Physically or ethically."
"And neither of them ever had as much fun."
"Or fought as bitterly."
"Or loved as hopelessly."
"Or..."
I hung on Alistair's breath.
"—Saw as many bad movies!" he exploded.
We both laughed till I said, "Or screwed as many pretty boys."
"Or been as badly screwed by as many pretty boys," Alistair completed the list with a chortle. "One of whom was considerate enough to have led us to this very moment."
My high spirits sank.
"Which is about to end as planned. You will give me my forty-fifth birthday present. Then kiss my well-cosmetized cheek, and leave me. Forever."
He was serious now. Exhausted too.
I stood up, dug into my deep pocket, and handed over the little package. It was wrapped in black paper with a narrow black ribbon.
"Happy forty-five," I said. And as he collapsed onto the toilet seat I'd just vacated, I kissed one of the cheeks I'd just made up.
"Thank you, Cuz. These wrappings! Couldn't you find anything with a skull-and-crossbones motif?" He ripped off the paper and held the palm-sized ebony-colored metal Sobranie cigarette box in one skeletal hand, then lifted its lid and said in a voice I'd never before heard out of him, "Ah, my hot-pink-and-electric-blue darlings!"
Alistair looked up at me as though surprised I was still there. "What are you waiting for? Go."
"I'm waiting for you to say something final to me."
"Make sure they play Ravel's Ma Mère l'oye at my memorial service. The four-hand piano version."
"Oh, Alistair! That's not what I mean!"
He smiled an odd, crooked smile, doubtless twisted by the same
Parkinson's that had affected his hands. "What's left to say? No, really, Cuz. What haven't we said? What haven't we done to each other?"
I left the bathroom. Left the apartment. Got into the elevator and descended.
When it arrived at the third floor, for the blue-haired old woman with the beribboned dachshund to get in, she was treated to the possibly not too daily sight of a grown man soundly and methodically banging his head against the cleverly pre-aged wood paneling.
Wally was in the Chinese restaurant, at the table closest to the kitchen and farthest from the expanse of windows fronting Broadway. It never ceased to amaze me how the lad had a sixth sense for placing himself less than a yard away from wherever the help ate. Since it was nearly nine o'clock, and the restaurant nearly empty of customers, three young waiters and an older man, whom I guessed to be a chef from his food-spattered full apron, were already attacking an enormous bowl of rice noodles with assorted vegetables.
Less surprising than Wally's instinct for getting nitty-gritty with the laboring class was the fact that he wasn't alone. I recognized one companion from the back as I entered—Junior Obregon—the other I didn't know.
I sat down in front of a giant porcelain teapot surrounded by plates of what had recently been General Tso's Chicken and Three Mountain Prawn.
The strange overhead illumination in the restaurant made everyone look slightly green, including Wally, who, being supernaturally handsome, instead of looking seasick like the rest of us, now resembled some superb wild woodland creature just flitting out into light from a deep forested glade.
As he always does in public—whether we're speaking that day or not—Wally made sure to lean over and kiss me full on the lips.
It had its usual effect: the two waiters said something and giggled, allowing Wally to be superior and indifferent.
"You know my Sig Oth," Wally said to Junior Obregon, who grunted out, "How's it hanging, man."
I turned to the third diner. He was slim and pale, with bittersweet-chocolate straight hair. Nice face, even handsome, save for the eyebrows that connected without pause over his nose and shadowed his surprisingly dark blue-black eyes. Oddly, instead of making him look like a Neanderthal, they gave him a sad, even a somewhat tragic cast. I decided with no proof at all that he and
"And neither of them ever had as much fun."
"Or fought as bitterly."
"Or loved as hopelessly."
"Or..."
I hung on Alistair's breath.
"—Saw as many bad movies!" he exploded.
We both laughed till I said, "Or screwed as many pretty boys."
"Or been as badly screwed by as many pretty boys," Alistair completed the list with a chortle. "One of whom was considerate enough to have led us to this very moment."
My high spirits sank.
"Which is about to end as planned. You will give me my forty-fifth birthday present. Then kiss my well-cosmetized cheek, and leave me. Forever."
He was serious now. Exhausted too.
I stood up, dug into my deep pocket, and handed over the little package. It was wrapped in black paper with a narrow black ribbon.
"Happy forty-five," I said. And as he collapsed onto the toilet seat I'd just vacated, I kissed one of the cheeks I'd just made up.
"Thank you, Cuz. These wrappings! Couldn't you find anything with a skull-and-crossbones motif?" He ripped off the paper and held the palm-sized ebony-colored metal Sobranie cigarette box in one skeletal hand, then lifted its lid and said in a voice I'd never before heard out of him, "Ah, my hot-pink-and-electric-blue darlings!"
Alistair looked up at me as though surprised I was still there. "What are you waiting for? Go."
"I'm waiting for you to say something final to me."
"Make sure they play Ravel's Ma Mère l'oye at my memorial service. The four-hand piano version."
"Oh, Alistair! That's not what I mean!"
He smiled an odd, crooked smile, doubtless twisted by the same
Parkinson's that had affected his hands. "What's left to say? No, really, Cuz. What haven't we said? What haven't we done to each other?"
I left the bathroom. Left the apartment. Got into the elevator and descended.
When it arrived at the third floor, for the blue-haired old woman with the beribboned dachshund to get in, she was treated to the possibly not too daily sight of a grown man soundly and methodically banging his head against the cleverly pre-aged wood paneling.
Wally was in the Chinese restaurant, at the table closest to the kitchen and farthest from the expanse of windows fronting Broadway. It never ceased to amaze me how the lad had a sixth sense for placing himself less than a yard away from wherever the help ate. Since it was nearly nine o'clock, and the restaurant nearly empty of customers, three young waiters and an older man, whom I guessed to be a chef from his food-spattered full apron, were already attacking an enormous bowl of rice noodles with assorted vegetables.
Less surprising than Wally's instinct for getting nitty-gritty with the laboring class was the fact that he wasn't alone. I recognized one companion from the back as I entered—Junior Obregon—the other I didn't know.
I sat down in front of a giant porcelain teapot surrounded by plates of what had recently been General Tso's Chicken and Three Mountain Prawn.
The strange overhead illumination in the restaurant made everyone look slightly green, including Wally, who, being supernaturally handsome, instead of looking seasick like the rest of us, now resembled some superb wild woodland creature just flitting out into light from a deep forested glade.
As he always does in public—whether we're speaking that day or not—Wally made sure to lean over and kiss me full on the lips.
It had its usual effect: the two waiters said something and giggled, allowing Wally to be superior and indifferent.
"You know my Sig Oth," Wally said to Junior Obregon, who grunted out, "How's it hanging, man."
I turned to the third diner. He was slim and pale, with bittersweet-chocolate straight hair. Nice face, even handsome, save for the eyebrows that connected without pause over his nose and shadowed his surprisingly dark blue-black eyes. Oddly, instead of making him look like a Neanderthal, they gave him a sad, even a somewhat tragic cast. I decided with no proof at all that he and
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