Something Wild #3
Giovanni lit a cigarette and took a few drags before offering it to Cornelius, patiently waiting for an explanation.
It wasn’t uncommon for Cornelius to get into fights, in fact he was rather good at it, but tonight was different and they both knew it.
Giovanni hardly said anything while dragging Cornelius home from the bar, which spoke volumes on its own.
Normally he’d give him shit, rib on his lack of a solid win.
It shouldn’t be so hard to say, ‘I loved him. I loved him, and he abandoned me. He left me, and I didn't ever want to see him again.’
Giovanni would understand, so why couldn’t Cornelius say it?
Cornelius took the cigarette and puffed while searching the room for something to say, for an excuse or honest truth he couldn’t decide.
Their apartment was warm, softly lit by the candles resting on the sturdy table between them and throughout the kitchen.
Giovanni preferred to use as little electricity as possible, something Cornelius doesn't mind in the least. The phonograph, of course, was an exception.
It was always on if Giovanni was home, and the habit rubbed off on Cornelius long ago.
Ma Rainey filled the apartment, her voice a strong rasp that made the wind blow all the while.
The audacity. The courage. Would she have done what Cornelius did?
‘Last night, had a big bad fight, everything seemed to go wrong,’ she admitted.
Cornelius offered a lame smile and gave the cigarette back, then pushed away from the table. “I’ve class in the morning.”
Giovanni frowned. “In a few hours, you mean.”
“Ah, yes. Thank you for reminding me.” Cornelius winced, relying on his cane far more tonight than he had in a long time.
He leaned down, kissing the top of Giovanni’s head.
He inhaled that clean, reliable fragrance that clung to Giovanni like a warm blanket, unbothered by the soft hair which tickled his nose.
“Sleep well,” Cornelius whispered, and walked away.
Giovanni hummed, watching him go. In true, dramatic Giovanni fashion, he waited until Cornelius opened his bedroom door before making his thoughts finally known. Cautiously, he said, “You can talk to me, Neil. We’re still friends, aren’t we?”
“Yes, of course.” Cornelius ran a hand through his mussed hair and lifted a shoulder. “I’m fine. Honestly.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
Giovanni allowed a moment of disbelieving silence to pass, then bowed his head and said, “Good night, love.”
“Good night, Giovanni.”
Cornelius stepped into the modest room shrouded by night, quietly shutting the door behind him.
He exhaled, mentally preparing for the ritual ahead.
Guided by moonlight, he extricated the needed supplies from a small box on his dresser, then methodically rolled up some reefer.
Tobacco was fine and all, but tonight called for more desperate measures.
The routine and mundane were usually sure fire ways to eliminate all thought, but a dusty old box stored in the farthest reaches of his mind groaned from the growing pressure of the explosive contents within, threatening to blow apart rotten wood and sharp, rusted hinges.
Thin paper slid against his dry fingers, and dried to hell weed spilled out the ends of the loosely rolled tube.
He cracked open the window, and lit up.
He inhaled greedily and stared out into the darkness, listening in vain for signs of life from the rest of Rittenhouse.
Sometimes, on a good night, the park was so full of life that you didn’t have to try that hard to hear it. But most nights, like tonight, the natural world was overrun by man.
Cornelius smoked the joint down to nothing, then butted it out on the sill before tossing the thing out the window.
His mind grew heavy, and his muscles relaxed.
He lingered for a moment longer, listening for the call of a nighthawk or perhaps a screech owl, for he tended to hear those even on the worst of days.
He left Rittenhouse Square’s silent, impenetrable depths behind and shut the window for good measure.
Blood stained and damp, articles of clothing unceremoniously fell to the floor one after another.
He tugged the bandeau off and his ribcage expanded, lungs greedily sucking in air.
He frowned at the elastic and cotton in his hands, which had deteriorated after nine years of use.
He had others, but none as good as the Boyshform in his hands.
Sara had accompanied him to the presentation held in Philly and convinced him to buy one.
Now flat chests were no longer in fashion, and finding a quality replacement was near impossible.
Gaze focused on the bed and nothing else, he dressed in thick trousers and a long nightshirt, fingertips skimming over the pendulous flesh on his chest and the thick, dark hair on his calves.
He fell into bed and the old mattress welcomed his tired body, springs and all.
He thrashed this way and that until finally curling up into a ball like an armadillo, layers of quilts tight around his neck.
The room spun around him, and he groaned.
Cornelius closed his eyes. Only once in complete and total darkness did he withdraw the key for his heart and unlock it, examining the contents before they escaped on their own time.
Birthdays spent alone.
Years of whispers and backhanded compliments, blatant insults and grotesque assumptions.
Stacks of letters filled with unidentifiable words, indecipherable meanings. The cruel tease of a foreign friend or lover perhaps, Cher Ami.
A heart doomed to never mend, poisoned and twisted by rejection after rejection.
Broken promises.
The promises.
They meant something, didn’t they?
Didn’t they?