I Am Waiting for Him to Love Me
By Thomas Kearnes


After his sixth or seventh beer, Glenn extends his hand. He pulls me to my feet and wraps his arms around me. Our bodies press together like hands in prayer. He’s taller than me, so when I tilt my head to look into his quiet blue eyes, my nose brushes against his lips. He kisses me softly but it lasts just a moment. He never kisses me longer than that. We’re friends, he insists, and he doesn’t go to bed with friends. We dance only when he’s drunk.

One of Nina Simone’s old torch songs plays on his computer. He’s the first man I’ve known who loves her too. When I noticed her on the monitor’s playlist, I squeezed his hand and babbled how Nina knew love was pain, and the pain was beautiful, and the beauty was love. I’d been drinking as well.

Glenn swings his arm over my head, my hand still in his. He wants me to spin, but I turn the wrong way. I stumble over my feet.

“You’re gonna have to teach me how to dance,” I say.

“No, you were supposed to go the other way.”

“I’m terrible at this.”

He laughs and shakes his head. I think he’s embarrassed for me. Glenn knows how to fold and angle his body to any music. I fall back on the bed and watch him dance in place. He sways, runs his large hands underneath his T-shirt over his smooth abdomen. At first, his head drifts from side to side but soon he looks at me. I’ve seen him dance like this for other men, other men who were not friends. I try not to think about them.

“Once the shit gets here, what are we going to do?” I ask.

He snorts. “Get high, of course.”

“What if what happened last time happens again?”

“I guess it could.”

Two days ago, when we last took hits from the pipe, I kissed Glenn hard on the mouth. I grabbed him. I didn’t let go even after he kissed me back. Sometimes when you’re spun, your memory decays, but I safeguard that kiss. I’m so grateful to have that moment locked away. I don’t believe in a power higher than us, so my gratitude ascends then breaks apart like a gas.

I stretch out on the bed. We’ve been up nearly three days. His two hairless mutts hop back and forth over my body. Glenn claps his hands and shouts their names. They leap from the bedspread onto the floor. He lies down beside me.

“I told Marcus the door was open, so he could just come in,” he says.

“What if we’re both asleep?”

“He can wake us up.”

“I’m exhausted.”

“Then crash with me.”

He turns on his side, facing me, and closes his eyes. I watch the muscles in his face relax. His lips slacken and his brow softens. We’ve never fallen asleep together so I’ve no idea when he will drift away. There’s nothing else in this room to see. After a minute or two, he opens his eyes. His gaze meets mine. He knows I’m watching him. He studies me a moment, then closes them again. I swing my arm over his side but don’t pull him closer. I’m not that brave.

If Marcus does come in without knocking, he will find us like this. Fast asleep in this dangerous world. A small, low grunt escapes from somewhere inside this man beside me.

I watch. I listen.

Finally, I close my eyes and he’s gone.

Thomas Kearnes is an atheist and an Eagle Scout. His fiction has appeared in JMWW Journal, Night Train, SmokeLong Quarterly, 3 AM Magazine, Temenos, and other print and online publications.

© 2009 prickofthespindle.com