In the Closet

The inside of the closet is small, and a concentrated stench hangs in the air.  It overwhelms Ethan’s senses with the taste of white vinegar sucked into the back of his throat through his slack-jawed mouth.  It’s from Ian’s shoes, his beloved Vibram FiveFingers™.  Long ago, they had been a bright orange, but now are the color of dark rust, rancid with mildew.

“Ethan, that is you, isn’t it!” Ian said.  He scooched over on an unkempt twin mattress and slapped the space with his hand.  “Come on, buddy, take a seat.”

There was a pause, and then Ethan answered, “Why are you wearing those in bed?”

“It’s a sofa right now.”

Ethan is vexed.

“Then why are you wearing them on the sofa?”

“I don’t go anywhere without them.”

“But you haven’t gone anywhere.”

“But I’ve come from somewhere.”

Tears in Ethan’s eyes well up and start to drip down his cheeks.  They sting and blur his vision, making everything wobbly, adding to the confusion.  Why does Ian talk like that?  Why couldn’t he have slain Ian in cold blood and be done with it?  Such a foolish mistake; the bottle was plastic, but it certainly felt like glass in the moment.  Ethan squeezes the bottle, but fails to deform the shape in the slightest.  Must be one of them new heavy-duty bottles.  Yeah, that’s it. 

Ian motions to the spot he’d made for Ethan on the bed again, “Come on now.  And why are you crying, and why’d you hit me, anyways.”

Ethan shrugs and avoids eye contact; he looks inside the closet.  Total disarray.  Clothes are piled on the floor in great mounds of colorful fabric so that the floor itself is hidden.  The space is only slightly wider than the twin mattress, but perhaps twice as long.  Overhead, a recessed light fixture floods the room in a sickly glow, as if everything were stained with nicotine.  Discarded wads of tissue packed the space between the wall and the bed.

“I had a cold last week,” Ian said, noticing Ethan’s gaze.  “Come, sit down will you?”

Ethan sniffles and nods his head, obliging Ian.

“What’s this deal with you hitting me in the head with that Miller Lite bottle?”

“I dunno,” Ethan says, dropping the bottle in front of him.

“You’re the last person I thought would come and see me today, by the way.”

“Do you sleep with those on?” Ethan says.  He’s unable to drop the topic of Ian’s toe shoes.

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“They fit good.”

“Well,” Ethan says, trying to correct Ian.

“Hah, I’m only kidding, I knew you’d pick up on that faux pas.”

Ethan is unmoved.  “Do you sit here all day?”

“Sure.  Got to recharge my social battery for tonight.  It’s Tuck Tuesday, afterall.  Everyone on Discord is going to expect the funny guy.  Why’d you leave the server, I bet you'd like Nip/Tuck.”

“I dunno.”

“Look, Ethan, just get to it, what’s the matter, and if you say ‘I dunno’ again I’ll put you in a headlock.  You came all this way and hit me in the head with a Miller Lite.  What gives, little guy?”

Ethan flinches at the thought of violence, but also at being called ‘little guy’.  He sucks a deep breath in from the sour air stewing between him and Ian; it saturates his palate like a thick porridge and tastes like a foot.  The back of his hand wipes away the tears and cuts the long strands of snot dangling from his face.  There’s an impulse to grab one of the tissues, but now that he is near them and sees the yellowed condition, he abstains.  He wipes his hand into his lap and begins to speak.

“I came to kill you.”

“Now why’d you wanna do a thing like that?”

“Do you remember Clint, Ian?”

The name lands between them.

“Sure,” Ian replies.

“We had a future planned, and. . .” Ethan said.

Ian is quick on his feet and realizes Ethan might be a creepy sex pervert, and scooches over and away from Ethan and interrupts before he can ramble into one of his world-famous monologues.

“Look, Ethan, I like you, but we’re just friends.  And, I mean, your lifestyle is legal now, in some parts of the world, but I hope you didn’t come here to try and knock me out and take our relationship to the next level.  I’m sorry if I’ve led you on in anyway.”

“What, no, I’m talking about Clint.”

“Well, look, if it’s me or Clint, neither of us are into that kind of thing.  We’re both taken!”

Taken.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: ‘It might have been!’ 

“Taken,” Ethan says the word flatly, as if reading it from a dictionary.

“Yeah, man.  Look, I outgrew thinking guys were cute years ago.  I mean, I can appreciate someone like Paul Newman or Henry Cavill, but like, I wouldn’t want them to do me!”

“Clint is taken?”

“Yeah.  And I mean, I’m not gay or anything though.”

“Who?” Ethan interrupts.

“Who what?”

“Who is Clint with?”

“Oh, he got married to Meg. Weird how that worked out.”

Ethan drops his face into his hands and begins to sob again.  It is a quiet, soundless cry that Ian mistakes for laughter.

“Can you believe it, I got the wedding invitation in the mail a few weeks ago.  Guess they’re having a kid out of wedlock or something.  A real shotgun wedding!”  Ian slaps Ethan on the back hard enough to burp him.  “Hear that, little guy?”

Ethan pulls his face away from his hands, and renewed connections of saliva and mucus dangle freely.  His brow is forlorn, twisted with grief, and there is no white in his bleary eyes; they are completely bloodshot with sadness.  What a mess, the poor kid.  He looks like he just got slimed by a ghost or licked by a big dog, but it’s heartbreak.

“I just want to forget him.”

“Oh,” Ian said softly.

Can't add footnotes in blogger, but line 'For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: ‘It might have been!’ ' is from Maul Muller, not me.  I just really like it.