September 4, 20—
382 Bretton Way
It’s a civil breakup over bran muffins at approximately seven o’clock the next morning. Denver enters his Tudor with mussed hair and smells like sweat and a brewery. Toby thinks he’s been out drinking all night long and dancing, among other activities with a variety of men, which Denver has always enjoyed.
They make eye contact but are void of smiles. And once Denver is in the house, barely able to stand, suffering from bloodshot eyes and a runny nose, still drunk from the previous night’s party, wherever the binging occurred, Toby decides to serve his lover a hot cup of coffee and a bran muffin.
Denver clumsily sits down in one of the two chairs and says, “Hell of a night.”
“Can I ask you a question, Denver?” Toby’s tone is calm and collected with very little inflection. The last thing he wants to do is piss Denver off, causing a fight between them.
“Sure. I guess we have nothing to lose between us, do we?” He rubs his face with a palm and fingers. Bubbles of thick snot collect on his palm and two of his fingers.
“You’ve fallen out of love with me, haven’t you?”
“The great tragedy of love between two men,” Denver says. “I want to apologize to you, but I can’t find the words to do so. I want to say something like, ‘I’m sorry I can’t love you like you have loved me. You’ve opened your heart up to me and I’ve ruined a part of you. I can’t take that back.’”
“Jesus,” Toby whispers across the table, unable to drink his coffee and eat the bran muffin. “We’re breaking up, aren’t we?”
“I don’t want to hurt you any more than I already have. We can end this like polite men and treat each other with respect. There’s no reason to argue or fight. We’ve had some great times together, Toby, but…”
“No more, Denver. You’ve said enough. I get it.” Tears begin to edge their way out of the corners of his eyes and his stomach feels as if it’s been poisoned. He swallows saliva down the back of his throat, wipes snot away from his nostrils with the back of his right hand, and asks, “Is it another guy?”
Denver shakes his head. “It’s not.”
“A woman?”
“Never.”
“Then what is it?” Toby asks, feeling lead inside his lungs, at a loss for breath, and dizzy. “I won’t ask you again after this. Tell me now. I want to know.”
Denver presses his lips together, looks down at the table’s surface and studies the uneaten bran muffin and untouched cup of coffee. “Love, Toby. It’s all about the lack of love. I can’t do that to you. I won’t. I don’t mean to break you, but I have. I know that.”
Toby tries to smile, but he can’t. Transparent tears roll down and over both cheeks and fall to the table’s top. He reaches a hand across the table and collects one of Denver’s within his own. And between his quivering lips, feeling a fresh bend of pain arch through his heart, he whispers, “I understand. I really do. Thank you for being honest with me, Denver. Thank you.”