feeling the guilt of what had transpired the night before—both in real life and in my dream—lying like a leaden weight upon my chest. “You’re the one,” I said softly.
We were quiet for a moment. Then Alison said, “I really have to get back to getting ready, honey. I can’t miss my train.”
“I know. I just wanted to hear your voice and to tell you that—” My voice catching in my throat caught me unawares. I choked out a quivering breath, my eyes damp, a lump in my throat. “That I’m really looking forward to July.”
Alison didn’t rush in with a response, and it was most likely then she realized my difficulty breathing was because I was on the verge of tears. Warily, she said, “Me too, sweetheart. Me too.” She paused again. “Andy? Is everything okay?”
There was a part—a big part—that just wanted to blurt it all out. I could imagine both the devastation and relief. How I loved her so, so much, but that I didn’t know who I was. That maybe our getting married was wrong, not because I loved someone else but because I could , and that person would be a man. To beg her forgiveness for my not understanding myself. To beg her to be a part of my life, but that we must find a way to not travel life’s road together, living a lie. I could set her free.
But all I said was, “Everything’s fine.” I glanced out the window, where the sun and clouds had conspired just above the lake to form a lovely smear of orange and pink, coloring the caps of the waves rolling in.
“Good. I love you.”
“I love you too.” A pause. “I really do.”
“I know. I gotta go, okay?”
“Yeah. You have a great day. And can we meet for dinner? Get off the ‘L’ at Fullerton and head over to that British place? The Red Lion?”
“You just want to go there because it’s supposed to be haunted,” Alison teased.
“I just want to go there to be with you,” I said.
“Go on. I should be off at five-ish. I’ll meet you there before six.”
“I’ll be at the bar.”
We hung up, and I lay back again, feeling a chill as the wind raced across the water and crept in through my window.
P ART T WO : N OW
C HAPTER 8: A NDY
T HE WOMAN next to me sits too close. It’s not that she’s overweight and can’t help that her bulk invades my space—that I could understand—but this gal is rail thin, hair dyed red, wearing a leopard-print dress, black spike heels, and way too much cheap perfume.
The Red Line ‘L’ train rumbles south toward downtown. It’s around eight o’clock on a Wednesday morning in May. I missed the Metra train I usually take, and it was easier for me to simply walk from my condo on Lunt over to the ‘L’ stop on Morse. That way I wouldn’t be late for my job as a communications specialist for a healthcare professional association on Michigan Avenue.
I feel her eyes on me. I try to concentrate on the book I’m reading, Armistead Maupin’s The Days of Anna Madrigal , attempting to immerse myself in the world of Maupin’s characters, whom I’ve grown up with as a gay man over the years. They are comforting to me, like old friends.
But the woman next to me won’t give it a rest, staring, and I find myself reading the same line over and over again. My old friends have deserted me. Exasperated, I glance over at her.
It’s the moment she’s been waiting for. “What are you reading?” she asks, peering down at the Kindle on my lap. “Something good?” Her voice is raspy, deep as a man’s, revealing her passion for cigarettes. I would peg her as a Virginia Slims kind of woman. She probably bathes in that perfume to hide the stench of the smokes.
I really don’t want to get into talking about the book. The train pulls into the Sheridan Road station. Passengers get off and on, and I’m tempted to scurry off, even though my stop isn’t until the train goes underground, until we reach Grand Avenue.
It’s hot for May, and I feel hemmed in, a little
We were quiet for a moment. Then Alison said, “I really have to get back to getting ready, honey. I can’t miss my train.”
“I know. I just wanted to hear your voice and to tell you that—” My voice catching in my throat caught me unawares. I choked out a quivering breath, my eyes damp, a lump in my throat. “That I’m really looking forward to July.”
Alison didn’t rush in with a response, and it was most likely then she realized my difficulty breathing was because I was on the verge of tears. Warily, she said, “Me too, sweetheart. Me too.” She paused again. “Andy? Is everything okay?”
There was a part—a big part—that just wanted to blurt it all out. I could imagine both the devastation and relief. How I loved her so, so much, but that I didn’t know who I was. That maybe our getting married was wrong, not because I loved someone else but because I could , and that person would be a man. To beg her forgiveness for my not understanding myself. To beg her to be a part of my life, but that we must find a way to not travel life’s road together, living a lie. I could set her free.
But all I said was, “Everything’s fine.” I glanced out the window, where the sun and clouds had conspired just above the lake to form a lovely smear of orange and pink, coloring the caps of the waves rolling in.
“Good. I love you.”
“I love you too.” A pause. “I really do.”
“I know. I gotta go, okay?”
“Yeah. You have a great day. And can we meet for dinner? Get off the ‘L’ at Fullerton and head over to that British place? The Red Lion?”
“You just want to go there because it’s supposed to be haunted,” Alison teased.
“I just want to go there to be with you,” I said.
“Go on. I should be off at five-ish. I’ll meet you there before six.”
“I’ll be at the bar.”
We hung up, and I lay back again, feeling a chill as the wind raced across the water and crept in through my window.
P ART T WO : N OW
C HAPTER 8: A NDY
T HE WOMAN next to me sits too close. It’s not that she’s overweight and can’t help that her bulk invades my space—that I could understand—but this gal is rail thin, hair dyed red, wearing a leopard-print dress, black spike heels, and way too much cheap perfume.
The Red Line ‘L’ train rumbles south toward downtown. It’s around eight o’clock on a Wednesday morning in May. I missed the Metra train I usually take, and it was easier for me to simply walk from my condo on Lunt over to the ‘L’ stop on Morse. That way I wouldn’t be late for my job as a communications specialist for a healthcare professional association on Michigan Avenue.
I feel her eyes on me. I try to concentrate on the book I’m reading, Armistead Maupin’s The Days of Anna Madrigal , attempting to immerse myself in the world of Maupin’s characters, whom I’ve grown up with as a gay man over the years. They are comforting to me, like old friends.
But the woman next to me won’t give it a rest, staring, and I find myself reading the same line over and over again. My old friends have deserted me. Exasperated, I glance over at her.
It’s the moment she’s been waiting for. “What are you reading?” she asks, peering down at the Kindle on my lap. “Something good?” Her voice is raspy, deep as a man’s, revealing her passion for cigarettes. I would peg her as a Virginia Slims kind of woman. She probably bathes in that perfume to hide the stench of the smokes.
I really don’t want to get into talking about the book. The train pulls into the Sheridan Road station. Passengers get off and on, and I’m tempted to scurry off, even though my stop isn’t until the train goes underground, until we reach Grand Avenue.
It’s hot for May, and I feel hemmed in, a little
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