Except that I did leave, and that was the point. I had no third place anymore, and Rebecca was trying—had always been trying—to tell me that. And now, thanks to her, I had some news to share.

  I'm coming home in a little bit, I wrote. I got distracted. But I have news. Big news. Save some hugs for me.

  Oh? Alan texted back. And save you coffee, too?

  Nah, I wrote back. I think I'm good with coffee.

  As I turned on my car, "Gloria" came on the radio again. By the way, I wrote with a smile. Did you like the handprint I left?

  *~*~*

  When I got home, the painting of our hands was gone. Sybil had taken it to her apartment, hung it up and done her grad school readings in a hurry, so she could come back and hear my news. Alan had even attempted to make a lunch for me, which then turned into my dinner, since I had been gone so long.

  "I can't cook worth a damn," he said. "But I've tried, so no one should criticize me."

  His culinary knowledge pretty much only extended to eggs—but I was happy to eat his omelette with a smile on my face. It was nice to have Sybil and Alan both paying attention to me, so much so that I probably dragged out the conversation for longer than was necessary. Sybil finally kicked my leg under the table after I had changed the topic of conversation six different times.

  "You've told us your theory on why Dave Grohl managed to succeed beyond Nirvana—"

  "Because drummers are anonymous, hidden in the back, so they can go beyond their origins without too many people noticing," I said, smirking as I ate my late bite. "I think it's important to remember."

  "But you still haven't told us your news, and I may pin you to the ground until you tell me."

  "You could do that anyway," I said. After another eye roll from her, I went on. "I swear my rambling about mus
ic wasn't completely inconsequential. Especially now that I'm going to be working with music."

  "What?" Alan said, his eyes lighting up. I could tell from their expressions that while they had clearly speculated my announcement while I was gone, they hadn't even come close.

  "Becca has a grant and they found old music tapes in some artist's garage. He used to be a singer, and well, I'm going to help out with categorizing things."

  "Craig!" Sybil said. "That's fantastic. So perfect for you."

  She got up from her seat at the table, pulling me into a hug. "You think?" I asked.

  "Yes," Alan echoed. "I don't know how I didn't think of this sooner."

  "Or me," Sybil said. "Oh, God, I feel like a dick. I knew about that position. Why didn't I tell you?"

  She wiped a hand under her eye, catching a tear that fell. I couldn't tell if it was sadness or joy, so I decided to think it was both. I wiped my thumb along under her cheek, then kissed her as I felt Alan's mouth on the crown of my head.

  "I'm so proud of you," he said, taking one of my hands.

  "Me too." I wanted my words to mean that I was proud of them, too—I always had been—but it came out like I was just proud of me. So I squeezed their hands to let them know. They squeezed back, understanding.

  I knew there would be more time to explain, to go through and figure out what this meant for all of us. But we enjoyed the silent comfort of arms and steady breathing for a long time in the kitchen, still smelling of oil and the spices Alan had used.

  "We're going to need to fix the calendar," Sybil said.

  "Yes," I laughed. "I guess we will."

  Chapter Eleven

  "What's that noise?" Sybil asked. She and I had gone to the bedroom after my news, while Alan had stayed out in the living area to work on some marking. I thought we were going to have sex, but she and I merely got into pyjamas and laid out on Alan's bed together. We laughed and joked about getting bunk beds, then made out, before she rested on my shoulder. Now, she moved towards the wall above the headboard, her eyes narrowed. I waited and listened, before recognizing the notes of what she heard.