by A Zukowski
out of the shop, leaving his sunglasses off, as though
he is unconscious of the oglers. Chris turns to beam
at him, pleased to know her effect on him. All
sunlight and starburst. Rainbows and glitter. For
the moment.
At a crossroad, Chris moves forward while Alex
hangs back. When Chris glances over her shoulder
at him, he’s watching her arse. He nearly trips up
when he realises he has been caught.
Chris can’t help but smirk.
~~~
They put their food away in the fridge and
cupboards.
Chris turns to Alex. “So, you’re going to help me
cook?”
“What? You’re trusting me in the kitchen?” Alex
smiles. “I haven’t cooked a full meal in my entire
life.”
Hands on his hips, Chris smiles. “What are you?
A hunter-gatherer?”
“My mum used to make barely edible food while
she rushed about. I ate school dinners and later
trainer-approved
protein-rich
meals.
There’s
takeouts and restaurants. I misspent my youth in
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the boxing ring. I can make sandwiches and that’s
about the extent of my cooking skills.” Alex sulks,
though not seriously.
Chris eyes his flatmate. Alex hadn’t reached the
peak of the boxing world without some hard graft.
No one is born with muscles that ripped. How Chris
would love to touch that strength, but he swallows
and changes the subject.
“Well, it’s about time you learned, then. Come on.
Wash your hands! Onwards.”
Alex smiles and follows Chris’s instructions.
They spend the next thirty minutes cutting up the
vegetables and bantering, conversing occasionally.
Chris directs Alex to slice the peppers, onions and
mushrooms. When he’s finished, Chris looks at
them and frowns.
“What have I done now?” Alex asks. Their faces
are close together while Chris inspects the
vegetables.
“They’re all different shapes. I told you to cut
them into strips. They need to be similar sizes so
they are ready about the same time.” Chris speaks
with the authority of a head chef, his thumb and
forefinger making the shape of a strip. He picks up a
few particularly big bits and cuts them again. Chris
misses the proximity when they straighten up,
though.
“Not everyone’s as perfect as you are,” Alex says
as he watches Chris’s slender hands and fingers
working the knives.
Chris glances at the other man and wrinkles his
nose. “You being sarky again?”
“No. I’m deadly serious. You’re good at your job.
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You take care of yourself. You can cook. Pretty
sorted, aren’t you?”
Chris considers Alex sidelong; he doesn’t trust
Alex to compliment him. Ever. “Thanks, I guess.”
He puts the vegetables in the pan to fry, then
turns back to Alex. “You’re weird, aren’t you? I
mean, you must be the first person who thinks I’m
sorted.”
Alex fills a glass with water and leans against the
worktop, watching Chris, who puts on a bit of a
performance, moving about as if he’s dancing to an
inaudible rhythm.
“Most respectable people think your chosen
occupation is less than reputable. From my
perspective, you are fine as you are.”
You are fine as you are.
It’s the most beautiful thing anyone has said to
Chris in a long time. He blinks twice, unsure if
happy tears are prickling him.
He’s still less than reputable, though. Chris stops
and waves the spatula at Alex. “Man, I swear I will
fucking kill you one day.”
Alex pretends to avoid the wooden spoon and
laughs. “Just saying!”
When the food’s ready, Chris and Alex put the
dish on the sorry excuse of a dining table and sit
down. They crouch over the scratched, well-used
surface as they spoon the pasta bake into their
respective bowls. Seeing Alex tuck into his food with
glee, warmth grows inside Chris. His past lovers
never stayed for his food because Chris is not known
for his culinary skills, is he? No one wants me other
than what my body can offer.
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Alex takes a bite and his eyes widen. “Wow, nice.”
Chris speaks with his mouth full of his first spoon
of food. “Nice. That’s your choice word for me, huh?
Anyway, I’m not only a pretty face, y’know?” He
winks and adds more parmesan to his and Alex’s
bowls.
“Never thought you were.” Alex stuffs more pasta
into his mouth and issues some orgasmic hmms and
ahhs.
Chris gazes at him with suspicion.
“And I’m glad I helped to make it. I told you I’ve
never cooked.” Alex looks as though he might finish
his portion in three mouthfuls. “I’m going to grab
some bread and butter.”
Chris rolls his eyes at the other man as he gets the
extra fodder. Alex must need a lot of energy to keep
all that flesh going.
“How did you learn to cook anyway?” Alex asks
after he has sat back down and helped himself to a
second serving.
Chris is used to masking his shit with bravado
and indifference, but he finds himself talking about
the subject that he does not discuss. “My mum
couldn’t cook to save her life, so at some point, I
taught myself. Otherwise, I’d have starved.”
Stop talking. Please, shut your mouth.
Chris used to imagine a different life, sitting by
the window of their flat and gazing at the London
skyline. Beautiful orange and purple hues emanated
from the windows of the high-rise blocks as if
nature were mocking him by being so perfect and
vibrant. The vantage point offered a view better
than loft living.
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Two burly police come to their door and
announce there has been a mistake. Chris was
swapped at birth with another baby. From a
decent family. They will take him to his real family
now. He waves goodbye to Annette while she dabs
at her crocodile tears.
The scene never happened, and Chris grew up
looking more and more like his mum. He learned
that reality is nothing like his vivid imagination and
his shitty life is all he has. Laugh out loud.
Alex considers Chris as if waiting for the next part
of the never-ending story. Chris avoids his gaze and
chews the pasta slowly and deliberately.
Alex has already eaten three-quarters of the dish.
His hearty appetite amuses Chris. He makes a
mental note that if he were to cook for Alex again,
he’d need to make much more.
“Thanks for dinner. It’s smashing. I don’t know
what I can do in return.”
Chris
could get used to being appreciated for
something other than sex.
Alex leans back on the wooden chair and pats his
full belly with a satisfactory sigh. The chair squeaks
under the weight of the man. Chris worries for a
second that it’ll break. Disappointment is bound to
follow, like the weak chair under stress.
Don’t get used to Alex’s presence. Don’t show
your hand. His usual confidence deserts him.
Out of habit, Chris masks his insecurity with
flippancy. “No, have you forgotten I like your
company? Don’t worry about it.”
“Here we go. How did I know sarcasm was
coming?” Alex smiles. “At least we ate out of the
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same meal, so you definitely haven’t poisoned me.”
Chris grins, showing off his dimples. “Yeah, keep
those comments coming. I’ll give you poison next
time.”
Alex ignores the idle threat and smiles. He stands
and grabs the cutlery, while Chris clears the plates.
Alex’s fingers touch Chris’s as their hands land on
the baking dish. Electricity courses through their
digits, connecting them momentarily, like a scene in
a soppy movie. Chris drops his hand and darts his
eyes away.
“You cooked. Let me wash up,” Alex offers.
~~~
The combined scents of leather, sweat, wood and
adrenaline welcome Alex to Coach’s boxing club. It
takes him right back to the Essex boy who knew
better, to the teenager who had to leave Coach
because he was going to make it big. He didn’t want
to go, didn’t want a fancy American trainer or to live
in London away from Sam. She complained and
sulked all afternoon, telling him he couldn’t shag
other girls because those women up in London were
all evil. And, of course, Alex had promised her. He
would have promised her the moon and meant it. At
the time.
But Alex changed, and she would have changed
too. He had the manager to feed and fans to please.
The media frenzy and PR people after his stories.
His parents’ house got bigger and more opulent all
the time. Gary’s so-called business ventures always
failed or were on the edge of needing bailouts. So
who was the muggins who footed all the bills?
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Before the accident, Alex had felt suffocated. For
days, he didn’t want to do anything while his life
spiralled out of control. Clinical depression was the
diagnosis according to the court medical report.
Sam had loved him, even when she found out
about all the other women. That didn’t stop them
from arguing and fighting, always followed by
desperate make-up sex. Sam had begged and cried,
and she’d been distraught. They’d known each other
for eighteen years, so there wasn’t much left to say.
Alex had thought he loved Sam, but he didn’t
behave like a man who was in love, and now he
hates himself for having been that man once upon a
time.
The images that come into his head these days are
nightmares that morph into a living hell. Alex
squeeze-shuts his eyes to screen out the memory
but fails. Of Sam. Of how the guy might have
pounded her on their new fucking bed, the one that
he had ordered for the house. The Essex wild boy.
It’s not like Alex wasn’t guilty of affairs, and he’s not
excusing himself. Two wrongs don’t make a right.
He accepted full responsibility for everything.
Alex shakes his head to chase away the big D.
Swinging moods. They drown but never suffocate.
Back to earth, and the pitch-black hole he finds
himself in. Whenever he goes out, his palms are
sweaty and his mouth feels dry, as though he’s
about to go back in the ring after a losing round
without any way to save the match.
Dex sits down next to Alex on the bench, drawing
him back from his musings. “Hey, how’s it going?”
Alex forces himself to refocus, back to the
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present. “Good. The kids are working hard.” He’s
come to watch the pay-what-you-can class on
Tuesday. The half a dozen kids are mostly black and
Asian, including one or two having a serious go at it.
“Still not interested in picking up the gloves? Not
even to play around with these kids?” Dex urges
while they survey the junior boxers.
Especially not with these kids. What do they say
about power and responsibility? Some children
need a role model, like Dex was to Alex when he was
growing up. To these kids who are all from poor and
deprived backgrounds like himself, Alex isn’t sure if
he should. Coach thinks differently, but Alex is
content to sit and watch today.
Coach returns to the practice area, pairing the
kids off to train. Alex hardly realises half an hour
has gone until the class stops for a short break.
“I’m Devan.” One of the teenagers sits down next
to Alex. He has been watching this lad and noticing
the good footwork and intelligence. Devan’s not the
biggest but he’ll make a decent middleweight when
he grows up. Ninety-nine per cent of Dex’s kids
don’t go anywhere with boxing. Why would they?
Some of the students are only looking for another
out-of-school activity so they can stay off the street.
Like Alex, these kids have never had any push to
achieve anything. Alex was a tough, determined
athlete who wanted success badly until he had all
the spirit beaten out of him in the last few years.
“Alex.” He holds out his large palm to shake the
teenager’s.
“I know. Coach never stops talking about you.
‘You can be Alex Whale if you train hard.’ That’s
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what he says all the fucking time.”
Alex knows his impact on Coach’s club, even
though Dex doesn’t use his name to market himself
enough. Alex has made a difference, a lasting legacy,
for sure. On the walls are very old photos of him, of
Alex posing with his teammates or Coach, and
newspaper cuttings of his early wins. Anyone can
see how proud Coach is of Alex Whale, his most
famous graduate.
Alex chuckles. “Hey, you’re not allowed to use
that word. How old are you?”
“Thirteen.” Devan tilts his chin, showing an
innocent arrogance. “I’ve watched your matches on
YouTube. My favourite is your win over Dill
Thompson. I like the cross that won you that match,
and I want a tattoo like the one you have over your
heart.”
Alex considers the kid and the fervent glint
burning in his dark eyes. The ink over his heart is a
skull with roses that he got in Mexico City when he
won a match there. Alex was twenty-six, twice
Devan’s age, and he had the world under his feet.
Sitting next to the teenager, Alex is at a loss what to
> say and how to help the kid. He has some
suggestions for his training, but he thinks he should
leave that to Dex.
The older man calls the end of the recess.
All Alex ends up saying is, “Nice to meet you,
Devan. Keep up the good work.”
~~~
Chris hauls his weary arse up the stairs to the flat.
How the hell does he feel so tired? Oh yes, two
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clients one after another even though he tries not to
work hard. He’s not lazy, but this is not a career in
which you get promoted for your performance.
Chris does as little as possible; he knows his role
inside out—could do it in his sleep. He hasn’t
actually done it since sleeping on the job would
seriously lose him cred. His regulars love him, and
he keeps them happy and turns down jobs that
seem too much fucking hard work. Literally.
But the last john tonight always ends up hurting
him a little. He doesn’t mean to, but no matter how
Chris prepares himself and lubes the gent up, he
manages to angle in a way to cause discomfort. And
the client is a man of habit. No amount of
persuasion is going to change his preferred position
and the order of play.
Chris sighs. He wants to have a joint and go to
sleep for days.
The sight of Alex on the sofa, sleeping in a white
vest and pair of boxers, makes him gasp. The TV is
on but muted, the reflection of its images flickering
on Alex’s skin like a kaleidoscope of changing light
while his broad chest rises and falls. Chris clicks the
TV off. Once his eyes have adjusted to the dark, he
watches Alex.
Chris should go to his room and leave Alex to rest,
but he gives in to his compulsion to stay, transfixed
by the sight of the other. He sits by the coffee table
and rolls a joint. As he smokes it, he continues to
observe his flatmate, illuminated only by the
moonlight. His lips part slightly as he rests,
betraying secrets of his dreams. After a few minutes,
he twists a little.
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“Sa. Sa.”
Chris pays attention. Alex seems to be calling out
for someone, but it doesn’t make sense.
Alex thrashes about a couple of times. His arms
and legs twitch, and sweat pours from his forehead.
He bolts up and looks around, as though he’s
forgotten where he is. His face paints a picture of
confusion and horror.
When Alex discovers his observer, he exhales.
“Chris?”
“Here. Did you have a bad dream, honey?”
