Date: Mon, 18 Mar 2002 23:29:31 -0500 From: Cepes LA Subject: The Interviewee Part 9 This is gay erotic fiction. If you are offended by graphic descriptions of homosexual acts, go somewhere else. Neither this story nor any parts of it may be distributed electronically or in any other manner without the express, written consent of the author. All rights are reserved by the author who may be reached at cepes@mail.com. This is a work of fiction, any resemblance of the characters to anyone living or dead is pure coincidence and not intended. They are all products of the author's overactive imagination. The Interviewee Part 9 "How did you like Brad Peters as a trainer?" asked Charlie as were walking together toward the mall and a quick lunch. My mind, however, wasn't exactly processing the words he said. More like every fifth word. I didn't even immediately register he had asked me a question. "Huh?" "Brad Peters. He was the guy on marketing strategy frameworks at the training in Miami two weeks ago. Haven't you been to one of his sessions?" Charlie had this little smirk on his face; he looked like he knew I'd been daydreaming. In reality, I was actually in a walking nightmare. "I wasn't in Miami for that." "I know. I thought you might have seen him before." "Right. Yeah, the name rings a bell. But, I've sat through many bullshit trainings. It's all blurred together." My words were more terse than usual. My brain wasn't at all focused on making nice today; it was still pointed back to the office, back to my mentor standing in the head of staffing's office with what looked like my recent project reviews. Who knows what sort of devilment she was up to. Charlie seemed to understand he had reached a dead end with this line of chit chat. As a good chameleon--or consultant or sales person--can, he changed his colors and launched into describing a new bar he had been to over the weekend. I let him continue talking. He had done almost all of it since we left the office building a few minutes ago. We were still a couple dozen paces off from the entrance when Charlie asked, "Where?" "I don't care. You?" "Stage's?" The deli was a time sink, a bit pricey, the food was mediocre, but I hadn't been there in a while and didn't want a fight. Variety being the spice of life, I nodded. After we were seated and had looked at the menu, Charlie turned the chit chat back to our earlier, aborted conversation. "So, you never did answer me. Did you like Brad Peters?" "Yeah, he was fine." My stomach had by now outpaced my mind's agitation; hunger for Stage's tasty, reliable, and cheap chicken noodle soup was at the forefront of my mind. Strange how one rarely thinks of so many things unless they are sitting right in front of his face; the mind is a strange thing. I wouldn't be craving this soup unless it was so close to me. I should be trying to figure out my presentation or Alex or... "He's pretty cute, too." That got my attention. I sat for a moment. I watched the smile on Charlie's face erode into neutrality. "Are you trying to tell me something?" "I guess you could say that." The neutral face remained. "Yeah, he's not bad. Maybe I should attend more trainings." I laughed. The smile returned on Charlie's face. "You had me sweating there." "I know. I'm a cruel bastard sometimes." A comfortable silence set in. I was looking around for the waitress, my stomach still demanding culinary attention. Eventually my plaintive stares and motions got us attention and our orders were recorded. Charlie was chewing lightly on his lower lip by the time the waitress left our table. "You should have been there in Miami. It was fun." "Fun?" "Well, fun for me and Brad, at least. Trainings are boring, as you say." "Fucking in the office? Something I've never done. Too risky. Plus..." "What?" "It's not my thing." "And your boyfriend might object?" Another attention-grabber. Charlie was not among the few whom I had told about Chris. Michael, my former mentor knew, and Jane, the head of the library, had figured it out. "I suppose he might." The subjects of contemplated infidelity and my boyfriend put me on guard. It was one thing for us to talk about Charlie's flings with older men when he was specifically volunteering that information; it was another thing entirely to talk about my life. This time the silence was less comfortable. "I mean it. You should have been in Miami." "You've said that a couple of times. What do you mean?" Not offering an interpretation, just asking for one. Safer than stepping into a minefield, although I knew I had left the safety of playing it dumb. Charlie's mouth screwed up into a tense muscle mass. Evidently, this was his tic when thinking hard. Funny I had never noticed this when we had worked on engagements in the past. I saw the tension lessen on his face. I'm sure I would have heard something come out of his mouth, too, except for our waitress returning with our food: my chicken noodle soup and his oversized sandwich. I was glad the question I had asked drifted by the wayside; I had been fearing the answer. Slurping noises and crunches predominated at our table for the next few minutes. A not-silence and vaguely unpleasant to boot. The question still hung in midair; the report of its death very much exaggerated. Charlie finished half of his sandwich and looked at me. "How long have you had a boyfriend?" "That's not an answer. But, Chris and I have been together for more than three years." "How come I never met him?" Fair question, but hard to answer. "I didn't want to bring my home life into the office." The look on his face suggested Charlie didn't find this satisfactory. "I wish you would have told me." He picked up the other half of his sandwich. In the middle of a chew, he said or rather mumbled, "I like you." "Thanks." He swallowed. "No, really. A lot, I like you a lot." I looked at him hard. I couldn't figure out what exactly he meant. "I wish you had been in Miami. We could have had fun. Not me and Brad; me and you. In the Jacuzzi. Bubbles, yeah?" "No. I don't think so. Remember, no fucking in the office." "Who would tell?" "I would know. And so would Chris." His hand reached for mine. It touched mine for a moment before I pulled it back. "I love my man. Just him. Nothing like this." Part of my mind found the irony of my having panted over Alex so recently to be funny. My newfound rectitude. It wasn't as though Charlie were unattractive; just that Chris was so much more incredible. "Man, I still want to get together with you. I've wanted to since we first worked together, yeah." I couldn't read his face when he said this. He, obviously, could not read my anything-but-subtle rejections. I stopped picking at the soup in my nearly empty bowl. "Thanks for lunch, but this has been very strange and really awkward." Ambiguity or confusion I could handle to a point; but this kind of awkwardness I couldn't. I stood up, reached into my pocket for my wallet, and left a far larger amount of money than the soup and service were worth. Buying silence, perhaps. As I walked back, alone, to the office, I had a tear running down my face. I couldn't figure out where Chris was, had to devise a plan to get a reluctant Alex to talk me, guess why my mentor was trying to sink me, finish presentations, research, and proposals, and find out why a person I considered to be a friend had begun looking at me hungrily like I was a strip sirloin hanging in a butcher's shop, to be had simply for the asking. What I felt worst about was my ambiguity in responding to Charlie: not getting up and leaving even after it became clear what he was getting at. And, before that, playing dumb, giving half answers and evasions. Why had I been so passive? Why hadn't I gotten angry? Why was I now crying? I had been on guard when I heard some of the strange things Charlie said, but when he got to his point, nothing. I felt nothing; just going through the motions; saying the words I knew I should say. I knew I loved only Chris; I had no interest in having "fun" with Charlie; but I hadn't felt any strong passions. No anger, no surprise, nothing. Was there anything inside of me alive. I knew the answer to this less and less as the days went by. I settled into work, after stopping off to splash some water on my face. Unlike that turbulent morning, the afternoon provided a platform for productivity. My mind was able to concentrate on the work in front of me. I wrote a note requesting a meeting with the head of staffing; a positive response and a meeting on Friday were the results. I got through the final presentation. A copy sent for review and comment. Done for today, there would definitely be changes needed tomorrow. I plowed through the research for one proposal; I wrote my sections and sent it off. I started on the second pile of research when I finally noticed it was 6.30. Enough for today. As I was logging off my computer, I looked around my desk, littered with papers, and realized how much I had accomplished today. A fact that both scared me and impressed. The fear came because I knew from experience how I had managed to be so productive. I knew that I did my best work when in a slight depression. It sounds funny, but when I get to that point, a few notches below content and quite a few above catatonic, I find I can focus. The background noise drops out, my brain purrs with intensity, my words or whatever else shoot from my mouth or my pen like lightning on a muggy, summer day. The only problem: that place in my psyche is very fragile and unstable. The least disturbance and a crash was likely to result. Painful. This was where I was now. When I had tried to explain this to Chris years ago, I had to resort to a metaphor I garnered from my limited scientific education. Think of ice. Everyone knows where it freezes, 0 Celsius. But a few degrees above that, it is actually more hard, more perfect. It's still partially liquid, but it's locked into a tighter, more focused pattern than when it finally becomes completed immobile, perfectly solid. At 4 Celsius is the brief spot of perfection. I was now at 4 Celsius, a distinctly hard temperature to maintain. I walked into our apartment to find myself alone again. No Chris, no beautiful scent or voice or body. I dropped my coat and sat on the sofa. The TV began to glow and my mind got lost in it. Even my stomach's protestations didn't rouse my mind. I fell asleep eventually. At some point, the kink in my neck woke me up. I looked up. I was in our bed, naked; I could hear the shower running. I saw clothes strewn on the floor, some looked like mine. I leaned down and picked up a shirt; Chris'. I smelled it. It smelled of him, faintly, but more strongly of grease or smoke, perhaps. Very strange. I heard the shower cease and the shower door open. A few moments passed and then the light from the bathroom filled our room. He stood there, beautiful in his nudity, toweling his hair. "Chris, I needed you today. I called." I was whining. I never did that. "Jay, shh. I love you. I'm here now." The light turned off. I heard steps around the bed and what sounded like the towel falling onto the floor. I felt Chris slide onto our bed. I melted into him, feeling his warm, wet skin on mine. "Where were you today? Paul called-- " "Shh, Jay. Let's talk tomorrow. I'm exhausted." I wrapped my arms around Chris and felt the beat of his heart. I laid there while my Chris fell asleep. I looked at him; smelled him; loved him. He was here; he was mine. To be continued. Author's Note: I would thank everyone for their generous comments about my story. I appreciate hearing your comments on this story or anything else. You can send me a message at cepes@mail.com. I respond to all messages I receive.