He looked confused and I felt scornful that he could be so dense.
“Yeah, Evan, yeah. The big news she was eager to share after my “golf game” was that she was heavy with our child. That our family was alive and growing within her womb.”
I paced away from him across the room. When I turned back, he was rising to comfort me. I halted him with a glare. The tears welling in his reddening eyes disgusted me.
“Then Angie revealed it was a boy. How’s that for a kicker? She was carrying the son I wanted with all my heart.”
I found myself rushing at him and bridled my rage when I was mere feet away.
“Yeah, that’s right, Evan. I had killed my own son! And you know what else? Jenny and I had already agreed on a name. Alan, Jr. I killed my own namesake.”
Evan flinched at each word as if I were pelting him with stones. He cowered and fell back into the cushions.
“You were so fucking eager to know what’s eating me? Well, now you know. I killed my own son! How’s that for a happy ending, Evan? I killed unborn Alan Eberson, Junior!”
I had to escape. I was afraid of the rage incited by his constant niggling, always prying into my private life. I made for the stairs and screamed from the landing. “My own son, asshole.”
The house rattled from the slam of my bedroom door.
_________
In the morning, I stood in the hallway outside his bedroom door. I sensed he was awake and listening to the stillness, but I cleared my throat to make certain. “I’m sorry, Evan. You didn’t deserve that. If we were competing to see who had fucked up their life the worst, I’d call it a dead heat. I’m truly sorry. I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you’re my friend.”
That day was like a dirge. I went to the clubhouse gym at dawn but ran the treadmill at a melancholy pace. The few people who saw me could intuit my mood at a glance and were gracious enough to simply let me be. I was back home, leaning against the kitchen counter nursing a glass of juice, when Evan came down. He offered a tentative “Good morning,” but I could only fake a smile in return. I retreated upstairs for a shower and then sought refuge in my office.
The figures on my computer screen disassembled and settled into a muck before my deadened eyes. My focus was inward and far away. A rustle of satin sibilated behind me. I turned toward the sound.
Evan stood in the doorway in a silver kimono, lustrous white stockings sheathed his legs. His face was sad, his eyes begged for a resurrection of vivacity, of purpose, of life. He implored, “Please?”
He approached three steps, then stopped, his gaze locked with mine. One hand slowly loosed the belt. The robe fell open a trace. A white lace garter girded his shapely waist. The pouch of a lavender thong gathered his manhood, the crown of his cock etched upon glistening fabric. Evan hooked the kimono as he drew his wrists behind his waist. The sleek garment fell to the floor. I was captivated. His body beckoned; wanton, supple, and smooth.
“We both need this.”
As he came nearer, my chair swiveled of its own volition to receive him. My hands rose to his hips. He took my head, pressed it to the flesh of his chest, and cradled me there. With a slow inhalation, I gathered his warm scent. It swelled within me like a first breath.
My arms circled his waist. His groin nestled against my belly. I felt his shaft rock in rhythm with our breaths. The gravity of his perfect orbs drew my hands lower. As I cupped each naked cheek, I offered the Buddha a silent thanks for yoga even though the Buddha’s depictions suggested he had no part in the practice.
“You are such a beautiful man,” I stammered. “What could you want with me?”
“Surcease of sorrow. For both of us.”
Surcease of sorrow. Surcease and Nevermore. The lament of Poe’s dreadful poem about loss was forever impressed in my mind.
My lips sought his flesh with slow kisses. They descended until they nestled his cock. I released a long, warm breath so he could feel the heat of my kindling passion. One hand pulled aside the satin fabric. I held his shaft as it hardened and played tender kisses across his soft fleshy crown.
Evan trembled. His fingertips hooked my chin and raised my gaze to his. “Make me feel beautiful.”
With a moist tongue, he wet his lips and urged me to my feet. We met in a soft kiss. His mouth skated atop mine, light and smooth and lingering. With a slow exhalation, my tongue softly pressed his lips apart and crept past. Our tongues began a slow, lush dance. Finally, at his insistence, we parted.
“Come,” he said.
Evan turned and started toward his bed. I was frozen, disbelieving, and uncertain. He reached back, taking my hand in his.
“Come,” he quietly urged. I followed.
His room smelled florid and sweet, scented by candles that glowed in the curtained light of the waning afternoon. We paused as he rid me of my shirt and pants, pausing to fondle my hardness, taking me briefly into his juicy mouth. Then he rose and he kissed me deeply. My misgivings melted away as Evan pulled me onto the mattress.
Our intimacy traveled slowly over a barren emotional landscape—his of tortured abuse, mine of unfathomable regret, each moment another mile behind us toward some promised place. Evan’s caresses were tender. His kisses imploring. He wasn’t kidding. He was a masterful lover and he made me feel like a king. I relished the succor of his flesh. And when he took me inside himself, it was as if two universes were melding, erasing all time and space that went before. Once joined, our passions flared and rode an urgent wave that crashed over us and culminated in an explosive release.
Time tarried as we shared a single pillow, sated and staring into each other’s eyes. Troubles and doubts settled into the long ago past of previous lives. His hand contained my manhood as I stroked his cheek and hair. It encompassed all my heart when I spoke that one word—
“Surcease.”
“Surcease” he repeated. Then finally asked, “Hungry?”
I realized I was famished. “As a matter of fact, I am.” He crawled from the rumpled sheets, reached into a drawer, and found some yoga pants and a T-shirt. As he pulled them on, he cast a sheet over me. “Rest awhile. I’ll see what I can throw together.” With a lingering kiss, he started for the door.
A huge shadow abruptly blocked his passage. The glint of a blade slashed the air. Evan shrieked as he fell back upon the bed. Scarlet blood erupted and coursed down his stomach. The Psycho entered, leering, startled at the sight of Evan and lusting for revenge. I was jolted from my reverie. Naked and exposed, I groped for whatever was available. My hand found an alarm clock on the nightstand. I wrenched the cord loose from the wall and hurled it. Cheap plastic shattered against the Psycho’s forehead.
“Run, Evan. Run!”
Evan bolted past the Psycho, his shoulder driving the Hulk against the wall. I heard his panicked footfalls down the carpeted stairs. The Psycho and I locked eyes for an instant. His giant form seemed dwarfed by the bowie knife in his hand. With an enflamed grunt, he turned and chased his escaping prey.