Best Gay Romance 2013

His folded hands are pale and fragile in the early morning light, the faint veins beneath translucent skin like faded ink on forgotten love letters written long ago. His fingers lace through mine; his body curves along my back, still asleep despite the sun that spills between the shades. I lie awake for long minutes, clasped tight against him, unable or unwilling to move and bring the day crashing in. Only in sleep am I sure that he fully remembers me. When he wakes, the sun will burn that memory away and I’ll have to watch him struggle to recall my name. After a moment or two he’ll get it without my prompting but one day I know it will be gone, lost like the dozen other little things he no longer remembers, and no matter how long I stare into his weathered blue eyes, he won’t be able to get it back.

After some time he stirs, his even breath breaking with a shuddery sigh that tells me he’s up. There’s a scary moment when he freezes against me, unsure of where he is or who I am. I hold my breath and wait for the moment it all falls into place. His thumb smoothes along my wrist, and an eternity passes before he kisses behind my ear, my name a whisper on his lips. “Henry.”

I sigh, relieved. Today he still remembers, and that gives me the strength to get out of bed. “Morning, Jim.” I stretch like an old cat, first one arm then the other, feeling the blush of energy as my blood stirs and familiar aches settle into place. Over my shoulder I see Jim watching, a half smile on his face that tells me he still likes what he sees. As I reach for my robe, I ask him, “How about some eggs this morning? That sound good?”

“You know how I like them,” he says, voice still graveled from sleep. His reply wearies me—I don’t know if he’s forgotten how he prefers his eggs or if he simply trusts me to get them right. I want to believe in his trust, so I don’t push it. After fifty years of living with Jim, of loving him, I choose my battles carefully, and this isn’t one either of us would win.

He runs a hand through his thinning hair, then laughs. “Ten minutes then,” he says with a playful poke at my stomach. I catch his hand in mine and lean against it heavily to help myself up. We met in the late spring, 1956, when I graduated from State. It seems so long ago now—it’s hard to imagine we were ever anything but the old men we’ve become. My youngest sister Betty had a boy she wanted me to meet, someone I thought she was courting at the time, and she arranged an afternoon date. I thought she wanted my approval before she married the guy; that’s the way things were done back in the day. But when I drove up to Jim’s parents’ house and saw those long legs unfold as he pushed himself up off the front steps of the porch, I thought I’d spend the rest of my life aching for him. I could just imagine the jealousy that would eat me alive, knowing my sister slept in those gangly arms every night; family gatherings would become unbearable as I watched the two of them kiss and canoodle together. By the time he reached my car, I decided to tell Betty she had to find someone else. That nice Italian kid on the corner perhaps, or the McKeever’s son around the block. Anyone but this tall, gawkish man-boy with the thin face and unruly mop of dark hair, whose mouth curved into a shy smile when those stormy eyes met mine. “You must be Henry,” he said, before I could introduce myself. He offered me a hand I never wanted to let go. “Betty’s told me all about you.”

I vowed to keep a distance between us but somehow Jim worked through my defenses. He had a quick laugh, a quicker grin, and an unnerving way of touching my arm or leg or bumping into me at odd moments that caught me off guard. He skirted a fine line, too nice to be just my sister’s boyfriend but not overtly flirting with me. Once or twice I thought I had his measure, thought I knew for sure which side of the coin he’d call, but then he would be up in the air again, turning heads over tails as I held my breath to see how he would land. That first afternoon was excruciating—lunch, ice cream afterward, a walk along the boulevard as I tried to pin him down with questions he laughed off or refused to answer. I played it safe, stuck to topics I thought he’d favor, like how he met my sister and what he planned to do now that he was out of high school. But his maddening grin kept me at bay. “Oh, leave Betty out of this,” he told me at one point, exasperated. “I know her already. Tell me more about you.”

I didn’t want to talk about myself. There was nothing I could say that would make him fall for me instead of Betty, and I just wanted the day to be over. I didn’t want to see him again, didn’t want to think about him if I could help it, and in my mind I was already running through a list of excuses as to why I couldn’t attend my sister’s wedding if she married him, when Jim noticed a matinee sign outside the local theater. “You like these kind of movies?” he wanted to know. Some creature flick, not my style at all, but before I could tell him we should be heading back, Jim grabbed my elbow and dragged me to the ticket window.

Two seats, a dime apiece, and he chose one of the last rows in the back of the theater, away from the shrieking kids that threw popcorn and candy at the screen. He waited until I sat down, then plopped into the seat beside mine, his arm draped casually over the armrest and half in my lap. “Do you bring Betty here?” I asked, shifting away from him. Better to bring my sister up like a shield between us, in the drowsy heat and close darkness of the theater, to remind me why I was there. Betty trusted me, even if I didn’t trust myself.

Jim shrugged, uninterested. As the lights dimmed and the film began, he crossed his legs, then slid down a bit in the seat, let his legs spread apart until the ankle rested on his knee. His leg shook with nervous energy, jostling the seat in front of him and moving at the edges of my vision, an annoying habit, distracting, and when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I put my hand on his knee to stop it. As if he had been waiting for me to make the first move, Jim snatched my hand in both of his, threaded his fingers through mine, and pulled my arm into his lap. “Jim,” I whispered with a slight tug, but he didn’t seem to hear me and didn’t release my hand. I tried again—he just held on tighter, refused to acknowledge that I wanted him to let go. Leaning closer so I wouldn’t have to raise my voice, I tried again. “Jim—”

He turned and mashed his lips against mine in a damp, feverish kiss. I shouldn’t, my mind started, then I can’t, then Betty. Then his tongue licked into me, softer than I had imagined and so much sweeter than a man had the right to be, and I stopped thinking altogether. I was a whirl of sensation and every touch, every breath, every part of my world was replaced with Jim. Betty isn’t getting him back; that was my last coherent thought before I stopped fighting him and gave in.

From the kitchen, I hear Jim come down the stairs. He opens the front door and I force myself to stay at the stove, fighting the urge to check on him. I wait, head cocked for the slightest sound—somewhere outside, an early bird twitters in the morning air and further away, a lawn mower roars to life. Only when I hear a shuffled step do I call out. “Jim?”

Before I reach the hall, the door shuts quietly. When the lock latches, I let out a shaky breath and pray, Thank you. Then I see him at the foot of the stairs, thumbing through a small pile of mail I left stacked beside the phone. The way he lifts each envelope makes me sad, and I force a smile to combat the frown that furrows his wrinkled brow. “Bills,” I tell him. “Breakfast’s almost done. Did you get the paper?”

It’s only when I’m on the stoop, digging the paper out of the roses, that I remember the stove is on. “Jim?” I holler as I shut the door behind me. I hate that I’m like this—I know I should trust him but I can’t. If anything happens to him, it’ll be my fault because I know I need to be more careful, he needs me to watch out for him. I imagine him by the stove, the sleeve of his robe brushing across the heating element, unnoticed flames eating along his side… “Jim, where—”

The kitchen is empty. The eggs sizzle in the pan where I left them and I turn the burner off before they get too hard. In the dining room, a chair scrapes across the floor: Jim sitting down. Without comment, I gather up the plates and silverware I had set out in the breakfast nook and carry them into the other room. Jim sits at the head of the long, polished table where we rarely eat, but he gives me a smile when I hand over the newspaper, and as I place a plate in front of him, he catches me in a quick hug. He sighs my name into my belly, his arms tight around my waist, then rests his head against my stomach and wants to know, “What’s for breakfast?”

My parents always called Jim Betty’s friend, right up until the day she got married to someone else. By then the two of us had an apartment together, and at the reception my mother introduced us as simply, “Henry and Jim.” Not friend or roommate, just Jim—in those days, no one felt compelled to define us further. My mother treated him like one of the family when we visited, and that was all I wanted. Let her believe we slept in separate bedrooms, if that’s what she needed to think to welcome him into her home.

We bought this house in ’64; the market was good and the realtor didn’t question both our names on the mortgage. Jim was in college at the time, working nights at the packing plant just to pay his half of the bills. We had plans for the house—I wanted a large garden and Jim loved to swim, but we didn’t have the extra money to sink into landscaping yet; we couldn’t afford the house most months, let alone flowers and an inground pool. I had a job in marketing and spent most of that first year in the house waiting for Jim to come home. Sometime after midnight he’d stagger through the door, weary from standing on his feet all evening, clothes and hands and face black with grime and soot. I hovered in the doorway of the bathroom, watching the dirt and soap swirl away down the drain as he washed up. Some nights he sat on the closed lid of the toilet seat, pressed the palms of his freshly scrubbed hands against his eyes, and struggled not to cry from mere exhaustion. “I can’t do this much longer, Henry,” he sobbed, my man reduced to a child by the weight of his world. I knelt on the floor and gathered him into my arms, ignoring the stench of sweat and oil that rose from his soiled clothing. He slid off the toilet and into my lap as he hugged me close. Hot tears burned my neck where he buried his face against me. “I can’t,” he whispered, hands fisting in my clean shirt. “I just can’t.”

I helped when I could, but times were hard for us. Many nights we sat together on the floor of the bathroom, me smoothing my hand along his back as he railed against it all. It was college that held him back, Jim believed—if he could just drop the few classes he took, he could work full-time at the plant and make more money, but I wouldn’t let him. In those days a degree guaranteed a good paying job, no matter what the field of study, and I knew Jim wanted to be more than a line worker the rest of his life. I wanted him to be something more—I wanted him at a day job and home in the evenings, in the bed beside me at night. He wanted it too, so he would cry himself out as I held him, but eventually he kissed my neck and whispered my name. “How are you feeling?” I’d want to know.

One evening I was in the kitchen, washing the dishes, when I heard him come in the front. “Jim?” I called out, raising my voice above the running tap. The slam of the bathroom door was his only reply. Shutting off the water, I dried my hands and glanced at the time—barely eight o’clock. My first thought was that he had managed to get off early somehow, but the slammed door made me worry. In the hallway, I knocked on the bathroom door. “Jim? You in there?”

Absently my hand strayed to the doorknob but when I tried to turn it, I found it locked. That bothered me more than I cared to admit—there were no locked doors between us. “Jim?” I asked again, twisting the knob in a futile gesture. I wanted to watch him get cleaned up, to see the man emerge from beneath the sooty worker, to watch his strong hands smooth over one another to wash dirty suds away. It had become a nightly tradition of sorts, and I saw so little of him as it was. With my ear pressed against the door, I could hear water and Jim’s low humming. “Open the door,” I told him and then, because that sounded too harsh, I added, “Are you all right?”

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off, so I stood outside the bathroom door and ran through a dozen scenarios in my mind, reasons why Jim would refuse to let me see him before he got cleaned up, but none of them made any sense. I couldn’t imagine what he might be hiding from me, why he needed to wash up alone; there was no reason for the impromptu shower I heard running on the other side of this locked door. Never one for waiting, I wedged myself against the doorjamb, knob gripped tight in my sweaty palm. As soon as the shower cut off, I started rattling the knob again. “Jim—” I started, but then the lock disengaged and the knob turned in my hand. “What’s all this about?”

He wasn’t standing on the other side of the door, so I eased it open and peered behind it. Jim leaned back against the counter by the sink, a bath towel around his shoulders that barely covered his crotch. His legs, damp and swirled with dark curlicues of wet hair, stretched out for miles beneath the towel. One corner of the towel was caught between his teeth, and he stared at me with wide eyes full of an anticipation that excited me. “Well?” I wanted to know. I tried hard to hang on to my sour mood but the sight of water beaded on so much bare skin made it hard to remember what it was I might be angry about. “What’s going on?”

Without replying, Jim scooted over. On the counter behind him sat a potted bush in full bloom. Salmon colored rosebuds peeked through thick green leaves, one or two in full bloom like bubblegum bubbles, their petals opening to a deep, gorgeous color that reminded me of hidden flesh. “Jim,” I started, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I had done enough window-shopping at the local nursery to know the plant must’ve cost a pretty penny. I wanted to ask how he could afford it, with tuition on the rise and the bills we had piling up, but I tamped that down and took a tentative step toward the counter. “It’s beautiful.”

I brushed my fingers across one velvet petal and shook my head. “I can’t begin to imagine,” I murmured. My birthday was months away. Burying my nose into an open rose, I breathed deep the flower’s heady perfume and sighed. “Did you get a raise? Did you graduate?” With a sidelong glance, I teased, “We didn’t have a fight this morning, did we? Am I forgetting something?”

It didn’t. “Which one?” I ticked them off on my hand, one finger for each occasion. “We got the apartment in August, bought the house in February, first had sex in June, first kissed in…” A slow smile spread across my face. “In May. This is the day we met, isn’t it? God, how long as it been?”

He stepped toward me, away from the counter, and my hand brushed his arm before slipping beneath the towel to smooth over warm, tight skin. The towel fell away; Jim fumbled with the zipper of my pants, his hands undressing me as my mouth closed over his. We held on to each other as we met in a heated clash of lust and desire—against the wall, on the counter, sprawled across the lid of the toilet seat before we fell to the floor, aching and hard and seeking release. “I love you,” I told him, again and again. I kissed the words into the hollow of his throat, the small of his back. I whispered them in his ear, then licked after them as he gave in to me.

Time has banked the fire that once burned so brightly between us. It still simmers just below the surface of our lives and occasionally flares at a word, a touch, a smile, but we are no longer the hot lovers we were before. When we make love now it’s a gentle affair, languid and slow, the movements careful like turning the crumbling pages of an ancient book. Most evenings we settle for lying close together, Jim’s arms around me, my body clutched tight against his. There will come a time when one or the other of us finally lies alone, maybe sooner than we care to think, and the thought of going on without him terrifies me. I’ve lived with him for so long now that I can’t imagine anything else. So I smooth over his forgetfulness, these little spells that seem to come more frequently now, and I tell myself I can take care of us both. If ever the day comes when he wakes beside me and my name doesn’t come to his lips, when that bewildered look in his eyes doesn’t fade away, I’ll remember for us both. I won’t let him forget the life we built together. I won’t let him go.

In the kitchen, I scrape the congealed eggs into a large bowl and stir them up to keep them fresh. If we were eating in the breakfast nook like I had planned, I wouldn’t have to make several trips to deposit everything onto the table, but Jim chose the dining room and I give him an encouraging smile when I set the bowl of eggs down in front of him. “Help yourself,” I say over my shoulder as I head back into the kitchen for coffee that’s just beginning to perk. I busy myself with buttering toast, then rescue two overcooked sausages from the stove where I left them. When I bring the bread and meat out, I notice that Jim hasn’t touched the eggs yet. “Everything okay?” I ask him.

He takes the plate of toast from me with one hand—the other is under the table, out of sight. I wonder if he’s burned himself on the stove earlier while I retrieved the paper or maybe on the bowl of eggs; that ceramic gets pretty hot. But he gives me a quick grin and a flash of the boy I fell for peeks out through the face of the old man I love. “Everything’s fine, Henry. You worry too much. You always have. Do I smell coffee?”

“Coming right up.” I hurry back to the kitchen to pour two steaming mugs, with a dash of milk and a spoonful of sugar in Jim’s because that’s the way he likes it. I take mine black. As I blow across his mug to cool it off, I wonder what the rest of the day will bring. Will it turn out all right in the end? Or will this be one of those bad days, with Jim locked in the past, unable to follow my conversations because he can’t remember one moment to the next? Some days he’s a different man, aged by forgetfulness that borders on something I’m afraid to admit, much older than me despite the fact that I’m five years his senior. Since the scare at the front door, I’m on guard, suspicious and cautious and hating myself for not being able to trust him.

Back in the dining room, Jim holds the newspaper open in front of him, hiding from me. I’m about to ask him to lower it when I see the single rose on my plate. The flower isn’t in full bloom yet, but all the thorns have been broken off and the long stem is ragged at the end, as if plucked in haste. Already the soft petals that peek through the green have that deep pink of young, forbidden skin. One of my roses…

My hands begin to tremble and I have to set the mugs down before I spill the coffee. It’s May already, I should have remembered—when I close my eyes, we’re both young again, awkward with sudden desire, each desperately waiting for the other to make the first move. In the darkness of my memory I recall that first fumbling kiss and the hot hands that held mine in his lap. The years between us peel away like the petals of a rose and the day we met is laid bare, the core around which we have built this life together. My vision blurs and I have to blink back an old man’s tears as I finger the barely budding rose. “Jim,” I sigh.