Undercurrent

On my blog, I write a lot about my writing and my creative journey. This week, I thought I’d do something different and share some of my writing. In-between my longer writing projects I’ve been experimenting with flash fiction. This is one of those pieces.

Undercurrent

“What’s going on?” David asked, at the loud thud in the front hall, from the living room where he was seated on the deep, oversized sofa.

Peter, standing by the front door and facing into the living room, waited until David looked at him and then pointed at the two large suitcases positioned on each side of him and hoped the answer would be obvious. “I think it’s, well, er …” He gave a languid shrug. “For the best.”

David lifted himself off the sofa and joined Peter in the front hall. They looked searchingly at each other, the way they did years ago, when love carried the day, left them breathless. They were seven years older now. David, thirty-six, was tall and slender, kept his head shaved and was good-looking with his smooth caramel skin that made the staff at the neighbourhood LCBO regularly ask him for ID. Peter’s face was a little fuller, his short reddish-brown hair a little thinner on top, but men still chased him and his GQ-style looks. Taller than David, Peter had a solid build but, at thirty-nine, sometimes the lines around his ocean blue eyes got him discounts on Seniors’ Day at the drug mart.

“For the best.” David’s voice was flat, like he was recovering after having had the wind knocked out of him. “I don’t understand what that means.”

“What good would it do? Understanding, I mean.” Peter spoke with an edge. “We’re long past understanding, don’t you think?”

David, clenching and unclenching his fists, tried to tamp down the rage inside of him. They were beyond so many things, beyond themselves — for too long held hostage in a life lacking passion, eroticism, some type of metaphysical connection. Outside of where there was truth. Outside of themselves. Unable to chip away at the harrowing silence that implanted itself in them, in their hearts, and turned them away from each other and to a solitary life.

“So, I’ll …” Peter flicked his thin eyebrows. “I guess I’ll get going.” He held his gaze to the floor as he stabbed his feet into his shoes, no longer able to look at the man who used to make him feel buttery inside, made him believe in love again. What had happened to him?

“Coward.” David breathed deeply. “You’re a coward.”

Peter didn’t flinch. “I’ll call you in a couple of days to figure out the rest.”

“Your keys,” David said, not fighting the crescendo in his contralto voice. “Go be with Brian.” David bristled when Peter looked at him again. “What? You think I really don’t know?” He shook his head. “That’s what makes you a coward, that you couldn’t admit that to me. Now you’re leaving … You say we’re beyond understanding, and maybe that’s true.” He held out his hand. “When you walk out that door, this isn’t your home anymore. You lose the right to come and go as you please. So, your keys.”

Peter, staring intently into those round brown eyes that both excited and terrified, swallowed hard. Giving back his keys took away his options, cut him completely loose from the one person he knew had, no matter what, loved him unconditionally. Why wasn’t that enough? Rolling his thin, pursed pink lips, Peter pulled his keys out of his pocket, slid the two square-topped keys off his key ring and placed them in the palm of David’s warm hand. Peter said, “David, I’m —”

“You’re sorry?” David raised an eyebrow. “As if that could possibly mean anything now.” He went and opened the door, his eyes trained on Peter, who picked up his suitcases and rushed out of the house.

Peter was gone. The life David had built with him shattered. In the new silence, David knew he was the one who had let it all slip away. By letting the silence rule them, by being, in his own right too cowardly by not going to where there was truth, hadn’t David shoved Peter towards the door and out of his heart? David set the keys down on the oak occasional table in the hall, picked up the phone and dialled.

“What do you want, David?” the deep voice boomed into the line.

“Ty …” David drawled, curbing his urge to laugh. He and Ty were friends since university who studied law together. Ty was never one for niceties, never believed in their importance. “Just because my name appears on the call —”

“What do you want?”

“He’s gone. It’s over. Really over.” There was a silence. “Isn’t that what you’ve been waiting all these years to hear?”

A couple of months before Peter had appeared on the scene, Ty and David had been lovers. David grew frustrated waiting for Ty to accept himself, couldn’t date a guy ashamed of being gay. When Ty finally stopped running from himself, Peter had already swept David off his feet. David and Ty had managed to hang on to their friendship, even when it meant sidestepping the undercurrent of desire constantly smouldering beneath the surface.

“So he’s gone,” Ty said. “What does that mean?”

“It means …” David bit down on his lower lip. “I’ll leave the front door unlocked and wait for you in the bedroom. Don’t make me wait too long.”

Click.