Blue
Blue
“You got home late.”
I wink as salaciously as possible for someone in my caffeine-deprived state as I stumble like a zombie past Gabriel on my way to find coffee. Eight in the morning is not an appropriate time to be awake, although applying the term “awake” to my current state of consciousness is generous at best.
Gabriel is perched on a barstool at our kitchen counter, one foot on the seat, his knee drawn up under his chin. His nearly fluorescent purple satin robe is too long for him even when he stands - something he insists is a deliberate fashion choice. He’s probably telling the truth. Every item of his flamboyant and eclectic wardrobe is deliberately chosen to make a statement - what that statement is, however, varies from day to day and moment to moment. His current statement seems to be “exhausted, glamorous, vintage actress tries to get spicy details about their roommate’s sex life while said roommate is still asleep enough to let the juicy bits slip out.”
Gabriel is a truly gorgeous man; his sharp, almost classically beautiful features combine with his thick black hair and dark olive skin - thanks to his Puerto Rican ancestry - to give him the type of face that could easily grace runways or the covers of magazines. He’s the same height as me at six-one, and his body is perfectly sculpted thanks in no small part to his interests outside of the coffee house where he works as a barista. He’s one of those naturally athletic performers who intrigue and horrify the rest of humanity with his uncanny ability to make his body do nearly anything he’d like almost effortlessly, while the rest of us struggle to get our asses back up to a standing position without snapping a joint after sitting on the floor for more than ten minutes.
He spends his evenings choreographing elaborate one-man exhibitions that he performs at local festivals and art shows - or anywhere else that will allow him a stage and a few moments of audience attention. He’s always working to incorporate new elements in order to taunt us mere mortals with his skill, stamina, and flexibility, and during the six years I’ve known him, he’s added aerial silks, pole dancing, and fire dancing to his repertoire. Recently, there was a heart-stoppingly terrifying, but thankfully short-lived, interest in knife throwing and swordplay. No matter what he’s doing, he’s the kind of man who nearly everyone finds interesting or charming or gorgeous. Every human who’s even slightly attracted to men seems intent on happily throwing themselves at him the moment he walks into a room. Thankfully, I’ve never felt so inclined. While I certainly recognize that he’s objectively appealing, somehow, from the moment we met, my body seemed to know that he was meant to be my friend and nothing more. I’m grateful for that. His friendship has saved me in many ways. Perhaps more than he even realizes.
His robe-tent is hanging nearly to the floor, draping itself around the legs of the stool and making it appear as though he’s standing at the counter even though his chin is resting on his knee. It’s too early for my brain to make sense of the image, so I turn away to rummage through the cabinet for a mug and sigh in genuine distress as I tip the sad, muddy-brown water into it.
I love a good espresso, dark and deep and bitter, made from nearly burnt, specialty roast beans with the slightest bit of foam gracing the top of the brew in a perfect tiny cup that forces you to slow down, if only for a moment, and savor it leisurely in order to prolong the experience. Gabriel is a sucker for a double-caf, non-fat, oat milk cappuccino with a dusting of chocolate or cinnamon. He swears only half of the reason he works at the coffee shop near our apartment is so he can afford things like rent and food and performance costumes. He insists the more important reason is the perfectly crafted brews he gets at a steep discount that he could never possibly be expected to pay full price for or live without. In truth, if he ever quit, I’d miss them as well as I certainly couldn’t afford them as often as I do now thanks to said discount.
The coffee in my mug is neither of our favorite drinks. Instead, it’s murky, nearly coffee-flavored water poured from the probably not-even-real glass carafe that came with the big box store’s $19.99 automatic coffee maker, whose specialty is imbuing the beverage with the slight taste of mildly burnt plastic. Gabriel and I have lived together for six years; surely we’re to the point in our relationship where sharing joint custody of a $100 coffee maker wouldn’t be a hardship.
I sigh once more when the plastic-flavored beverage coats my tongue as I turn to face Gabriel and lean my ass against the edge of the counter. It’s too cold to be wandering around in only my briefs, but it would have taken more energy than I could muster to pull on pants before coffee time.
“Come on then, what grade?” One of his eyebrows is raised in anticipation, and his smile is far too wide and bright for this early in the morning.
“B plus.”
“Oh my god, a B plus? You’ve only given out like three B pluses…ever! How did he earn this B plus? I need every little detail.” Gabriel sets his mug on the counter and braces his chin on the back of the knuckles of one hand, batting his eyelashes furiously.
“You know you’re not getting every little detail. ”
He sticks his lower lip out in a pout that never works on me. I’ve seen it work on hundreds of other people though; Gabriel can talk almost anyone into nearly anything. He’s one of the most charming and persuasive people I’ve ever encountered. If I didn’t love him, I’d be disgusted that he’s both gorgeous and charming. Few people are both, and if I were the jealous type, it would be hard to like him. I strongly believe the fact that his constant flirtations don’t work on me is the reason we’re such a good pair. He needs someone to rein in his insanity on occasion, like the time I had to stop him from adding a high-wire to his show without any training because he was sure he simply has naturally good enough balance. When I convinced him to try the damn thing six inches off the ground before moving it six feet into the air, and he couldn’t take more than three steps without falling, I’d forced him to not only admit that I’m always right about everything but to do my laundry for a month. I now own seven previously not-pink pink shirts.
“Come on. Pleeeeease,” he begs. His begging usually works on other people as well.
I groan and down the rest of my coffee as quickly as possible in an attempt to avoid the taste.
“One detail.”
He furrows his forehead in thought.
“Position. ”
I snort out a laugh. While I absolutely enjoy playing the field, I’m not really one to kiss and tell. He knows he only gets one detail, and that’s usually the one he wants. I have no idea why.
“He let me do what I wanted with him, so there were too many to count.” I wiggle my eyebrows suggestively. “It was a good night.”
His laugh bursts out, filling the small kitchen for a moment before his gaze becomes too serious for my liking. I know what is going to come out of his mouth before he speaks.
“Why don’t you keep him then? What could it hurt?”
I shake my head with a sigh. “Gabriel…”
“Come on.” He cuts me off. “I know you’re jaded, and I know better than anyone why you’re like this. I know what you’ve been through, but you deserve to be happy, Blue.”
Love and romance aren't for me. When I was young and naive, I'd dreamed of them, just like everyone else, I suppose. Then I fell in love and got screwed, not in the fun way. Then I fell in love again and got screwed again. Half a dozen relationships with cheaters and narcissists and abusive pricks through my twenties, and I eventually learned my lesson. In the end, it doesn’t matter if I’m the problem or everyone else is; romance is just a game. An illusion. A facade. Love, romantic love at least, isn't usually real, and when it is, it never lasts.
My experiences at my day job only serve to reinforce my personal philosophy on love.
Just like Gabriel has his job at the coffee shop, my passion for glassblowing doesn’t pay my bills, and I spend most of my evenings waiting tables at the Sky Lounge, the high-end restaurant and bar located at the top of the Space Needle in downtown Seattle. The clientele is the same every night - tourists and couples in love. The couples are always as monotonous and cliché as possible. Adorable young creatures with stars in their eyes spending more money than they should on a special evening out. Slightly smarmy folks with overly bleached teeth trying to impress their dates in order to “seal the deal” and get them into the sack. Proposals. So fucking many proposals, and every single person doing the proposing tries to bribe their way into extra champagne, the best table in the house, a rose across the bread plates, their names written in icing on a dessert. When did frosting suddenly become the modern medium of choice when you want to indicate something of importance and endurance? Move over stone - butter and sugar are here.
Every one of the tourists is dressed in wrinkled khakis, trendy ripped jeans, floral-print dresses, bold-colored polos, and neutral button-up shirts, all dragged out of suitcases and steamed in hotel showers that only managed to release about half of the deeply ingrained wrinkles. Those on dates are dressed in suits or formal dresses that show enough skin the poor folks wearing them are freezing by the end of the night. Every single person wears more perfume or cologne than should be allowed by law. How they can taste their food with the cloying clouds of sandalwood and roses that envelop them is beyond me.
A couple of times a year, someone with more money than sense rents the whole place out…always for the same reasons as everyone else. A proposal, an anniversary, an attempt to impress someone enough to get them into bed. Those evenings cost them more than I spend on rent in a year, which really does seem like too much money for a night filled with clichés, even for people with more money than they know what to do with. In the four years I’ve been employed there, only one of the “rent the whole place” couples has ever really stood out.
Last summer, when a man called in asking if such a thing were possible and, if so, if he could select a date only three weeks out, I had heard the manager, Marie, laugh out loud as I’d laid out silverware and cloth napkins before we opened. When she’d told the man it was a year’s wait to rent the place out, he hadn’t argued that he’d pay more or tried to convince her that he was more important than everyone else the way most people trying to book the entire place do. Instead, he’d thanked her sadly, saying he’d been hoping for the best even though he’d assumed it was a long shot because his date had such severe social phobia that he'd never been to a nice restaurant. The couple had never even been on a traditional date in public because of it, and Marie had taken pity on them, shuffling far more reservations than she should have to let him book a Wednesday night.
On any normal, jam-packed evening, they’d have stuck out from the crowd, completely out of place in their simple clothing. Neither was trying to impress the other. There seemed to be no need. The striking, pale, black-haired man had been wearing a simple, soft sweater, and his taller, almost lumberjack-looking partner had been wearing plaid. Both were in jeans. When I’d arrived at their table and cleared my throat to offer them drinks, pulling their attention away from the other’s eyes, it had felt more invasive than if I'd walked in on them fucking. They were so adorable together that I didn’t even care when they lingered to stare out the windows at the city lights shimmering in the dark for twenty minutes past our normal closing time. They were probably the closest anyone has come to convincing me love and romance just might be real. That for a lucky handful, happily ever after just might exist.
Me though?
Love isn't for me.
Every time I’ve fallen, it’s been fast and hard, and every time, I’ve ended up having to patch the broken, tattered pieces of my body and soul back together on my own. Love and I just aren’t compatible .
On rare occasions, I'll go on first dates and enjoy the company of attractive strangers, though I don’t often bother as I can enjoy a meal with less awkward conversation with my friends. On far more frequent occasions, I’ll pick someone up and spend an enjoyable few hours engaging in carnal activities before we exchange smiles and cheek kisses and head off in our own directions without expectations. Temporary and fun, that’s how I like my sexual encounters. A few moments of pleasure without pretending that it might magically turn into something more. Why spoil a perfectly good thing with longing or hope or lies?
I refill my mug with more of the saddest excuse for coffee known to man and make my way back toward my room to get dressed. I want to spend some time at the hot shop before I have to clean up for work.
I kiss Gabriel on the cheek and ruffle his hair as I pass his barstool perch. “I am happy,” I mumble against his cheek.
It’s not a lie; I truly am happy with my life. Is being a waiter my lifelong dream? No, but in truth, I’ve never been a lifelong dream kind of guy. I’ve never fantasized about being a rock star or an astronaut, never wanted to go to med school or become the next member of the supreme court. My job is easy, close to home, and it allows me the time and money to pursue my art. It’s not hard to find someone to have sex with when I’m in the mood, and Gabriel and my few other close friends easily fulfill all of my love and relationship needs. I’ve never pined for a house with a white picket fence and six kids and two dogs and a goat. Even though my life isn’t the image kindergartners attempt to capture in their aspirational yet horrible drawings, it’s not like I sit around dreaming of change. I like who I am, and my life is enough for me.
While Gabriel sighs aggressively at my retreating back as I leave the room, I know he won’t push the issue any further. Not until next time anyway.
Twenty minutes later, when I make my way out of the apartment dressed in a long-sleeved Henley covered with scorch marks and a pair of old ripped jeans, Gabriel is no longer in the kitchen. Instead, I can’t help but laugh at the way he’s singing in the shower at the top of his lungs in the most tone-deaf fashion he can manage. I don’t know if he does that when I’m not home, but I strongly believe he does it only to make me laugh. Even though his insistence that I don’t know what happiness is bothers me more than normal today, I know he’s wrong. With one-night stands for sex and friends like him in my life, I don’t need anything else. Even if I did, I’m certainly not willing to risk yet another relationship that will only end in painful disaster.