Shuck by Daniel Allen Cox

where there were none before.
    Derek shot me a loaded look. If I had to venture a guess, it told me about a valve he had bust open, a drain he had unclogged, a lid he had lifted. It was a miracle to finally see him in his element. Sure, I had been a part of this release, but he owned this moment with a singularity that changed his whole demeanor. He had the body language of a man who felt free to be dangerous.
    â€œYou’re doing it,” I said, feeling like Richard Rorschach.

    â€œYes, I am ... You never come home with bruises anymore, so you’ve taken away my reason to procrastinate.”
    â€œI was worried you might miss my injuries.”
    â€œNot really.”
    I noticed my notebook lying on the bed. I didn’t remember leaving it there, and even if I did, I wouldn’t have left it open. I often bounce literary ideas off Derek, but I never let him see my writing. For some reason, it’s okay to share it with magazine editors, but it’s too personal to share with Derek.
    Huge, impressionist swipes of magenta. Agitated swirls where a hand would be. I moved in closer to his easel. He took a step back to let me soak it in, one stroke at a time. Charcoal ellipses, the outlines of plates on a dinner table. A looming figure made of layers of color, layers that looked like you could peel them back. Hazy, Monet-like washes hiding the brightest blue flame.
    A handful of pills.
    My latest story, told in acrylic.
    â€œI’d like to talk about your jealousy problem,” I said.
    â€œWhat the FUCK are you talking about?”
    â€œWhy did you go through my notebook? What were you looking for?”
    â€œListen, Jaeven, you left it open. What was I supposed to do, pretend I hadn’t read the first couple of lines? It was already too late. Your story hooked me and then I read the whole thing and realized it’s what I’ve been looking for all along.”
    â€œYou don’t trust me.”
    â€œWhy can’t you be happy for me? You have everything you want,” he said.
    â€œI know it eats you up inside when I turn a trick or do a photo
shoot. All I’m trying to do is make a living.”
    â€œAre you listening to yourself, Jaeven Marshall? We don’t even have sex. How can I be jealous?”
    â€œI know, that’s what’s weird about it.”
    â€œRight.”
    Derek wiped his forehead, smearing even more paint on himself. Nod was bumping into the jet engine, backing up, and making a metallic clunk with every go of it.
    Maybe I was being a paranoid jackass, or maybe he actually mistrusted me. Whatever the case, I couldn’t blame him for getting attached to me after all this time, and for feeling lonely when I was out gallivanting naked in the city. And I had to start accepting a certain loss of privacy that came with being in a relationship, as annoying as it was.
    â€œSorry,” I said.
    â€œThat’s okay.”
    He put down his brushes.
    â€œIt’s the first time I’ve ever seen you paint,” I told him.
    â€œIt is,” he said.
    â€œYour first show is going to be amazing.”
    He dabbed a splotch of purple on the tip of my nose.

    Now that I think about it, I’m not worried about Derek reading my short stories. He’s bound to read them eventually, since I plan to publish them. That is, if the universe conspires to keep me alive long enough.
    It bugs me only mildly that he might discover the Coney Island I
wrote about, that I might lose my secret hiding place.
    But it drills a hole in my head, day and night, wondering if he read the other stuff. What I wrote about him. It makes me sick, thinking about how he’d react to the way I’ve been characterizing him as a gentle romantic with opaque moods I try to crack. He might be uncomfortable in that box. He might feel weak.
    Or worse yet, he might think that I’m in love with him.

Part 2

    I PASSED A HOMELESS KID on Eighth Avenue today, twenty-two,