Shades of Gray

Boomerangs

When he was barely 11, Josh Genova wrote an unsigned love letter to a boy he was nuts over, tied it to a balloon and released it into the universe. It was a silly thing to do, he knew that. Still, it felt good, cleansing. Like a Sunday morning confession.

It was his adolescent way of expressing his feelings without the fear of anyone finding out. But a day later the balloon descended straight into the hands of the boy he liked, the wind carrying his love note to its intended (or more precisely unintended) recipient.

To this day Josh (now 50) believes that if you really want a message delivered, if you try hard enough, somehow it'll find a way. Reach its destination.

Last week, another message getting through. Mine. This time with messy consequences. Lipstick, everywhere.

"Ethan?"

"Hey man what's up?"

"Other than my relationship being over, not much."

"What happened?" I ask, expecting another story about how they're not communicating anymore.

"He found your blog."

"Oh."

I must have apologized a hundred times. Never intended for that to happen. The few friends who heard the story would always ask me, "Don't you want Seth to know?" My answer, an emphatic no. What for? I know it happened, Zach knows it happened. Anything else would just be cruel.

I call Josh, who immediately recounts his balloon anecdote. He knows. I know. A message like that always gets delivered.

"I have to say, didn't think you had it in you. It's almost Machiavellian. Talk about getting even."

"Stop. You make it sound like I planned it."

"No, but you wrote it, then posted it. I mean what did you think was going to happen?"

"It's not a New York Times best-seller. It's a stupid blog. What are the odds?"

"Apparently quite good. How's Zach doing?"

"I'm sure he's freaking out."

"Is he mad at you?"

"No, not really. Handled it quite well I suppose. I would have lost it."

I look up, the sun is shining strong. I'm away on vacation. Palm Springs. Grateful to be far from New York in more ways than one.

"So does this mean Zach's read all of your posts about him?"

"Well if he hasn't, I'm sure he's reading them now. Seth sent him a an e-mail with links to all the stories."

"Oh my God."

It's not until Josh says those words that it finally sinks in. Seth has read them too. Each and every one of them. I try to recall what I wrote, but some of those entries are more than two years old. I know it couldn't have been easy. I know there are parts that must have hurt. I feel horrible. I can imagine how he must feel.

I can imagine because unintentionally, he had done the same to me. I close my eyes, and for a second I go back in time. Six years back. Just months after we split, Seth called asking for help finding his keys. He thought he may have left them at his desk. I remember opening one of his drawers looking for them but instead stumbling upon a stack of printed e-mails, as thick as a novel. Shouldn't have looked, but I did.

Hundreds of electronic love letters eternalized in paper. One on top of another. All sent to one boy. A boy named Zach. I looked at the first one. Sweet declarations of love. New love. One line stood out in particular.

"The last few weeks have been magical," he wrote. He'd never felt like that with anyone. Then that moment. My eyes, one big blur. The date. Way before we called it quits. My hands start shaking, warm wet tracks down my face. I try not to cry, but the tears, they won't stop coming. I read a couple of more e-mails, then quietly put the pile down as I found it. My questions answered.

Never told him about that day. Never mentioned that I knew. There was no need. At that point we had already been apart a long time. It took a while before that final dust settled, and more than a year before he no longer occupied every cell in mind.

Now it's he who is reading my letters. I feel bad for him, the pain he must have felt going through my thoughts. There's guilt and shame a touch of regret. But along with all the appropriate reactions, one that catcthes me by surprise. A smile.

Maybe it's the natural response of a vindicated person. Maybe I'm nowhere as evolved as I like to think I am. Or maybe, just maybe, it's the way of the world. Another message sent. Another boomerang returned.

Triggers

It's never quite over is it? Like over-over. After all the sadness, the anger and the healing, after it's said and done, it can all come back in an instant. Set off by a trigger with the unrelenting power to roll back time. For some that trigger is an anniversary. For others, a song. For me it's always been his birthday.

----------------------------------------

"You're Invited to Seth's Big 30th Birthday Bash," reads the e-mail, three exclamation marks.

I know better than to open it, but I can't help it. An addict falling off the wagon.

I hate myself for being so weak, but mostly I resent him for opening that door again. His birthday was three weeks ago, and surprisingly this year it came and went without a hitch. I thought I was done.

My eyes follow the words on the screen.

Pool party. Swanky hotel. Midtown.

Before I get to the time and date, I come back to my senses, hit delete.

I've learned my lesson a long time ago. Tried the whole "let's be friends" thing back when the wounds were still fresh, but quickly realized I couldn't. Too much anger. It wasn't anything he did in particular that got me so mad. Just a simple resentment towards a man who was able to make the transition from lover to friend with such ease.

And so one day I stopped talking to him. No phone calls, no dinners, no nothing.

I thought it would be hard, I thought I'd miss him too much. But instead I felt happier, healthier. Then I discovered a direct correlation: the less I knew about him, the better I felt. And so I made a conscious effort to not know. Seth was angry at first. Confused by my silence. But for the first time it didn't matter.

Years have gone by and still I choose not to know. Figure there's no need to wake that sleeping dog.

Then an e-mail. One small gesture, and the anger which seemed to have almost disappeared is now finding its way back from the dead, like a serial killer in bad horror flick.

I tell myself as long as I don't know the date and time I can't obsess. But is it ever that simple?

"Are you going to Seth's birthday party?" Comes a text. It's from Zach.

"Wasn't planning on it, no."

"Yeah, didn't think you would. Pity. I was the one who suggested he invited you, thought we could finally spend some time together, cohort."

I cut the exchange short, before he blurts out the specifics and for the next few days try not to hear about it. But I know. It's only a matter of time.

On Friday I get another e-mail. This time there's no escape.

"Last reminder: Seth's 30th Birthday Party TONIGHT."

No need to open. It's right there in the subject matter.

And then it starts. A rush of thoughts and flashbacks and feelings and moments. Seth at 23, Seth at 24. Birthdays I've celebrated with him, those I did not. I make plans to meet friends. Anything to get my mind off the party. Soho House, drinks, a cute boy's smile. But then my mind drifts, stubborn interruptions of bathing suits, Seth's face, his boyfriend's tight body. I try to focus. But all I can think of is the unthinkable. I need something momentous to happen, I need this to be anything but the day I couldn't go to Seth's 30th birthday party. But I realize it's a lost cause.

I'm bored and I'm tired and now, slightly drunk. I finally glance at the exit sign, put down my umpteenth vodka tonic, head towards the coat check.

"Hey what's your name?"

I look up. Blue eyes, buzzed hair, nice smile.

"Ethan."

"Hey Ethan, I'm JT."

"Hey."

"Where are are you from?"

"I live in Chelsea."

Awkward pause. I realize he's waiting for me to reciprocate. I just want my coat.

"And you?" I finally ask back.

"I'm stationed in Honolulu."

He smiles. The set up, it worked.

"Stationed? As in the military?"

"Yep." he says with a smirk on his face. He knows he's got my attention.

"I'm being shipped to Iraq in three weeks."

Smile. Dimples. Deal, sealed.

"And how many times have you used that line tonight?"

"You're the first. Is it working?"

"If I say no, that would make me quite unpatriotic."

"And callous."

"Callous? That's a big word for a soldier."

"Marine."

"Stop."

"Too much?"

"You had me at Honolulu."

----------------------------------------

A bright ray of sun coming in from the window wakes me up. My head's pounding, my mouth's dry. I open my eyes slowly trying to reduce the light's unforgiving effect on my pupils. I scan the room. A hotel. Flat screen TV, an empty bottle of Veuve Clicquot, my clothes scattered like breadcrumbs all the way from the door to the bed. I peel the blanket off my chest slowly, a prisoner making his escape. That's when I notice his arm around my waist, his legs intertwined with mine. We're cuddling.

"Good morning," he says.

"What time is it?"

"Almost 11:00"

"Shit. I have plans to meet someone for brunch at noon," I lie. That line flies out of my mouth almost too quickly. It's convincing. I remind myself to call my therapist the moment I make more money.

"Sorry, I gotta run."

"Do I get your number?"

"Sure," I say as I fish my clothes up from his floor. "Got a pen?"

He pulls out a color Blackberry, new, shiny, bells, whistles. It's the Cadillac of hand-held devices.

"They give that to all soldiers?" I joke. "I'm in the wrong business."

"I'm a doctor. Do you have to go so soon?"

"Yes," I say. "Before I find out you're Jewish and single."

I leave his hotel room, look at the date on my watch. Smile. I made it through the night. No more anxious feelings. At least not for another year.

And then a thought. A happy one. Last night wasn't the night of Seth's birthday party. 'Twas the night I entertained the troops.

The Nightcap

It had been months since I saw him. Last time we spoke, he was going back to his boyfriend for the umpteenth time.

Then, out of the blue, a call.

"How are you?"

"I'm good. And you?"

"Good. Good. Work's great."

I don't ask anymore. I know the drill.

We meet where we always meet. A cozy little East Village pizzeria. Exposed brick, brown leather booths, soft lighting. A dive of a place that somehow always makes me feel comfortable. It has character. New York before the Giulianis and the Bloombergs.

We say hi, take our coats off, order food. It's become somewhat of a ritual. Big thin crust pizza with countless toppings, cold blond-amber beer and stories. I like his stories. They're peppered with soul. This time I hear about his folks, his sister, his childhood in South Australia. More beer, more talking. It's nice. He grew up on a farm, wonderful folks. Godparents who stopped speaking to him after he came out. I'm listening. Intently. Not because it's polite but because he's interesting.

This isn’t a date. It’s a dinner. It’s the most fun non-date dinner I’ve had in a long time.

At one point he gets up, goes to the jukebox. From my seat I watch him flip through an endless list of songs. A light coming from inside the box settles on his face. It flickers. Blue then red then green back to blue. A mesmerizing dance of colors that produces a smile on my lips. I catch myself then quickly erase it.

He sits down. Starts talking, then stops.

What's wrong?"

"Huh?"

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

“What are we doing?”

Smile on his face, gone.

“Seriously man, what are we doing? Are we friends? Are we more than friends? What are we?”

“We’re friends.”

“Really? Because this doesn’t feel very friendly.”

“No.”

I don’t know why I’m upset, why I’m here. Maybe it’s because I like his company. Maybe it’s cause deep down I know every time he calls me, meets with me, he’s cheating on Seth a little. And not just with anyone but with me, the ex.

“Do you have a crush on me? I ask. Are you angry with Seth? Is this your way of hurting him back?”

"I could ask you the same thing."

There's no going back now. The words come rushing out. A broken dam.

“Can we really be friends? With our history, our past? How does that work? The way it is now? We get together when Seth’s out of town. Is that what our ‘friendship’ will look like? A dirty little secret you have to hide from the man you’re supposed to be sharing your life with? And if this isn’t really about friendship, if this is in fact more than that, could we really have a relationship? Are you going to date your lover’s ex-lover? The man you cheated on him with. The man he’s cheated on with you? This is all so Maury Povich.”

He smiles.

“Besides, as beautiful as you are, as smart, as eloquent, how am I supposed to ignore the fact that you’ve not only cheated on your boyfriend, you did it with his ex. That’s got to be pretty high on the ‘Lowest Of the Low’ list.”

He looks down. I’ve said too much.

“Seriously man. What are we doing?”

No need to answer that.

“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be a jerk. I’m just trying to understand. This is a dangerous road we’re on. Thought it might be wise to stop, take a deep breath, talk.”

I want to get up, give him a kiss on his forehead like they do in the movies when they’re about to make a grand exit. I want to leave with my dignity still intact.

But I don’t.

“What’s wrong?”

“Huh?”

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“I do?”

We have another beer. Then go to a different bar for a nightcap because that’s what “friends” do. It’s dark, nothing but candlelight and red wine.

I look at him from across the table and wonder how it is that of all the men in the world, I find this one attractive, interesting. I must be one fucked up dude.

At the end of the night, I hop into a cab, go home. I probably won’t hear from him until the next time.

Maybe then I’ll finally say it. Out loud.

Giovanni's Room

“Three questions, if you answer them I’ll date you,” he says as we’re having dinner.

“Three questions?”

“Yep. You’ve got to be able to answer them if you want to go any farther, or is further?”

“Further. Shoot.”

“Who is Maggie Smith?”

“An Actress. Tea with Mussolini.”

“Good. That’s one, though you would’ve gotten an extra point had you said A Room with a View."

“Why?”

“Because it’s my favorite movie. Next, who’s James Baldwin?”

“Author. Giovanni’s Room, Another Country.”

“Very good, and you get extra credit for mentioning Giovanni.”

“Why?”

“It’s my favorite book.”

"What’s the third question?”

“How old are you?”

“34.”

“So sorry. But two out of three ain’t bad.”

“What’s wrong with 34?”

“Too young. But you’re smart. I like that.”

I smile. We’re at a restaurant, Jim and I. I’ve known him a long time. Two friends having dinner.

“Have you ever read Giovanni’s Room?” He asks.

“Yeah.”

I get lost for a moment, sidetracked by my own thoughts, then return to Jim.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing." I tell him. "It's just that I haven’t thought about that book in a long, long time.”

“A story?”

Jim loves my stories. I indulge him.

I’d known Seth a couple of months when his birthday came around. Was already head over heals, could barely see straight. I had no idea what hit me, hooked.

He was the first, the one to whom all future boys would be compared to.

For weeks all I could think of was finding him the perfect gift. An obsessive never before felt need to surprise him with that one thing that would set me apart from all other guys. Show him beyond a shadow of a doubt that no one will ever know him the way I did.

At that moment I would have picked not only the stars out of the sky for him, but also the sun and the moon and the space between.

Problem is, didn't know him at all. Had no idea what he liked, what made him tic. I replayed every conversation we had, thought of all the things he'd said to me alone at night. Was looking for clues into his soul, but all I could see was my panic. Weeks went by. I had nothing.

The big day was getting close and I was nowhere near finding him a gift. Finally I had to make a decision, settle on something, anything. It wasn’t as romantic as I’d hoped but at least it was something he’d appreciate. I knew he liked music. An amateur DJ, he spent hours in front of his turntables, eyes closed, head tilted to one side, lost in a neverending mix of beats inside his mind.

He was still accumulating his record collection. At least once a week he’d go shopping for music, a tedious and time-consuming affair that involved hopping from store to store, flipping through a sea of vinyl, most of which he couldn’t afford.

Usually when he'd ask me to join him, the answer would shoot out of my mouth, “I’d rather chew glass.” Now I was tagging along making mental notes every time he looked at an album.

Then, just as I compiled my list, his best friend took him shopping for his birthday and got him all the titles I’d spent three weeks researching. Forty-eight hours before the big day.

Two days. No time. No money. No idea what to get. I talked to his friends, chatted up his roommate, called his sister. I tried anything I could think of, anything that would help me figure out what makes this kid smile. I was just about to lose hope when I remembered. His favorite book. Giovanni’s Room. A film student, his dream was to make it into a movie.

This was my way in. A first edition copy of his most cherished read, published in 1956. Problem is e-Bay didn’t have it. Neither did the 20 bookstores I called. None had seen a copy in years, some actually laughed at me. The one place that did have it was selling it for $700. Interestingly all other first edition books by Mr. Baldwin were considerably cheaper, as low as $70. I thought of buying another title, but somehow I knew it wouldn’t have the same effect. Then someone suggested I called this one guy, a “book specialist.”

“He’s a pro,” said my friend. “Can find anything.”

24 hours to find the perfect gift.

“Hello?”

“Yeah hi, I was told you find rare books.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin.”

“Dude, that’s a tough one, usually pretty expensive.”

“I've got about $300.”

“Let me see what I can do for you, hold on.”

The click of a mouse, fingers tickling a keyboard, a deep breath.

“I’ll be damned.”

“What?”

“It’s your lucky day, kid. I found you a copy in Canada of all places. You’d have to ship it, but it’s only $165.”

The book arrived the next day, just in time to wrap it up and run it over to Seth’s. I handed him my gift, excited, like a kid on Mother’s Day. Then watched, as his face began changing expressions from grateful, to confused finally landing on shocked.

Gasp. The drop of a coin. He knows. This is no ordinary copy.

“This isn’t…?” He said, unable to finish the sentence.

“It is.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

Then the moment that will come to mind each time that book is mentioned. A tear, first small, then overflowing, spilling onto his cheek, slowly finding its way down his face leaving behind a shiny trail of wetness. It’s a moment of realization: a man who can cry over a book is a man worth keeping.

I finish my story, look up at Jim. I can tell he’s trying not to cry but his eyes are dancing with emotion.

“Wow,” he says, his voice cracking.

"Yeah, well, about six months later my birthday came around. Seth had handed me his gift. He had this smile on his face, the same smile I had when I gave him the book. I carefully opened my present. Then I saw it. Inside was a baby blue Banana Republic button-down shirt and two ties. Should have dropped his skinny ass right then and there."

The Message

I shouldn’t have been surprised. I should have expected it. Still, I held my breath when I saw that text message, made of one word and a question mark.
“Zach?”

I knew what it meant. Somehow he’d found my blog, read it. I had changed his name in the story. That’s what I called him, "Zach."

I should have known this would happen. Still, what are the odds?

They say the only way three people can keep a secret is if two of them are dead. Should have never written about that night.

“How did you find it?” I asked.
“You’re a gifted writer. A friend of mine reads your blog, thought he recognized the story.”
Panic.
“Please tell me Seth doesn’t know.”
“He doesn’t.”

A sigh of relief. Not because I’m worried about what Seth may think of me but because I know it would hurt him, send him over the edge. And despite everything that’s happened, not something I wish. I’m surprised by my own reaction. Didn’t think I cared either way. Maybe there’s hope for me after all.

We spoke for a while, “Zach” and I. One of those conversations filled with light, bouncy energy, an amusing ping-pong of words. He knows what to say, when to say it.

There’s definitely something there, if nothing more than a mutual admiration between two people bound by circumstance and sin.

We talk, but little is actually said. We both know. We’ve been fooling ourselves into thinking we could maintain some sort of friendship. Whatever relationship we’d have would be contaminated with guilt.

He’s more distant, I can tell. Careful. The funny text messaging that began after that night in Rio has slowly faded. Plans to meet again, forgotten.

It’s nothing personal, I know. He’s still with Seth, still trying to make it work. And in a way, I hope he does.

“I’ll call you,” he says. But I know not to wait for that phone to ring. It’s the gentile’s way of saying goodbye gracefully. “Definitely not Jewish,” I think to myself.

I smile, hang up the phone. No regrets. Grateful for our encounter. Twisted as it was, it eased my suffering, ended a long period of grief, allowing me to take that one last step away from the pain. And how could I be upset about that?

Divine Irony

Was on my way to Rio last week to visit my friend Josh. As I walked through a maze of holiday travelers at JFK, I bumped into Seth. It’s something I’ve almost come to expect. Keep running into him in the weirdest places. Of all the flights, airports and airlines, his plane, scheduled to leave within minutes of mine, a gate away.

“So, where are you headed?" I asked after a cordial greeting.

“Barcelona, you?”

“Rio.”

“That’s great.”

“Yep.”

Torture. It’s been more than four years since we went our separate ways. Our conversations used to be so easy, interesting, full of magic. Now talking to him is like giving birth, a slow and painful experience.

I look at him, months since I’ve seen him last. His hairline’s receding a bit, more salt in his pepper. Still, there’s no denying it, the boy is handsome. He talks about his trip but my mind’s elsewhere, trying to guess what he’s thinking underneath all that small talk. Can’t tell whether he’s annoyed by this impromptu meeting, indifferent? No doubt uncomfortable.

I tell Josh about my little run in with my ex.

“Again?” he asks. “You guys have a strange way of finding each other. You’re not done yet, there are more chapters to be written.”

“I hope not. This story is over. Has been for a while.”

“Whatever you say dear.”

I hate when he says that. It almost always precedes an “I told you so.” Josh is my Cassandra. Can tell my future, but I never listen.

Two days later, at a pool party, as I’m ordering my fifth Caipirinha, Josh’s words ringing in my ears. Seth’s boyfriend, Zach, making his way towards me.

“What do you know? Ethan Gray. How are you man?”

Sometimes life can surprise you, then there are moments that blow you away.

Last year I had sex with Zach. Sounds awful, I know, but it’s more complicated than that. Seth cheated on me with Zach. Add to that a bruised ego and way too many margaritas and you got yourself a freak-show love triangle worthy of a Mexican telenovela.

It was a one-time deal carefully rationalized with some good old-fashioned denial. I filed the whole thing under karma, Seth’s. It wasn’t a matter of payback or vengeance (maybe just a little). This was (mostly) cosmic justice. In a twisted way (emphasis on “twisted”), it brought back balance to the universe (mainly mine). Seth cheated on me with Zach, Zach cheated on him with me. Made sense at the time.

Now Zach’s standing in front of me in a bathing suit, at a pool party in Rio. God must be extra bored.

We’re hanging out, me, him, his best friend Jeremy and cachacas with lime, a sure recipe for disaster. I’m a pyromaniac, playing with fire, perfectly aware of the danger, unable to stop.

We’re talking, dancing, having a good time. He tells me he’s still with Seth, though they’ve had their share of problems. Then it starts raining, heavy, cold drops.

“Let’s get out of here, grab a bite somewhere,” he says.

Three Americans hop into a cab, headed towards Ipanema. We’re all pretty drunk, though I’m on the plastered side. My hands, a mind of their own. His shoulder, his knee, the small of his back, his butt, a line, crossed.

“Ethan, don’t.”

At this point the world gets a little fuzzy. Don’t remember much. All of a sudden I’m standing alone on a corner, outside Josh’s apartment. I wake up the next day with a splitting headache and a terrible feeling in my gut. Flashback of a conversation roaming my mind. I’m Clarence. Clarence Thomas. Mortified. I’ve gone too far.

I’ve done some stupid things in my life, but this one tops the list. I need to apologize but have no way of reaching him, no idea where he’s staying.

For two days, it’s all I can think of. I tell Josh about the cab ride, my roaming hands. There’s no need to say it, we both know. His prophecy, the chapter, the story, not over.

I try to have fun but it’s no use. Snapshots of humiliation, exploding, flashing inside my brain like a Polaroid camera. Agony, can’t stand the thought there’s someone out there who thinks I’m a perv.

Then just as I’ve given up hope, Zach and Jeremy on the beach. I walk over, an apologetic smile on my face. I hold my hands up in the air, then slowly move them behind my back.

“I promise I won’t touch. I just wanted to say that I’m sorry.”

“Hey, we were looking all over for you.”

“You were?”

“Yeah, how are you?”

“Mortified.”

“Don’t be. I was actually quite flattered. We had a fantastic time with you, it’s the most fun we had this week.”

“It was?”

“Hey let’s get together in New York this weekend. Dinner Saturday?”

Fire, burns, walk away Gray, a perfect time end this novel.

“Sure, sounds great.”

Three days later, Zach, Jeremy and me, at an Italian restaurant in the East Village. Good food, great conversation, flowing red wine. I’m not really drinking, haven’t yet recovered from that night. We go to a couple of bars in the neighborhood, then hop into a cab, head west to Secret. Now it’s Zach who is drunk. Squinty eyes, words a bit slurry. Dante’s Divine Irony.

“Are you okay?” Jeremy asks.

“I’m fine.” He says. “I’m just meditating.” He's a funny drunk.

“I think it’s time to go home.”

“Maybe Ethan wants to join us?” Says Zach, a smirk on his face.

“Oh, I think that’s a chapter we don’t want to write tonight,” comes the answer from Jeremy.

I take a deep breath. Of all the words in the English language, all the possible expressions, he chose that one, “chapter.”

That's my cue, time to go. The story may not be over. But this episode ends now.

“Nope.” I say, “Not tonight.”

Montreal

They say every moment in life is somehow connected to another. Each second inexplicably linked to a past episode or a future one, an intricate weave of events that make up the fabric of a lifetime.

This weekend, heading to Montreal. Black & Blue. I’ve been there before, four years almost to the day. Promised myself I'd never go back, yet here I am, ticket in hand, traveling north.

Why then? Jason told me he was planning on going to Montreal the day that we met, excited, like a kid in Disneyland.
“You should come,” he said, “it’ll be fun.”
“No thanks. Montreal and I, we don’t get along.”

Four weeks later, he kept insisting. Seemed Sincere about wanting me there. I was flattered.

Last time I went to Montreal, back in 2001, it was bad, one of those moments in life you wish you could just rewind, erase. I had just broken up with Seth, had no business being at a circuit party, but my best friend thought it would cheer me up. He arranged all the flights, booked the hotel, and so we went.

For a minute I was actually having fun. Cobblestone streets, French-Canadian accents, perfect naked strippers, the smell of winter, hundreds of miles away from the epicenter of pain. No fear of bumping into him, not here.

A smile, a laugh, a drink, then another. More drinks that I can remember. Then a moment I wish I could forget. My fingers dialing. Though drunk off my ass, his number was clear in my mind, still is. Funny, for the life of me I can’t remember my own phone number at the time, but even today his refuses to give up its space in my head.

“Hello?” his voice was still heavy with sleep.

“Hey Seth.”

“Ethan? What time is it?”

“I don’t know, 4:00 maybe 5:00?”

“In the morning? Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m in Montreal.”

“What’s going on?”

Then that moment that will haunt you for years. The one that will remind you of the awesome power of love. You on your knees.

Ethan, meet your future sense of compassion:

“I need to know… do you still love me?” I asked.

Pathetic, predictable, sad. That’s the worst part about heartbreak, living a badly written B-movie.

“Of course I love you.” He answered.

No, don’t stop there, you really need to get slapped. Slapped so hard it will make your head spin. Don’t hold back. God forbid you should keep your dignity and move away from the fire.

“No, not like that, I mean are you IN love with me?”

There you said it. You already know the answer, but you need to hear it, from his mouth.

“No. I’m not. And I think it’s time you moved on.”

You just didn’t expect him to be that harsh.

I hung up the phone and went back to the hotel. Those words ringing in my ear, an echo reverberating through an empty soul.

“… It’s time you moved on."

I called Chad, my first lover, the person I call when things go wrong. I tell him the story but instead of sympathy, laughter from the other end of the line. And not a small chuckle either, a big one.

“It’s not funny. What the fuck?” I tell him, all indignant.

“I’m sorry dude, but it is funny, think about it, you call your ex at 5:00 in the morning, two months after your breakup to ask him if he’s still in love with you? You don’t think it’s funny? It’s fucking hysterical, pretty cliché if you ask me."

“I don’t know why I call you. You suck. This is so embarrassing.”

Then, he says that thing that sticks with you for years and becomes your weapon against any future self-inflicted torture.

“Ethan, keep a sense of humor about things. If you step back, you'll see it's quite comical. Besides, I wouldn’t worry so much about what Seth thinks. After everything you’ve put into the relationship, you’ve earned one moment of embarrassment.”

I smile. He’s right. I've at least earned that much.

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

She knows. I can feel it. She’s called ten times in the last three days. A sixth sense.

I’ve been avoiding her. Not because I don’t want to talk to her, I do. I can’t wait to tell her about the new boy, his blond hair, his dimples. But I haven’t, not yet. I need to be sure. I don’t want her to get all excited only to be crushed again.

It took me a year to tell her I had broken up with Seth. Figured it was safe. I underestimated Mother Nature.

It was during one of her visits when I finally told her Seth and I were no longer together. We were out one night, at a West Village café. I told her everything. I told her how after we finally broke up, I drove home so heartbroken I couldn’t cry the entire way back, a four-hour ride. I told her how when I finally got home, something inside me just went off, how I grabbed a box, and in a frenzy that could only be described as psychotic, threw everything that reminded me of him in it. Pictures still in their frames, birthday cards, gifts, a book he’d recommended, dozens of love notes, everything, and shoved it in a dark closet.

Then as soon as I calmed down, tears. Like floodwater, uncontrollable, unstoppable, unmerciful.

I had to be at work that afternoon, but that sob, it would not stop. I called Joe.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t stop crying. I have to be at work in an hour, and I can’t stop crying.”
“Oh baby, you’re not going to work today,” he said, in his calm sweet voice. “What’s your boss’ number?”

I was tired of fighting. For the first time, I let go, hoping Joe would catch me mid-fall.

“Stay by the phone, I’ll call you right back,” he said right before the sound of the tone.

Five minutes, a quarter of an hour, a lifetime, then a ring.

“I called her. She’s on her way.”
“What?”
“Your boss, she’s on her way over. She said it’ll be about ten minutes. Can you hang in there?”

I hung up the phone and sat on the couch. Crying, arms holding my shoulders, my body moving slowly, forward then back, a crazy person. I remember thinking to myself, Wow, you’re finally losing it. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Out to lunch.

Kept telling myself to pull it together, stop rocking, but the constant movement was somehow soothing. And in that second, that insane moment, a foreign thought in my head, I want my mommy. A baby.

I love my mom but I’ve never needed her. I speak to her twice a month on the phone and that’s enough. I see her once a year, more than enough. But at breakpoint, she was the one who came to mind. Mammals whether we like it or not.

My boss arrived. Walked through the door, took one look at me and said, “Oh sweetheart. I know where you are, I’ve been there so many times.” And then, just like that, she hugged me. Not quite a mother’s embrace, still, it was comforting.

She sat with me for three hours, recounting her horror stories about love.
“I can’t tell you it’s going to be easy,” she said. “It won’t. But it will get better, I promise. The only thing I can tell you is you have to put one foot in front of the other. I know even that seems impossible right now, but trust me, one day you’ll be able to take a step without thinking about it.”

I looked at her. A lady. A moment. A bond.

I finish my story. My mother gets up. She runs out the restaurant, sobbing, not a small sob, a big one, primal. Her child, comforted by a stranger.

“Are you okay?” I asked. I should have never told her the story. I thought it was safe.

“You can’t imagine what that's like,” she said to me after she finally calmed down, “knowing one of your children is hurting and you can’t put your arms around him, give him your love, because you don't even know he's in pain.”

It took me months to finally tell her I broke up with John.

“How are you?” She asked, her voice filled with worry. “Do you want me to come over?”

“I’m fine, really.”

“Are you sure?”

Then my dad got on the line, “Just say the word, I’m sending her.”

My dad. His son gets dumped by another man and he offers my mom and a plane ticket.

A smile. My parents. My unbelievable luck.

Serendipity

Sometimes all the great fiction in the world can’t amount to one moment of reality. A second so serendipitous, even the biggest atheists have to wonder. Can this really be coincidental?

Four years after he broke my heart, a night that would finally put it all to rest.

I dated Seth for a good part of year and half. There were other men before him. But for some reason he was the one who penetrated my skin, got into my bloodstream then the heart, like mountain water finding its way to a deep well through underground creeks and pathways. He was handsome, smart, beautiful. And so very young.

It wasn’t love at first sight, it was a more gradual process. But all of a sudden I found myself thinking about him all the time, his face filling my mind every time I closed my eyes.

With him I was smarter funnier, cooler. It was as though something inside had ignited, from blue and violet to red and orange. Don’t think I realized at the time how much I liked him. There were clues, big ones, but when you fall for the first time, there’s just no reference.

Love isn’t blind, it’s stupefying.

Looking back, I should have seen it a mile away. There was always something not quite right. Kept telling myself that’s just how he is, the rich background, the cold upbringing. I remember going to his parents’ house for Thanksgiving. Nice folks who wouldn’t yell if the house was on fire, who spoke to each other in soft, formal voices, who couldn’t imagine leaning their elbows on the dinning-room table.

Seth was funny, witty and distant, like his mother.

It came one day. The message. The one you can’t ignore. A night at a club. We had lost each other for a minute. When I finally found him he was with someone, drunk off his mind. There was something in the way he looked at that guy, the way he touched his waist. An intimate moment.

I watched. I had to be sure. Then the answer. The two walking towards the bathroom. Together.

My heart racing. My mind, lost.

Oh no you’re not, not on my watch.

I walked over, looked at his friend.

“Get lost. Now.”

The guy froze, caught between his pride and fear, then left. I turned to Seth.

“Don’t call me. Ever.”

Outside, alone, a cry so primal, so loud, not even a midwife could imagine. Then the fall.

The damp of pillows, the terror of morning, a bed that seemed to be magnetic. Bills unpaid, laundry unwashed, blinking messages unanswered.

Just me and my bedroom wall. A Broken man.

I thought when they said “heartache” they meant it figuratively, a metaphor. No one warned me.

A few months later, another discovery. A letter he’d written. Not to me, someone else. Descriptions of weeks filled with passion and sex. Always a letter. I take a deep breath. The date, not recent. Three days before that night.

A broken heart even more broken. Nothing but pulverized dust where pumping muscles used to be. Anger and pain finding their way back to a place they used to own. Cold sweat. Tears in my mouth. Was I not good looking enough?

I met the boy in the letter, during Pride, with Seth. The look in Seth’s eyes. No, he isn’t cold, it’s not the upbringing or his mother. The way he looked at his new boyfriend, the same way I looked at Seth. He has it in him, just not for you.

What is it about this other boy? Handsome, but come on, are you kidding me? I examined his face, his eyes. Then I saw it. The way he looked at Seth, the same way Seth looked at me. Life, come-upins. Boomerang.

Then the power of divinity, the twisted humor of a God. Four years later, at a party, his boyfriend walks into a room.

“So who are you dating these day?” he asked.

“No one. You?”

“Still with Seth.”

“I thought you guys split up”

“We did, then got back together. We’re having some trouble, I don’t think it’ll last.”

“Does he know that?”

“Not yet.”

“Maybe you should tell him.”

I looked at him. Handsomer than I thought. Wisdom in his eyes. A man not a boy. Then this:

“You know,” he said, “I’ve always thought that if we had met under different circumstances, I would have asked you on a date.”

“Excuse me?”

“I think you’re an incredible guy. I’ve dated many people who have come out of relationships all fucked up. Seth’s not. I think it speaks very highly of you.”

“It does?”

A few drinks. Then a few more. Then a kiss.

I push him away.

“Dude this isn’t right." I say. "Not that evil.”

“Come home with me.”

“What? No. Dude. Can’t.”

“Come home with me.”

“No fucking way. You have a lot of shit to figure out.”

“Come home with me. I live right across the bridge in Brooklyn.”

“Brooklyn? Are you nuts?”

“Come home with me, I’ll make you breakfast.”

“Okay.”

I had to know. I had to know what he looked like under those clothes. I had to know what he tasted like. I had to know how big his dick was. Was he better than me?

His small cramped room, an unmade bed. Has he changed the sheets since he last fucked Seth? Clothes on the floor, his tongue in my mouth, his fat cock, his small butt. Sleeping with the enemy, the man I’ve thought about so many times, the origin of so much pain, here sucking my dick, kissing my lips, holding my hand.

My ego restored. My curiosity squashed. My guilt above normal. My grief, over.

There are moments in life all the fiction in world can’t surpass. A moment when even the biggest atheists must wonder. Can this really be coincidental?

The Legend Of the Salt

An excerpt from a novel I'm writing called The Black Wind:

I waited for him outside the restaurant on the corner of 18th and Eighth trying to remember what he looked like. I met him a couple of days earlier at some bar uptown, a quick exchange, we wrote down our numbers and then made plans to meet for brunch.

Seth showed up a few minutes late wearing a tight t-shirt and a smile that revealed excitement. He was adorable.

We kissed hello, awkwardly aligning our cheeks, not sure which way the other was going. After a messy second attempt we both smiled, acknowledging our clumsiness, then gave way to a friendlier kiss.

Sparks.

“Should we go in?” he asked.

Inside, the hostess wore a rehearsed smile and makeup more suitable for a Saturday night.

“Two for brunch?"

She grabbed a couple of menus and took us through the maze of tables already filled with diners. I walked behind Seth wondering how long it had been since I’d been on a real date. I couldn’t remember. I’d had my one-night stands, those were never a problem in Chelsea. A walk down the block on any given day would practically guarantee more than one prospect. But dates, those were as rare as a perfect diamond.

It felt comfortable. We talked about our backgrounds and our families and living in New York. He mentioned that he'd recently moved to a new apartment and was excited about the prospect of finding a job. As he told me his life story, I couldn’t help but notice he had that freshness about him, that innocent sparkle that can only be seen in the faces of those who are still dreaming, those unaffected by the challenges of everyday struggle – not usually something I admired in people. And yet, he wasn’t like anyone I’d ever met before. If there was any arrogance or self entitlement in his voice I couldn’t hear it.

I had been on so many dates so long, so slow, the hands on my watch seemed to be going backwards. And here I was at 28, a grown man, mesmerized by a boy who looked at the world as if it were his own playground.

The meal arrived. Automatically, I reached for the salt, could never have enough of it in my food. Then, I passed the saltshaker to Seth.

“No thanks,” he said.

“No thanks?” I asked as if he had just refused a million dollars.

“I don’t really use salt on my eggs,” He explained. “I’m used to not having it, and since it’s really not that good for you…”

“Used to not having it?” I paused for a second, “You underestimate the power of salt.”

He shook his head, not following.

“Have you ever heard about the legend of the salt?” I asked, knowing perfectly well that he hadn’t. It was a story I had never told before.

“I’ll tell you,” I said, the saltshaker still in my hand. My microphone:

There once lived a king in a faraway kingdom, who had three daughters. They were his pride and joy.

One day the king woke from a terrible dream and in his head, a troubling question: he needed to know how much his daughters loved him.

As he sat in his throne, wrapped in a purple velvet cape, his golden scepter in his hand, he called upon his eldest. He asked her, “Daughter, daughter, how much do you love me?” She thought for a moment, and said, “I love you like gold.” The king was so happy with her answer, he thanked her for her love and built her a palace, made of 24-karate gold.

He called upon his second daughter. “Daughter, daughter,” he said. “How much do you love me?” She thought for a moment and said, “I love you like diamonds.” The king was so happy with her answer, he thanked her for her love and built her an even bigger palace all made of diamonds.

Then came the turn of his youngest daughter, his favorite daughter, the one he loved the most.“Daughter, daughter,“ the king said. “How much do you love me? Without a moments thought she answered, “I love you like salt.” The king was angry. He couldn’t believe it. “Is this how you repay my love? How dare you love me like salt?” And with that, he banished her from the kingdom, never to return.

That day, the king gave out two orders: never to utter his young daughter’s name in his presence; and to never use salt anywhere in his kingdom. Possession of it would punishable by death.

And so the country was cleaned of all its salt. Reservoirs were emptied and burnt and soon there was none of it to be found, not one grain.

From that moment on, food was without savor, bland and unappealing. People would spit out their dinner, unable to swallow. Their mood as foul as the food, for they could not enjoy a single meal. Even the king was frustrated, turning away his plate with a look of disgust on his face.

It was then he realized how much his youngest daughter really loved him. He understood that no amount of gold or diamonds or rubies or sapphires could ever compare to the savory taste of salt.

And so the king sent for his daughter, begging her forgiveness, and built her the biggest and most beautiful castle of all.

I finished my story and waited to see Seth’s reaction. He was quiet for a moment, expressionless. Then a smile emerged on his face, the way a whale surfeces from the depths, slow, grand, unmistakable.

“And that my friend is the power of salt,” I said, and went back to my eggs benedict.