Listening to Dust by Brandon Shire

dishwashing bits; though that always seemed a bit romantic to me.”  
    “Anything I might have read?” Dustin asked.  
    It seemed unlikely, but he didn’t want to sound like an arrogant twit. “I’m bound by pretty tight non-disclosure contracts, it’s mostly non-fiction. But I’ve worked with a few well known fiction authors as well,” Stephen answered.  
    “But you can’t say.”  
    “No, sorry,” Stephen told him.  
    “Ever think about publishing your own work?” Dustin inquired.  
    It was an assumption not too far from what anyone else would suppose, but that wasn’t Stephen’s cut at all. He was quite happy with what he did and the only private work he had was his personal journal, and that would never be published. He stole a quick glance at Dustin and wondered if that was an increasing nervousness he saw creeping in around Dustin’s eyes, or if it was just the drink adding late night worry lines to his face.  
    “No, the spotlight isn’t for me,” Stephen answered his question. “I’m a simple, quiet bloke. They can have all the drama.”  
    As Stephen turned to start up the walk to his building Dustin unexpectedly grabbed his forearm and stopped him, glancing up at the building with apprehension. Stephen took quick note of his unease and the strength of his grip; his were not writer’s hands at all.  
    “What was romantic about it?” Dustin asked, his hand still clasping Stephen’s forearm.  
    Stephen studied him curiously for a moment. Dustin suddenly seemed quite sober and more than a little unsure of the situation. He kept glancing back up at the building and chewing on his lip like a child who was certain he was being led into a trap but didn’t quite know how to get himself out of the potential harm that was sure to follow. Stephen put his palm gently on top of Dustin’s hand and watched him snatch it away with an embarrassed flush around the edges of his cheeks. For a moment he considered that maybe he should just leave Dustin on the sidewalk, and not deal with his insecurities, but… something within him, within this bloke, kept pulling at him otherwise.  
    “I think it was the grit of the situation,” Stephen finally answered. “How all our romances seem to come from the dirt we bury ourselves in rather than the glitter we throw up for the show.” He spoke slowly, still unsure whether he should go any further.  
    “Shall we go up?” he asked Dustin after they stared at each other in a momentary silence.  
    Dustin nodded slowly and without reply.  
    When they got to the flat Stephen unlocked it and walked in, expecting Dustin to follow, but when he turned to offer him a drink, he noticed that he was alone.  
    At first, Stephen considered that Dustin might have been more drunk than he’d previously thought and  had simply fallen into that standing stupor of immobility as a few of his other inebriated strays had. From the manner in which he exited the taxi, and from their stumbling walk back to the flat, that didn’t seem like too far of a stretch. He also considered that he might find Dustin crouched outside the door half asleep and ready to piss on the floor like a mongrel dog. Unfortunately, that would not be the first time that had happened to him either.  He sighed, cursed himself silently for falling into the same predicament again, and went back to get him.  
    “Are you coming in?” Stephen asked.  
    Dustin was leaning against the wall on Stephen’s side of the foyer looking at the flat door opposite. He didn’t look drunk, or angry, or even sober. He looked lost, but not lost as in a place, but lost as in being; as if he was down inside himself searching through his scuffed heart for some mystery that he had yet to unlock. When he turned to look at Stephen he was trembling and completely silent, and with a plea so real in his still expression that Stephen was struck speechless.  
    Stephen looked deeply into Dustin’s blue eyes and felt a cool