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Rubble(continued) 8. I taught during the summer — even sharing bits of my Chital story
with the class (including the part about crying) — while Rashid
continued working his night shift at the deli, saving money for school
in September. Cal Tech was a definite. Pasadena. Slowly the horror of May began to drop away, veil by veil, and Rashid
began to smile again. He joked with customers and made fun again of
my late night dietary habits. There was an ease we had with each other
— an unspoken familiarity — and perhaps for the first time
I truly understood what my friend Neal used to say about the closeness
he had with his Viet Nam buds: "Unless you've been through it,
you can't understand it. Sympathize, maybe; but empathize, not likely." We saw each other every day. I'd time my visits around his 11 p.m.
break. For thirty minutes we'd talk about news, politics, his family
standing out front, or if it were raining or too hot, we'd go to the
back room and sit around a Formica kitchen table, sometimes with Aziz,
drinking coffee.A few times, he had some changes in his schedule and
got out by 11; then I'd walk him to the apartment he was renting down
the road. He had three roommates from the college's soccer team; if
I went inside, we all ended up talking and watching late night TV. They
all smoked, but I put up with it because I was spending time with Rashid,
and when I left, we often gave each other a bear hug. Which brings me to the night before Rashid left. I invited him over
for dinner, the first time he'd ever been to my apartment. When we first
met, I didn't ask him around because he might figure out I was gay.
Then it was because I figured he knew I was gay, and I didn't want to
make him uncomfortable. Before the trip, I'd been very settled into
my sheltered life — I rarely had anyone over. Maybe class groups
for a DVD or colleagues for afternoon coffee, but rarely anything social
like a dinner. For a long while, I used the breakup with my ex, Kurt,
as my pretext: I'd say to myself, You let yourself be open with him,
and look what it brought you? Fuck getting hurt again. But after the
plane ride back from Pakistan, after sleeping on his shoulder, after
taking the chance at being more open with others, I couldn't use Kurt
as an excuse any more. It just didn't seem real anymore. Besides, the fact was simple: I'd fallen in love. It took me till his
last week in New York to admit that to myself. Despite all I'd been
through with him, I'd kept my relationship with Rashid public through
the entire summer. It was the deli or his crowded late night living
room. But last week, the week I could say the words, it hit hard: Soon
he'd be gone. Soon I wouldn't be seeing him every day. Soon. So I had
no choice. I had to invite him over. As his visit got closer, I promised myself I'd let the loss take its
course, especially after he left for California. If I felt blue, if
I wanted to cry, if I wanted to call him to see how he was doing, if
I wanted to take a long walk and feel the emptiness in my gut —
If I wanted to do any of these things, I swore I'd let myself do them,
but such oaths are easy when no one else knows about them. I was in the kitchen preparing a casserole I'd seen made on the Food
Network when the buzzer sounded in the hallway. Jesus, this felt like
a first date. I opened the door. He was wearing a brightly colored Hawaiian shirt
over khaki-colored linen pants. Leather sandals revealed long, angular
feet. (I don't think I'd ever noticed that before.) He shook my hand,
but then pulled me close, giving a couple of claps on the back. "Hey,
Roy." "Hey." We moved into the living room, where I'd set up a
card table and chairs. "Thanks for making dinner." "No problem. Just wanted to wish you luck at Cal Tech. Make yourself
at home. A drink?" "Coke?" "Sure." I go in the kitchen to pour it; I can't believe how self-conscious
I feel. What is it? Fuck, I'm just saying good-bye. Yeah, it's sad.
Yeah, this'll be tough. Yeah, I'm in love. But can't I pull it together
just this one time? I'm so deep in my thoughts that I don't hear him come in. When he taps
me on the shoulder, I nearly jump. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you." "It's nothing." I can't take it any more and the words fly out: "Rashid. I'm sorry.
I feel so awkward right now. I'm really not good at this good-bye stuff.
I mean we went through so much in May and now it's almost September
and — well, what I'm trying to say is that I'm going to miss you."
Shit, I can feel the lump start in my throat. Sure I'd made the promise
to feel whatever I was feeling and not be embarrassed, but this isn't
what I expected. Those eyes. That smile. "I'll miss you, too." Followed by the next unexpected thing.
He kisses me. Square on the lips. Not a brother's kiss, but a real,
dig-in-deep kiss. It's long and grows. It becomes passion, and before
I know it, he's leading me towards the living room, where we begin taking
off our clothes and spend the next hour making the most remarkable love
I've experienced in years, first on the couch and then in the bedroom,
where I lead him for a second round. After which, we fall silently into sleep, forgetting about dinner.
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