A Charm of Finches

by Suanne Laqueur

  Stef checked his watch. “It’s time to pick a word.”

  At the end of every session, Max picked a word for the upcoming week, and Stef drew it on his arm with Sharpies, making a semi-permanent tattoo that wouldn’t come off in the bath. He could ask questions about the word picked, but he couldn’t try to change Max’s mind or suggest another one. Those were the rules. Max picked the word and where it went. Max made the rules about who and what got to touch his body.

  “Spiderman,” Max said today, putting his forearm on the table, palm to the ceiling.

  Stef found some images on his phone, Max picked one, and Stef got to work with his markers. First he folded up a towel lengthwise and laid it across Max’s arm. A compromise that let Stef rest his free hand on Max’s wrist without touching Max’s skin.

  “Spiderman’s the bomb,” he said, outlining the figure.

  “I wish I had nets in my fingers.”

  “What would you do with them?”

  “I could shoot them up and make them stick to nothing and get away from the bad guys.”

  Stef drew nets from both Spiderman’s hands. “Crazy how he always finds something to grab onto with his web.”

  “He can stick to the sky.”

  “This is a good word,” Stef said. “When you feel bad and feel like you can’t get away, you can look at Spidey and remember you always have something to grab onto.”

  Max was quiet, breathing through his mouth. “I wouldn’t ever grab anyone.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” Stef said, coloring Spiderman’s suit blue and red.

  “If someone said to me no, then I’d do no. I mean I wouldn’t do it.”

  “Because you’re one of the good guys.”

  “If I saw a friend say no and the other person kept doing it, I’d shoot my nets out and make them stop. But I still wouldn’t grab them.”

  “You’d just leave them there in the net?”

  “Yeah. And then I’d shoot another net and stick it on the sky and get away.”

  “Would you take your friend with you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “See?” Stef said, capping the pen. “You really are a good guy. You’re one of the best guys I know.”

  Max watched as Stef filled in Spiderman’s eyes with yellow. “He said I was bad.”

  Stef looked up. “He was wrong.”

  Max’s fingers closed into a fist, then opened again. “Are you sure?”

  Stef leaned forward a little. Not too far, but enough to make Max pay attention. “Any guy, any adult, who does something bad to you and tells you to keep it a secret? That’s not a good guy. If anyone hurts you and says you can’t tell or someone special will die? They’re lying. You tell. You tell your mother, you tell me, you tell anyone who will listen. You tell the truth, because that’s how it stops. You know this. Right?”

  Max’s chin rose and fell, mouth still open and breathing a little harder.

  “He did a really bad thing to you,” Stef said. “He made you and your mountain feel terrible. But that doesn’t mean you are terrible. You, Max, are awesome. And brave. And good.”

  Slowly Max’s mouth closed and the next breath he took was through his nose. It widened across his little chest and he appeared to sit straighter

  Stef uncapped a fine-tip black Sharpie. “Can I write the other words by Spiderman? So you remember?”

  Max nodded, and watched as Stef lettered all around the edges of the nets: awesome, brave, good.

  “That’s what you are,” Stef said. “Even if you feel lousy in your head and your stomach. Even if you feel afraid or angry or confused or sad. You’re still awesome and brave. You always tell the truth. You’re one of the good guys.”

  “Do you have a mommy?”

  “Sure I do.”

  “And a dad?”

  Stef nodded. “But they’re not married anymore. They don’t live together.”

  “Oh. Who do you live with?”

  “I live by myself.”

  “You don’t have a married girl in your house?”

  Stef’s throat grew warm. Max not knowing the terms for spouses ought to have been cute. Instead, it seemed incredibly sad. “You mean a wife?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No. I don’t have a wife. I did once. But we’re not married anymore either.”

  “Oh. You don’t have anybody?” Max’s expression was concerned.

  “I have lots of people,” Stef said. “Lots of family. Lots of friends.”

  And I met someone.

  “It’s unbelievable,” Ronnie said. “I’ll be the first to admit I was skeptical about the sand technique but, holy crap, I was wrong.”

  Slumped in one of Ronnie’s office chairs, Stef slugged half a bottle of water and wished it were gin. Max was always his last appointment on Wednesdays and it wiped him out. Left him a container bulging with Max’s mess.

  “You’re a wonder,” she said.

  “I’m a wreck.”

  “But really, how are you these days?” she said. “Dating anyone?”

  “No,” he said, But I met someone.

  “What about that woman you met a couple weeks ago? The optometrist?”

  “Oh. Yeah. I’m seeing her tonight, actually.”

  She laughed. “Good thing I reminded you.”

  He laughed along, then said goodnight and headed to the other side of the building, downstairs to the kitchens, where Stav was making meatballs.

  “Well, you look fresh from a breakthrough,” Stavroula said.

  “Do I?”

  “You have that definitive air of ‘Now that’s how you do it, motherfuckers.’”

  Stef laughed and pinched a piece of meatloaf mix.

  “Oh my God, don’t,” Stav said. “You’ll be dead of salmonella later.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “How’s the optometrist?”

  “I’m seeing her tonight.”

  Stav’s sideways glance was wicked. “What about that auditory specialist you were nailing?”

  Stef crossed his forearms on the butcher block table. “I haven’t heard from her.”

  “Weren’t you dating a speech therapist for a while?”

  “Her conversation sucked.”

  “Then there was the ENT nurse.”

  “She kept ramming her political views down my throat.”

  “And the proctologist.”

  “She had a real stick up her ass.”

  “What about that male stripper you picked up?”

  Stef sighed. “I couldn’t get his clothes off.”

  Stavroula laughed and hip-checked him off the counter.

  I met someone, Stef thought, falling onto a nearby stool. He kept the words under his tongue. Something about the meeting seemed fragile, yet filled with strong possibility. Like an expecting couple not wanting to share the news until the uncertain first trimester had passed, he didn’t want to talk about it yet.

  Plus he had an optometrist to see.

  Because we’re being sensible about this.

  Deborah’s curls were blown out straight tonight, but her laugh was exactly as Stef remembered. Back at her apartment, the breasts that spilled out of her black lace bra were magnificent. Her body was crazy. Her sex was even crazier.

  And it was taking him for-freaking-ever to come.

  “Jesus,” she said, breathless. “You jerk off earlier today?”

  “No,” he said, rolling her over. He’d jerked off twice today, not thinking about Deb either time.

  I met someone.

  He turned her this way and that. Fucked hard and fast, slow and soft. Whispered obscenities. Laughed her name. Sighed something sweet.

  It was good.

  It just wasn’t taking him anywhere.

&
nbsp; Frankly, he was a little bored.

  Because I met someone…

  Jav’s face swam into focus. The shy smile under a deep brown, unblinking gaze. The tight, unadorned body, indolently sexy in jeans and a white T-shirt. Skin like a weapon.

  What would his back taste like under Stef’s dragging tongue? How would his wrist bones roll in Stef’s hands? How would the curve of his ass feel pressed against Stef’s hips?

  He wanted to know.

  It was hard not to think he was supposed to know.

  I heard him on that radio show. I walked around with his book in my bag. I lay in bed reading his words. Then I met him. Things like that don’t happen to me.

  Christ, a guy is loitering in my head while I’m fucking a woman.

  This isn’t like me.

  Guys don’t do this to me.

  Wait, what?

  “What?” he said.

  “I said, you got Superman complex,” Deb said.

  Spiderman complex, he thought. I need something to stick to so I can get out of this.

  He ran his hands up her spine. “You need to tap out?”

  “Hell no. You just seem distracted.”

  “Hell no,” he said. “Come on top of me.”

  Hidden between the curtain of her hair and the wall of her breasts, he managed to sledgehammer his way to an orgasm. But rather than a soulful satisfaction, it was the grumpy, exhausted achievement of finally getting a computer glitch fixed. Relief, but more trouble than it needed to be.

  “I can’t stay,” he said after a bit of cuddling and pillow talk. “Early meeting tomorrow.”

  He opted to walk back to Chelsea, feeling like an unfaithful lover going home to nobody. The September evening had turned chilly and its gaze on him was full of reproach.

  What are you doing?

  He sighed. Parts of his life were so full of excellence, while others were barely mediocre.

  For the gazillionth time that day, he took out his phone, wanting to text Jav. Just to say hi.

  Hey.

  What’s going on?

  Wanna get naked?

  He put the phone away. He’s straight, you jackass. You’re only setting yourself up to be shot down.

  Home in his dark apartment, he showered for the third time that day, then got into bed. It was a little past ten. Good. He’d get some quality shut-eye for once.

  At 10:45, he was still wide-eyed and full of thoughts. Picking up his phone and putting it down again.

  He typed, What are you doing? Then backspaced it out and put the phone down. He was forty years old for fuck’s sake. Forty-one in December.

  What are you waiting for?

  He picked up the phone, typed, What’s up?

  “I am fourteen,” he muttered, and hit send. He tossed the device aside, flopped back in the pillows and flipped the covers over his head. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  In the dark cave of the blankets he sighed. He stayed under until his own exhales were smothering him, then moved the blankets off. He stared at the ceiling, mindfully breathing, trying to bring back the serenity he’d cultivated at the ashram in California.

  It took discipline to quiet the monkey mind. To be bigger than your own train of thought.

  Focus on being present.

  If you’re frustrated, be frustrated. You can deal.

  Compartmentalize want from need.

  When your needs were met, you were comfortable. When your wants were met, you were happy. You could be uncomfortable yet happy. You could want for the sake of wanting. You could want without having.

  Visualize. Sort the desire.

  What do I want to want and what do I want to have?

  The phone pinged. He made himself count to twenty before picking it up.

  Just got home, Jav replied.

  Same, Stef typed.

  Then nothing. After a minute, Stef put the phone face down on his chest, delaying gratification. He wanted Jav to reply, but he didn’t have to have it.

  What do you want then?

  His chest rose and fell beneath the slick weight of the phone. It had the means to disrupt electrons and magnetic waves in just the right way to convey a bit of emotion, if only the circuits would…

  Connect, he thought. I want to connect.

  His heart closed around the thought like catching a firefly.

  I’m lonely and I want to connect with someone. Mind and body. Something that means…something.

  This I want.

  This I want to have.

  “Have” sounded an awful lot like Jav…

  The phone pinged: Sorry, Jav wrote. Needy dog demanding attention.

  What kind? Stef texted.

  Duck Tolling Retriever. He’s my nephew’s dog but he lives with me.

  I see.

  Another long pause. Stef held still. “Come back,” he said, a fingertip tracing the edge of the screen. “Just keep talking. That’s all.”

  A text came in: We’re taking a walk now.

  Last call?

  Exactly.

  What you have going on tonight?

  I had a date.

  Stef lobbed a shot over the bow and typed, With Trelawney?

  LOLOL, shit no. Trey’s like my sister.

  Stef grinned like an idiot even as worried jealousy refused to budge. Oh. Someone new?

  Yeah. Met her at a bar. As one does.

  Stef chewed his bottom lip and knitted his brows. How’d it go?

  Eh? Between you and me, I don’t think there’s another date in the future.

  Not feeling it?

  No. Was kind of bored, actually.

  Weird, Stef typed. I had a date tonight and felt the same way.

  I guess it happens.

  He pulled in a deep breath, aimed his nets toward the sky and willed them to stick. What are you doing tomorrow?

  Working. Gym. Research. Phone interview. Errands. Typical Thursday. Want to grab a beer and bore each other?

  A relieved joy cascaded from Stef’s eyebrows to his heels. He pulled against the net’s strength and swung out into the night. Sure. Your lame neighborhood or mine?

  “How’d your date go?” Stef’s co-worker, Aedith, asked the next morning.

  He grunted. “Eh?”

  “Not feeling it?”

  “I’m not sure we’re compatible.”

  “Did you figure this out before or after you nailed her?”

  Stef looked up. “You’re not cute.”

  “Oh, but I am.” She perched on the edge of his desk. “Want to catch a movie with me and Katie tonight?”

  “Can’t. I’m meeting a guy for a beer.”

  Aedith raised her eyebrows. “A meet or a date?”

  “A meet.”

  “I don’t know, Finch. You got a funny look going on.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “This is totally a date.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Shut up. Tell me everything. What are you going to wear?” She leaned into his space, eyes dancing behind her glasses.

  He gently pushed her back. “It’s not a date. We met, we’re having a beer.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s a straight writer who might help me build a website for that exhibition in Poughkeepsie. We’re having a beer to talk about it.” Stef closed his laptop and got up.

  “You are blushing.”

  “You are a pain in my ass. Move. I’m late.” As he walked out of his office, the back of his neck flamed.

  “Wear blue,” she yelled after him. “It makes your eyes pop.”

  He was wearing a grey shirt today. It would fucking have to do. He went straight from work to the bar. No going home to shower, shave, pick a blu
e shirt and hang out in front of the mirror like a twink.

  Dig me, dig my crappy shirt.

  He walked the few blocks north on the High Line, New York’s new aerial greenway. Built on an elevated spur of the New York Central Railroad, it ran from Gansevoort to 20th Street in Chelsea. The stunning views of city and the Hudson were enhanced by naturalized plantings along the meandering walkway. By the end of construction, it would reach the West Side Yard at 34th Street.

  Stef was five minutes early, but Jav was already there, sitting at the bar with a beer and a book. Cargo pants, worn along the seams and a hole in one knee. A dark green T-shirt. Unshaven as well. Attractive in a way that felt foreign in Stef’s veins. He was no stranger to appreciating a good-looking guy’s body, but not to the point where it stopped him in a doorway. Made him stand still and pick out holes in knees and the color of a shirt. Note the length of sideburns and the curl of a foot around the stool leg. This keen, detail-oriented interest was what he experienced with women. So was this goofy coil of warm excitement in his gut, a double helix of sexual and cerebral interest lassoing him across the floor to the bar.

  “Hey,” Jav said, closing the book and extending a hand.

  Stef shook it. “What’s up?”

  “Good to see you.”

  Stef drew the book closer and spun it around. The Magic Orange Tree: Haitian Folktales. “Is this required reading or pleasure?”

  “Bit of both. I’m working on a book of Latin American folktales.”

  Stef slid onto a stool. “You know, I think I heard you on NPR some time ago.”

  “I was on Moments in Time back in July.”

  “Were you going around different Latino neighborhoods and collecting stories?”

  “That was me.”

  “You do a lot of that kind of thing to promote your books?”

  The bartender came by and Stef ordered a Guinness.

  “I’ve never done any mainstream promotion of my books,” Jav said. “But it’s about to change with The Trade.”