lovehandles

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“What happened last night?”

​

His mumbled response came from over my shoulder. “We got drunk.”

 

I noticed the headache behind my eyes and my dry tongue. “No shit. What else?”

 

“You pretended to be a girl, I rubbed your feet, and then we sucked each other’s dicks.”

 

“Right.”

 

I opened my eyes and reached for my phone. Just a couple Facebook notifications.

 

I lit a cigarette and turned over, covering my bare chest with a blanket and still holding my phone.

 

“And how you feel about that?” I asked him.

 

“I liked it. A lot.”

 

“That’s how you felt about it last night. How do you feel about it now?”

 

“I have to piss.”

 

I watched him pad – naked – toward the bathroom: tattoos and lovehandles and back hair.

 

I watched the smoke float closer to the ceiling and become illuminated by the light streaming in through the blinds.

 

He came back and sat on the bed. “What do we do now?” he asked.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I’ve never done this before.”

 

“Never had a one-night stand?”

 

“Not with a guy.”

 

“Maybe I’m not a guy.”

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

“I do. What do you think we should do?”

 

“I don’t know. But I can’t just go home and act like it never happened.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because I don’t want to forget about this. I don’t want to forget about you.”

 

“Why do you have to?”

 

He was quiet. He looked at the floor. I lit another cigarette.

 

“Can I have one?” he said.

 

I pulled one out of the pack and handed it to him. “I didn’t know you smoke.”

 

“Yeah, huh,” he laughed again, short, gruff. “I guess we’re finding out a lot about me today.”

 

“I guess.”

 

We were quiet.

 

“I’m not gay,” he said, a little louder than I think he intended.

 

“No one said you were.”

 

“I’ve just never felt the way about a guy the way I feel about you.”

 

“I’m not a guy, remember?”

 

I pulled my hair into a messy bun on top of my head.

 

“I like your hair. A lot.”

 

“Yeah?” I hit the cigarette.

 

“Yeah. And your nail polish.”

 

“I like it, too.”

 

“But I think I like your chest hair, too. And how tall you are.”

 

“You should see me in heels.”

 

His mouth twitched into something of a smile.

 

“And I think I like your…” He trailed off, as if he was suddenly unable to say the word.

 

“My dick?”

 

“Yeah. That.”

 

“Me too.”

 

“How can you do it?” he asked.

 

“Do what?”

 

“Make all of … this … make sense.” He gestured vaguely.

 

“Why does it have to make sense? Do you make sense?”

 

“I thought so.”

 

“You don’t think so anymore?”

 

He shook his head.

 

“Am I bi?”

 

“I don’t know. Maybe?”

 

“Are you?”

 

“Nah.”

 

“Then what are you?”

 

“Alive.”

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A version of this story originally appeared in Luna Negra, vol. 21, pp. 25-26 (Spring 2018). Read the issue, featuring art by Kathleen Morris, here. It was subsequently excerpted in the print edition of Fusion Magazine, pg. 19 (Spring 2019).