something. Joel couldn’t picture the partner, just Sam, naked, some shadowy figure in his arms. And he couldn’t, really, imagine what they might be doing. The same things Sam and Joel did? Just the same insertions in the same orifices but with a different set of parts? Or something entirely different, something Sam and Joel had never done? There were things Joel wanted to do and could never have done with Sam, things one could do only with a stranger. Perhaps Sam had a list of his own; and he was with a stranger.
At that very moment. In real time, that was the phrase computer people used. What was unreal time? Their last twelve years, probably; Joel thought it had been that long since Sam’s unilateral declaration of monogamy. This was the real time, the hour or so now since Sam’s call, and all those years were the unreal time. Joel had, more sharply, the sensation he had felt—only a few hours ago!—as he had sat with Paul at Zippers. The thisness, the presentness; the clock of his life had been restarted. He had a present tense, a future tense, a future conditional: possibility, uncertainty …
None of which would be very much diminished by a calm discussion between a coffee-enhanced drunk and someone who, if he came home at all, would be about as alert as a lion after the meat course. Joel went to bed, leaving one light on in the living room. Which was more than Sam would have done for him.
He woke up at around three. He didn’t even have to raise his head to look at the glowing numbers on the clock radio. If he woke up in the middle of the night it was always three.
Sam wasn’t in bed, and there wasn’t any light from the bathroom. So Joel figured he must have been snoring: sometimes, when nudges, admonitions, actual rearrangement of Joel’s sleeping body had no effect, Sam would go to the guest room. The first few times he did this, Joel would discover it in themorning and protest. Sam should make Joel go to the guest room. No, no, Sam would say; it wasn’t Joel’s fault he snored. Meaning that it was. Sam scored points under so many different categories in this argument that Joel lost count. Finally he concluded that
it wasn’t his fault he snored.
This might have been the biggest victory over guilt in his entire adult life. If he woke up and Sam wasn’t there he would just roll over and return to a no-fault sleep.
As he was just about to do when he remembered that Sam hadn’t gone to bed with him, and why. Maybe Sam had come home and gone directly to the guest room, rather than risk waking Joel and having to discuss things. If Joel had been the one, if he’d crept home in the middle of the night, he wouldn’t have wanted to discuss things either. Not because the discussion would have been so inherently painful: what had happened had happened, they were going to deal with it. But not that night, no; if it had been Joel, he would have gone straight to the guest room and drifted off to sleep. That’s where Sam was, maybe, with the faint scent of what had happened clinging to his body.
Sam hadn’t come home at all. How did Joel know this? Or rather, how would he have known the reverse, what would have told him Sam was in the guest room? After all, Sam didn’t snore. But Joel could feel it: Sam wasn’t in the apartment. He supposed he ought to get up and check, but he couldn’t move.
He picked up the phone to get his last voice-mail message. Except the mechanical voice-mail hostess now intoned that he had two unopened messages. Someone must have called while he was listening to the others.
The first was Melanie again. “Joel, listen, seven o’clock is out, so we’re going to have to do two. Please, please, please get back to me as soon as you can and—” He pushed 3.
“Message deleted,” Ms. Voicemail said. “Press one to hearyour next message, four to return to the main menu, or nine to exit the voice messaging service.”
It would only be Melanie again, unless …
Ms. Voicemail,
At that very moment. In real time, that was the phrase computer people used. What was unreal time? Their last twelve years, probably; Joel thought it had been that long since Sam’s unilateral declaration of monogamy. This was the real time, the hour or so now since Sam’s call, and all those years were the unreal time. Joel had, more sharply, the sensation he had felt—only a few hours ago!—as he had sat with Paul at Zippers. The thisness, the presentness; the clock of his life had been restarted. He had a present tense, a future tense, a future conditional: possibility, uncertainty …
None of which would be very much diminished by a calm discussion between a coffee-enhanced drunk and someone who, if he came home at all, would be about as alert as a lion after the meat course. Joel went to bed, leaving one light on in the living room. Which was more than Sam would have done for him.
He woke up at around three. He didn’t even have to raise his head to look at the glowing numbers on the clock radio. If he woke up in the middle of the night it was always three.
Sam wasn’t in bed, and there wasn’t any light from the bathroom. So Joel figured he must have been snoring: sometimes, when nudges, admonitions, actual rearrangement of Joel’s sleeping body had no effect, Sam would go to the guest room. The first few times he did this, Joel would discover it in themorning and protest. Sam should make Joel go to the guest room. No, no, Sam would say; it wasn’t Joel’s fault he snored. Meaning that it was. Sam scored points under so many different categories in this argument that Joel lost count. Finally he concluded that
it wasn’t his fault he snored.
This might have been the biggest victory over guilt in his entire adult life. If he woke up and Sam wasn’t there he would just roll over and return to a no-fault sleep.
As he was just about to do when he remembered that Sam hadn’t gone to bed with him, and why. Maybe Sam had come home and gone directly to the guest room, rather than risk waking Joel and having to discuss things. If Joel had been the one, if he’d crept home in the middle of the night, he wouldn’t have wanted to discuss things either. Not because the discussion would have been so inherently painful: what had happened had happened, they were going to deal with it. But not that night, no; if it had been Joel, he would have gone straight to the guest room and drifted off to sleep. That’s where Sam was, maybe, with the faint scent of what had happened clinging to his body.
Sam hadn’t come home at all. How did Joel know this? Or rather, how would he have known the reverse, what would have told him Sam was in the guest room? After all, Sam didn’t snore. But Joel could feel it: Sam wasn’t in the apartment. He supposed he ought to get up and check, but he couldn’t move.
He picked up the phone to get his last voice-mail message. Except the mechanical voice-mail hostess now intoned that he had two unopened messages. Someone must have called while he was listening to the others.
The first was Melanie again. “Joel, listen, seven o’clock is out, so we’re going to have to do two. Please, please, please get back to me as soon as you can and—” He pushed 3.
“Message deleted,” Ms. Voicemail said. “Press one to hearyour next message, four to return to the main menu, or nine to exit the voice messaging service.”
It would only be Melanie again, unless …
Ms. Voicemail,
Similar Books
