A MATTER OF TIME by JustVisiting So many times when I'm sliding the loft door open I have a flash, only for half a second, that it will be Justin standing there. Once in a great while it actually is, of course. His unannounced visits are erratic -- months and months go by in between -- but I keep having the flashes. It's like the rats in those lab experiments. If the cheese comes regularly, they take it for granted and won't work for it. If it doesn't come at all, they give up. But if it comes some times and not other times, they'll keep pushing the fucking lever, hoping, hoping, hoping. Emmett called me a rat the other night, as a matter of fact. But he has no idea. This time I blink in case my flash is lasting too long. But no, this time it really is Justin. He's leaning back against the elevator wall, smiling a little the way he always does, hanging back to pretend he'll leave if it's a bad moment for me, but secure in knowing he can always walk in. He still has the fucking key, after all, even if he doesn't use it. It was still on his ring the last time I was able to check when he wasn't looking. We've developed certain little rituals for these reunions, like we used to have in bed. Things progress in a certain sequence. There's to be no acting surprised on my part, for starters. And we don't kiss hello or hug, none of that crap. He used to try it but I barely let him, and he got the message. We say hey, give each other the once-over and exchange a few preliminary "How hot you're looking" remarks. Then I ask, "How's the boyfriend?" He answers, "Steven (or Mark or Tyler or Jimmy) is doing fine," in an exasperated tone that tells me I'm supposed to remember the guy's name. But I'm not asking because I care how what's-his-dick is doing. I'm asking so I'll know which kind of evening we're going to have. If he says, "He's fine," then I get him out of the loft as soon as possible and take him out for dinner to as fancy a restaurant as I can find in this 'burg. He's been to better by now, but he lets me pay and pretends to be impressed. By the after-dinner drinks he usually hooks a finger or two through mine on the table, but that's because he's sentimental. He'll kiss me goodbye outside, very chastely, like the good boy he is, before he catches a cab. Well, sometimes it's not so chaste, but the Boyfriend won't have anything to complain about. I put him in the cab and that's it for the next few months. But if he says, "There is no boyfriend," it's different. Then I can pull him inside and pour him a drink. And we'll order in food. We won't leave the loft, because when there's no boyfriend, it means we're going to end the night fucking. And I won't have to put up with the condescending bye-bye kiss until the morning. I don't remember when we stopped talking on the phone. If he called me now, I'd figure somebody was dead or something; that's how bad it would have to be. I don't like talking to him when I can't see his face, not now when I have to be careful what I say. When we were together, of course, I was never careful. I said whatever I wanted. I guess you can add that to the long list of mistakes, if I bothered to tote them up, which I won't. What's the point? But when I talk to him now I want to see what he's feeling. He can lie, he can withhold information, but he's never been able to keep his emotions out of his face. So we don't talk between his surprise visits. I hear how he's doing from some member of the family or other. I never ask, but I don't have to. What with Debbie and Jennifer and Lindsay and even Michael there's always someone who's heard from him recently, and what one knows everybody knows soon enough in our circle. Once in awhile he sends me a postcard with an announcement of a small art show he's involved in. (If it's within a 100 mile radius, I go.) Sometimes he emails me. His email addy seems to change constantly, but I know it's him because he uses the same subject line every time: "Who're you fucking now?" Sometimes that's the entire message. My answer line, of course, is, "Whomever I want " Sometimes he does actually tell me something, gives me the latest news about a job change or city change. It's usually a boyfriend change. He's been racking them up. Still looking for true love, our Sunshine. Doesn't seem to be finding it. Stubborn enough to keep looking, that's Justin all over, but I think our little family have all been surprised how fast he dumps one and moves on to the next. After all, I was supposed to be the one with the commitment problem, right? Which is pretty fucking funny, since he was my first, my only, and will certainly be my last. I happened to overhear the end of a conversation between Jennifer and Debbie in the diner one time, maybe a year ago, when I came up to the register. I knew Justin had dumped yet another boyfriend - I'd had an email saying, "Cutting my losses, here's my new address" - but no details. Didn't want any. I certainly didn't want any from Jennifer. I hardly say more than hello and goodbye to her any more, but I can guess she's getting a little perplexed by her boy's romantic escapades. Jennifer must have been telling Debbie about her bewilderment. All I heard was, "He can't seem to settle down." Then she saw me and clammed up, smiling too brightly. But Ma Debbie, who never met a problem she couldn't blame on me, said immediately, "That's the Kinney influence, still at work on him!" Of course I didn't make that boy a slut any more than I made him gay. He came that way. Thank God. But I couldn't describe how I know without giving his mother information no mother should have. So I said, "I certainly hope so," and took a lemon bar without paying. I've paid enough, all around. But tonight he's no sooner over the threshold when something seems off. The pattern doesn't seem to be in place. He never gave me the big once-over, I realize. That's a first. I've done my checklist: hair cropped behind, brushed up in front; face as young as ever, he'll look like that until he's fifty, damn him; perfect ass still; good quality jeans. But he hasn't checked me out. He just glanced at my face like he needed to see if it was me after all, and walked past me. But I try to stick to regulations. I ask after the Boyfriend but he screws up his line, saying, "Um, all right." I raise my eyebrows. He wanders out into the loft, running his artist's eye over the furniture, picking up this ceramic gargoyle thing Gus made me. Nobody knows what the fuck it's supposed to be and I didn't dare ask Gus - my son gets insulted easily - but it does catch the eye. While Justin turns it over in his hands, I tilt my head and squint at him. He's come here at times for comfort when he's moody. He's come for career advice, to crow about some achievement, to bounce work ideas off me, to check up on me if Michael's been babbling and he thinks I'm in trouble, or to admit to some worry he can't share with anyone else, like those months his hand seemed to be getting worse. More than once he's been here to fuck, period. That shouldn't be a surprise. I know he's never had better from the Boyfriends and he knows I've never had better from the tricks. That's just the way it is with us. I mean fuck, that's obvious. If everything had been as good as it was in bed, he'd still be here, right? "Want to go out to dinner?" I hazard. That should be next on our agenda, if he's got an um-all-right Boyfriend. "There's a new Italian place that's not bad. The headwaiter's good enough to eat." "And did you?" he asks absently. He's on automatic; he doesn't care. He's looking at my windows like he's never seen them before. "Sure," I say. "He was supremo." Justin nods. He's still not paying attention. He starts wandering again. Now he's looking at the TV like he's never seen one of those before, either. "So?" I nudge. "What?" He looks around. I say loudly and slowly, "Do-you-want-to-go-out-to-eat?" He considers. "I guess. We could stay here if you want." He picks up my cigarette lighter and contemplates it. I start to ask if he's had another brain injury since I've seen him last, but I look at him and stop myself in time. See, this is why I can't talk to him on the phone. But I can't figure this out. He has a boyfriend. But he doesn't want to leave the loft. This isn't adding up. I'm trying not to look at his ass, which I have not had a piece of in way, way too long. He moves again, but swerves away from the bedroom stairs. That's not a good sign. He trails a hand along the kitchen counter. I'm about out of my famously limited patience, but he finally comes to a stop just a foot in front of me. "I love this loft, I always have," he says wistfully. He looks up at me like he has a boo-boo and I'm supposed to kiss it. I would if I could find it. "What's wrong?" I ask. Personally, I'm amazed at the gentleness of my tone. "Nothing." He's trying to shake it off, whatever it is. "I'm okay. I felt like seeing you." "You're seeing me." "Right." He tries to give me one of those Sunshine smiles, but he's forcing it. "So let's go out. Italian sounds good." I nod and go for my jacket. I'm actually more concerned with what the hell is wrong with him right now than I am with my disappointed dick. I must be slowing down. We don't say much in the elevator. He comments on my boots, then finally looks me over, but without the suppressed lust I'm accustoming to seeing. His eyes pause at the new streaks of gray at the sides of my hair. They only came up this summer. My first reaction was to yank them, but I noticed they had appeared in a dignified symmetrical way, on both sides. I thought maybe that makes it okay. Like I did it on purpose. Like it was my choice. Only one more year now until I have to face forty. And I'll get there before Justin hits thirty. Fucker. Ted has been graying for a long time and covering it. He and Michael have ...
Mojaunicorn