“Right, well, if you have a pizza that has a radius Z and height A, the pizza has a volume of Pi x Z x Z x A.”
There was the sound again. Travis and Winston swivelled their heads in tandem, but as before, Winifred smiled back innocently at them, his forehead a livid red.
Travis sighed. “Maybe you have to write it down for it to be funny.”
“So what you really mean,” said Winston thoughtfully, “is that if you understand mathematics, you know the secrets of pizza.”
“Something like that. More wine?”
Winston watched the bottle empty. “I read that in a room with more than twenty-three people, there is a fifty percent chance of someone else having the same birthday as you.”
“I’m not a statistician.”
“Oh.”
“February 23rd, though.”
“Right, okay. Should I—I mean, mine’s October 31st.”
“What a coincidence!” Winifred interjected himself back into their conversation, brandishing a breadstick. “Sorry, sorry—but that’s my birthday too! What are the chances?”
“Fifty percent, apparently,” said Travis.
“If I had to bet who had February 23rd, I’d say her,” said Winston, pointing to a large woman with an extravagant ponytail that fell to her waist. He was glad Winifred had returned. Every time Winston spoke to him, he felt like a naughty schoolchild giggling in a corner. It was much easier than conversing with Travis, no matter how pretty he was. “I don’t know why, she just looks like a February 23rd to me.”
“Did you say February 23rd?” said Winifred. “What a coincidence! That’s Trevor’s.”
Travis furrowed his brow. “The two of you have the same birthdays as the two of us? That seems…very unlikely.”
Winifred leaned forward, eyebrows raised dramatically. “Does it?”
Winston joined him. “Yeah. You did say you weren’t a statistician. I mean, can you be sure?”
“Plaice,” said the waiter, inserting himself between the two tables.
“Thank you.”
“I assume actor?” said Travis, when they had been eating for several minutes and the silence had graduated from acceptable-pause-to-chew to awkward-absence-of-conversation. “Your answer, I mean? You’re studying drama, right? And you wanted to visit the Globe.”
“Actually,” Winston said, “I don’t. Drama school just puts me in the right industry. What I really want to be is a set dresser.”
A chair scraped. “What a coincidence!”
*
When the main course was done, a communal affair despite Trevor’s best efforts to distract his garrulous husband, Winifred excused himself to the bathroom. “Actually,” Travis said, “I need to nip, too. Excuse me.”
“Sorry about Winifred,” said Trevor, when the two were left alone. “He’s a wonderful husband but he can be rather intrusive. He says he was a quiet child, so he’s making up for it now.”
“Oh don’t worry,” said Winston. He bundled up his napkin and tossed it into the centre of the table, dejected. “If I’m totally honest about it, I’m quite glad of the pair of you. Not going to work out, this date, is it? Completely different people. It’s his stuck-up restaurant—no offence—and he’s older, richer, sophisticated…er. See. Sophisticated-er. Not even a word. Why are you laughing?”
“You youth are so adorable. And blind.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s trying to impress you.”
“Impress me?” Winston had begun to feel like he was in the middle of a very stressful audition. With Travis’s lion-like beauty and detached confidence, it hadn’t for one second occurred to Winston that Travis might be in any way seeking his approval.
“Yes. He’s chosen a nice restaurant, dressed up smart, and he’s acting all grown-up to impress the cute young student he thinks is out of his league.”
“That,” said Winston decisively, “is ridiculous.”
“Trust me,” said Trevor. “I’ve done this exact date. This exact date.”
“I,” said Winston, “have thirty dollars to my name. I cannot afford dessert if he suggests it. What on earth does he see in me?”
“Oh, this is brilliant,” Trevor said. “I never get to do the ‘wise old queen’ thing. Brace yourself, darling. Firstly, thirty years have taught me money doesn’t mean a damn thing if you love each other. And yes, I know, first date. Love is not a word to throw around, but we’ve all got to start somewhere. Secondly, he’s a mathematician, so he has no more money than you do. He’s just pretending. For a start, that wine is awful, and the pâté is famously average at this restaurant. He’s making it up. I told you, he’s trying to impress you.”
“He’s not rich?”
“He didn’t have a starter either, did he? And he picked exactly the same thing as you, which I’m guessing is the cheapest on the menu? But really it’s his shoes that give him away—scuffed, and there are holes in the bottom. Everything else is smart, because you don’t need to replace them often. But he doesn’t have the money for new shoes.”
Winston sat back. “By any chance, are you a private investigator?”
Trevor scratched his head. “Actually, you’re not going to believe it. I’m a mathematician.”
Winston felt the urge to laugh, loudly and uncontrollably. “You’re right. I’m not going to believe it.”
“Never mind. But trust me, it’s just an act to make you like him.”
“It’s terribly miscalculated.”
“Yes, but he’s locked into the course now. Can’t back out.”
“And you really think he’s as broke as me?”
“I do. Shh, they’re coming back.”
Winston folded his arms. “I’m a fast runner,” he said. “This will be fun.”
*
“Winifred was telling me that he did the set decoration for Hellraiser 13,” said Travis as he took his seat.
“Thirteen?” said Winston. “I thought there were only eight.”
“Straight to video,” Trevor said. “Hellraiser: Hellter Skellter. And now we’re the only one of our friends with an S&M coconut shy in our living room.”
“Not the only one…”
“I think you two are remarkable, actually,” said Travis. Winston looked at him, trying to tally up the signs that Trevor had pointed out, though he couldn’t precisely stick his head under the table to check out his shoes. Was it possible that this absurdly handsome specimen was actually trying to win Winston over?
“Us, remarkable?” Winifred winked at Trevor. “Maybe just a little.”
“I agree. Thirty years of happiness, all from one terrible date where you thought he was stuck-up and boring.”
“Yes, well, he was just pretending. I soon saw through all of that.”
“Thirty years, though! I think that deserves a drink—on us, of course. Don’t you, Travis? I mean, thirty years!”
“Er, yes.”
That look Winston recognised. It was the look of someone caught in a trap. Trevor really was observant, though Winston supposed it was always the quiet ones.
“Where’s the waiter?”
“Can I help you, sir?”
“A whiskey each for my friends,” Winston said. “And more wine? Not the house bottle this time.”
Travis looked as if he had been run over. “Er, I’m okay, actually.”
“Nonsense. We need something to drink with dessert.”
“Dessert? Well, I wasn’t going to—”
“A bottle of red and two chocolate fudge cakes. No, make that four.”
“You’re too kind,” said Winifred.
“Yes,” said Travis, “he is.”
The waiter departed.
“How about another card?” said Winifred, flicking through the pack. “Ah, this is always a good one. ‘Favourite sexual position?’”
All four spoke in unison.
“See,” said Travis. “I told you numbers were the answer to everything.”
/> *
Three rounds of whiskey, coffee, and mints later, through which Travis grew paler and paler, Winifred and Trevor announced that it really was time for them to leave and thanked them effusively for their conversation and generosity.
“It was lovely to see the pair of you,” said Winifred.
“Wonderful,” said Trevor. “You’re going to have many years of happiness before you, we’re sure.”
“Really,” said Winifred, pulling on his coat. “We’re sure.”
In the vacuum of their absence, Winston raised a hand for the bill. “Quite a pair of characters, those two, weren’t they?” he said.
“You can say that again,” said Travis. “Especially that Winifred. Do you know what he was doing at the urinals? Looking me up and down, and going on about how skinny I am.”
“Really?”
“Actually, his exact words were ‘it’s been years since I’ve seen you look this skinny’. Quite creepy, actually.”
“There’s definitely no Hellraiser 13, either. I looked it up on imdb. Just eight.”
Winston pushed together the Wolfman’s cards, turning them over so they all faced the same direction. “You dropped one,” said Travis, bending down. He placed it on the top, face-up.
If you could time travel to anywhere and any time, where and when would you go?
“I know this sound ridiculous,” said Travis carefully, “but you don’t think they—”
“That would be impossible though, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes. Yes it would.”
“Unthinkable.”
“Exactly.”
The waiter arrived with the bill. Travis regarded it, looking worried.
“I have something to confess…”
“I think I know what it is.”
“Oh?” Travis blushed. It was so transparently shamefaced, so vulnerable, that Winston wanted to reach over the table and give him a hug.
“Yes. I’ve suspected it since I first arrived. You’re a fantastic runner, aren’t you?”
“I’m a—no—what?”
“Me too. I’m really good at running.”
“Oh.” Travis’s eyebrows shot up. “I see what you mean.”
“Even better,” said Winston, “it’s only six blocks to my apartment. And the Wolfman is out. All night.”
*
“This is always my favourite bit,” says the short one, watching the couple in the window. “The bit where they look at each other and say ‘do you think?’ and ‘no, that would be ridiculous,’ and then they both pretend that neither of them thinks it’s true.”
The tall one peers through the wet windscreen across the car park. “Have you considered the possibility that you’re a sociopath?”
The short one tangles his fingers in the other’s beard. “Yes, but that’s why you love me.”
The tall one leans down to kiss him. “Seems plausible. But please, no more Winifred.”
“Oh come on, that was a tough one. How many names sound like Winston?”
“True. But the lord taketh, and the lord giveth. You couldn’t ask for an easier opener than ‘where and when would you time travel’.”
“That one I’ll grant you.”
Across the car park, the front door of the restaurant opens, and two figures sprint away along the street, coats held over their heads to protect from the sluicing rain. “Ah,” said the tall one, “I guess they didn’t see our note.”
On the corner, the couple pauses and leans in to each other to kiss.
“Young love,” says the short one. He nestles against his companion. “Time to go home.”
“Back to our S&M coconut shy?”
“That’s the one.”
The tall one starts the car. The short one lays his hand over his husband’s on the gearstick. “Happy anniversary,” says one to the other. “Happy anniversary,” the other says in return. The car pulls away.
In the restaurant, a new couple are being ushered to the recently vacated table. The bill from the previous occupants is still there. One of them takes a peek.
To W&T,
We’ve paid the bill. Consider it paying it BACKWARD. Here’s to thirty years of happiness, for all of us.
With love from W&T.
Firebrand
Megan McFerren
Have you seen this new hacker show yet?
Nearly knocking over his coffee in his hurry to grab his phone, Keith stares for a moment at the message from Marie before answering. Never want to appear too eager, nor too available, right? Never want to answer too quickly. He sucks his lips between his teeth, holds his breath for a moment more, and sweeps open his phone.
No, is it terrible?
Terribly GREAT.
Keith snorts a laugh and taps quickly on the screen. Screw appearing unavailable. He is nothing if not entirely available.
Aren’t you at work?
Compilinggggzzzzz, she writes back. Watching in the background.
Don’t spoiler me.
If you watch it before Saturday we can talk about it.
Keith sets his phone back to the desk, as her words and cheerful winking emoji tease a pleasant coil of heat through his chest and down through to his belly. He drums a muffled, broken rhythm with his fingertips against the paper cup of cooling coffee, and he waits for a coworker to pass behind him before he takes up his phone again, shoulders bent.
Okay, he answers, but only because you recommended it. And the first time they do the TYPE REALLY FAST NONSENSE CODE thing, I’m out.
She sends another emoji, the smiling face with blushing cheeks. Keith’s cheeks warm, too. Does he dare? He takes a swig of lukewarm coffee. He does dare. He sends back an expression, winking, blowing a kiss.
A moment passes, enough to allow for Marie’s phone to be unlocked. Another passes, if Marie was invested in the show she’s watching while working. Another, and Keith holds his breath to keep back a curse.
Oh my, comes her message just as he’s working up the nerve to apologize. How saucy for so early in the day.
It’s not exactly sexting, Keith sends before he can stop himself, muffling a laugh as he rocks back in his chair. From daring to outright bold, he should feel prouder than he does, a nervous tremor jiggling his leg. He’s at work. They both are. Surely they’re not going to—
Too bad.
Keith’s brow raises, and he reads her message again. And again and again and again until the stirring in his stomach gets to be too much and he forces a curt breath.
Saturday, he types back. IRL.
“Still at it, huh?”
Phone clattering to the desk, Keith is quick to turn it facedown. He knows he’s blushing as he looks up at Sarah beside him, and he knows from the tilt of her brow that she can see it.
“Everyone does it,” he tells her. “Dating, I mean. Online dating. Everyone does it.”
Keith wishes he believed the words more, even as he says them. He’s certainly heard them enough from well-intentioned friends and nosey acquaintances alike.
“You hate blind dates. You hate small talk,” she says, with a nod to the phone beside him. He turns the phone over, screen down, and lasts only a heartbeat before turning it right side up again. Sarah grins, squinting, fingers folding around her mug of coffee. “You’re the last person in this entire office I’d expect to be on Firebrand.”
She’s not wrong.
But since moving out of his hometown after college, Keith hasn’t quite figured out how to make “meeting people” work in a big city. Meet-up groups have been a collection of the equally awkward, and classes give little time for socializing about anything but the work or lecture at hand. He’d contented himself with having a few close coworkers who could stave away the loneliness, until another acquaintance recommended Keith try Firebrand.
He’d heard of it, some new Silicon Valley darling that allowed the user to quickly scan through profiles with little obligation. If you and someone else agreed on liking the other, the app w
ould connect you. Otherwise, you could just keep swiping. Unconvinced that even the most ornate algorithm could take the place of actual chemistry, Keith left the app untouched on his home screen for several weeks until beer and curiosity spurred him to finally fill in his profile.
Keith calculated his ratio of swiping no to yes as roughly twenty-to-one.
It hadn’t gone well.
And then he found Marie, dark curls of hair spilling wild around a buck-toothed grin and laughing eyes. For a moment, Keith thought her profile was a fake. No one else he’d swiped by came anywhere close to holding his attention the way she did. But what her picture did for him paled in comparison to what he felt in reading her profile. She liked first-person shooters and baseball, and she wanted to spend less time in front of her screen and more time outdoors. She was prone to bingeing whole seasons of TV shows in one sitting, and she was a fan of Terry Pratchett. And she was an engineer, always laughing at his terrible coding jokes.
Or she types a laugh, anyway.
“How is it any different than being set up by someone else?” he asks Sarah. “Meeting someone who’s a friend of a friend or…or my mom’s neighbor’s daughter.”
“At least they’re vouched for. You can’t even be sure who you’re speaking to. Oh!” she says, eyes widening. “What if you’re being catfished?”
Keith’s dry look pulls a laugh from her, before he shakes his head. “At least we’ve talked before we’re going out. That’s more than I can say for most dates where I’ve been set up.”
“You’ve typed,” she clarifies, “not talked. Don’t you think that’s weird?”
Keith finally slumps back with a sigh. “I don’t like talking on phones. It makes me feel like I’m thirteen again.”
“Fine, so it’s weird, but it’s your weird at least,” she relents. “She must be pretty great to get you out of the house.”
“She is great. She’s incredible, actually. You know that I was up until three in the morning talking to her? Typing to her,” Keith corrects, and Sarah nods sagely. “We argued about who should be the next Bond for like, half an hour straight. It came down to Hardy versus Elba.”
Men in Love: M/M Romance Page 9
