3. Yapping #2
“That’s great, son. You should’ve called. I’d have brought you groceries to your door while you were resting up.” Paulie shook his head. “Stubborn. Ever since you were five years old.”
“I’ll have you know I was stubborn way before the age of five, Paulie,” Oscar said, flashing the man a smirk. “Besides, you did send groceries to my door. The nurse was picking them up for me.”
“Huh, that explains why that woman was buying so many gummy bears.” Paulie had a throaty laugh that betrayed how much he smoked more than his yellow fingernails or the stale breath he always carried, no matter how much sweetened coffee he drank.
Oscar headed to the aisles. There was no chance of getting lost in Paulie’s Mini Mart, but he’d have everything Oscar needed to get by the next few days. And no squeaky wheels driving him crazy, either.
Smooth jazz played in the background, making Oscar feel like one of those fancy men who understood wine and spoke about undertones and roundedness like this even mattered in the grand scheme of things.
As he reached for a bag of oats, his phone vibrated.
Oscar hadn’t noticed the messages coming in, immersed as he’d been in his conversation, but there were five lined up and waiting.
CowBoy0705: I’m a free man!
CowBoy0705: Coffee shop??
CowBoy0705: Hello? [Hello hello hello] - imagine this echoing like in those 90s kids’ films.
CowBoy0705: Speaking of, what’s your favorite film? Do you even like movies?
CowBoy0705: Shit, I hope you’re not driving!!
Oscar smiled to himself, imagining the evolution of Aaron’s mood, painting on the memory of his face the expressions he must have had.
Oscar frowned, a little upset that he couldn’t exactly remember what Aaron looked like.
In his mind, he could picture his eyes and his mouth, his dainty nose, the exact color of his hair.
But he couldn’t quite piece him together. And it bothered him.
In lieu of a decent response, Oscar sent him a photo of the chocolate chips he’d just thrown into his basket.
CowBoy0705: Do you ever eat anything other than sweet things??
Spikey: I’ll have you know I’m quite excellent in the kitchen, sir.
CowBoy0705: Are you now? :O And what else might you be good at?
Oscar fought the heat racing to his cheeks, his pumping heart obliterating the saxophone drifting from the ceiling speaker.
Spikey: That information is classified and must be earned.
Oscar pressed send before he could stop himself. As the message sat crude and unfiltered in front of him, he supposed he might have fared better if he had. Well, shit.
CowBoy0705: You got headphones?
Spikey: I am not a serial killer, Aaron. Of course I have headphones. I’m out in public.
The bouncing dots appeared on his screen and vanished.
Twice.
Thrice.
CowBoy0705: Wanna call?
Oscar wondered whether this was what an aneurysm felt like.
He was bad at voice calls. Not just awkward and floundering, but bad.
The thought of someone listening to his voice without looking at his face drove him crazy, painting ugly pictures of people misgendering him, wondering whether they’d called Oscar or someone who couldn’t possibly have a name like that.
But the bouncing dots shot an arrow that pierced into him like a pin to a balloon, deflating his joy as he imagined Aaron taking back the invitation.
Not giving himself a chance to chicken out, Oscar popped his earbuds in and pressed the phone icon with his sweaty shaking finger.
If he said no, then he might never get to hear Aaron’s voice again, and Oscar had wondered many times over the previous weeks whether he remembered it correctly, whether it was as lovely as his recollection claimed.
Standing still as a statue in the middle of the cake aisle, Oscar studied his phone for the few seconds it took Aaron to pick up.
The gleeful beep of the call starting and the brief silence that followed drenched him with a new anxiousness that brought him back to life, fueling the furnace of his heating neck.
“Hey.”
Oscar became the sweat puddling out of him, melting at the sound of that warm voice, taking him back to the orange chairs of the waiting room, the yellow light, the queer books on the shelf.
“Hey,” he said.
Silence. It must have lasted two seconds tops, but to Oscar, a lifetime passed. The wines Paul stocked weren’t the kind that aged well. The sommeliers would come and shake their heads, call everything expired. Speak, Oscar thought.
“So, how do I declassify the information?” Aaron asked. “Should I make an offering?”
“The Church of Oscar accepts cash or credit,” Oscar replied. An easy smile settled him. This he could do. Snark and humor and unserious was his holy text. “We unfortunately don’t accept human sacrifice, severed breast tissue, or perishable goods.”
Aaron laughed like the shape of the word home, the sound rising and falling and rounding. Warm. Oscar walked down the next aisle and threw two packs of egg noodles into his basket.
“I didn’t ask to keep my severed breast tissue. Should I have?” Aaron asked.
“Cash or credit, sir.” Oscar picked up a box of jasmine rice. “Or…”
“Or?” Aaron sounded perky. Oscar imagined him intrigued, sitting up and waiting, knitting needles in hand, ready to make more trans-coded garments.
“Or perhaps we might trade in nuggets of information,” Oscar proposed.
“Great. Now I want chicken nuggets.” Aaron groaned.
“I thought you ate real food.” Oscar narrowed his eyes, realizing only when he was already standing in front of the dairy fridge that Aaron couldn’t see his expression.
“No, I merely asked if you did. How shall we go about transacting this?” Aaron asked.
Oscar pondered, wondering what information he might request.
“How about…” Aaron’s voice cut into his thoughts, obliterating every semblance of reason. “Twenty questions?”
“Fun.” Oscar got a carton of milk and a tub of butter. Oh, eggs.
“You start.” From the clicking in the background, Oscar could confirm that Aaron was indeed knitting.
“How long have you been knitting?” The question pushed out of him unbidden. He could have asked him literally anything else. Anything that might get him closer to seeing Aaron.
“Not that long, actually. Three years?” Aaron sounded happy enough to answer it. “What’s your favorite film? You never said.”
“You’re going to laugh at me.” Oscar pouted at the selection of vegetables sitting out in crates. Paulie always got the best produce, and it was all local. The bell peppers looked quite nice. Oscar eyed the price. “Well, fuck.”
“That the name of your favorite film?” Aaron laughed again. “What’s wrong?”
“The cost of bell peppers is what’s wrong.” Oscar picked a green one and deliberated which other color would be best. He couldn’t get more. “I’ve already removed two whole boobs. Can’t be selling organs now just to eat proper human food.”
“At least you can afford to think about bell peppers.” Aaron scoffed. “Someday, I’ll show you my selection of cup noodles.”
“Sir, I must feed you immediately. And my favorite film is Mamma Mia. But I also enjoy cult classics!” Oscar said.
“Like The Matrix?” Aaron asked.
“Pff. Like Hocus Pocus.” Oscar smiled to himself. “Actually, if I had to choose another film, it would probably be Lord of the Rings.”
“I love Lord of the Rings.” Aaron paused. “Your turn.”
“Is it your favorite? That’s my question.” Oscar picked from among the red onions on display. His basket was getting heavier than he’d anticipated, and he had to walk home.
“Probably, actually. Yeah, I’d say it is. And Rosemary’s Baby. Tons of horror,” Aaron said.
“Maybe you’re the serial killer.” Oscar headed to the counter, putting the basket down and walking around to the edge so he could start filling his backpack. “Your turn.”
“Not a serial killer. Favorite color.”
“That’s something you should guess…come on!” Oscar complained. He rolled his eyes. “It’s green. Yours?”
“I like purple. And yellow,” Aaron added hastily.
“Forty-one seventy-five, Oz,” Paulie whispered, offering him a smile.
Oscar reached for his debit card and pressed it against the reader. The receipt rolled out and with it, Paulie pressed a lemon candy into Oscar’s palm, its clear wrapper squeaking in his grip.
“See you soon, kid. Don’t be a stranger.”
“See you around, Paulie.” Oscar walked out of the grocery store and turned right, heading home.
By the time he arrived, he’d amassed a number of interesting answers, among which were sunflowers, Highland cows, and The Picture of Dorian Gray. Oscar wiggled the key in the lock and pushed the door open, glad to finally scent his own living room.
Maybe being out of the house was a little overrated, especially when home meant Luigi curling around his ankles and purring. Oscar pushed the door shut before Lu could run out.
“Luigi says hi,” he murmured into the phone, realizing only after that he’d used his Luigi voice.
“Say hi,” Aaron replied.
Oscar imagined him with pink cheeks, sitting on his knit blanket, looking beautiful.
“One question left, Cowboy,” Oscar said. He should have used one of his own to ask about the username. Lessons learned, he supposed. He’d have to coerce Aaron into playing another round at some point. “Don’t waste it,” he taunted.
“Oh, I won’t,” Aaron replied, and Oscar could hear the smile. No. The smirk.
The line fell silent, not a breath, nothing but the buzz of their connection. And boy, what a buzz. Oscar stood behind his door, frozen, waiting for Aaron to speak. It felt monumental. Imagine if Aaron asked something ridiculous like what color shoes Oscar was wearing.
But Aaron didn’t.
“How’s tomorrow looking?” Aaron asked.
“Cloudy with a chance of meatballs. I’m not the weather boy,” Oscar replied.
“I meant…how’s your tomorrow looking?” Aaron paused.
The silence felt somehow heavier. Oscar’s chest was a conservatory, and his heart was a flutter of butterflies, turning his body into spring.
“I was hoping we’d get those pancakes you promised at the clinic,” Aaron said. “I’m sure I dreamed about the syrup under anesthesia. So…pancakes?”
Oscar bloomed into summer.