He's silent when he comes. Moonlight slivers through the curtains and I can see the beautiful grimace, the lip-biting pleasure on his face. I'm quiet too, beyond the necessities of breath. And then it's after, rolled apart, sweat cooling on our bodies. Still quiet.
Barry reaches up and tugs the curtains open, letting in all of the blue moon. Sitting up a little, he smiles at me.
It's his usual expression. It means he's happy or he's sad. It means he's right or he's wrong. It means "you forgot the milk" or "you're a good fuck." I think.
How many fucks does it take to constitute a relationship? Three? Five? Ten? It's been about a dozen so far and we're beginning to find each other's edges. Boundaries and blades.
He seems to like me. I like him too, when I'm not hating him for his perfect life, his perfect career. All I ever wanted to be was a bright young agent on his way up, doing good work. Just like By-the-Book Baldwin, rising star. Maybe it's not too late for me either.
The first time I saw Barry, he was smiling, a tight little "fuck you" smile, at an agent who was blowing up in his face. I watched him -- so cool, so calm -- and wondered if he had a "fuck me" smile as well. When we spoke, I thought that he just might. It was a slow and careful dance, though, before I got to see it. Even now, we're more, much more, than discreet. Don't ask and, please, don't tell.
I remember the first night. Exchanging notes on some similar cases as an excuse for dinner. Then "it's still early, how about stopping for a drink?" in a smoky bar neither of us liked, then "why not crash at my place?" A moment of truth in Barry's apartment, when I closed the door and looked at him. He smiled. The sheets were white and smelled so clean.
I remember the third -- or maybe it was the fourth -- time. He cooked me dinner and I sucked him off while we were still at the table. And the time we met by accident in a men's room at Quantico and stared at each other until I thought we might actually fall back into a stall and let nature take its course. Instead I waited all afternoon, all evening until he showed up at my door at ten. That was lucky number seven.
Maybe this isn't happiness, but it's good sex and a little understanding and not having to sleep alone, at least some nights. It's a reasonable facsimile.
His skin is almost silver in the full moon, the sheet white and crumpled around his waist. I remember the last but one, in my bed, in the dark. So dark we bumped and banged each other a little. So dark I had to touch his face to see his smile.
Someone told me that this year we have two blue moons in as many months, this cold January night and then again in March. Maybe it's a time for second chances, to catch up missed opportunities. Maybe it's just coincidence.
I want...I want this. But more too. I want to work with this man, not just sleep with him. Partners, cases -- real cases. We could do so much together. Do some good, make a name for ourselves. Like some fucking cop show.
I wonder if he wants that too.
But what I want and what I'll get are far apart. My family tree has roots that coil and twine around me, pulling me down and down, growing up a cage around me. It's too late to slip free. I need an axe. I can't ask Barry for help. I'll have to do it alone.
These problems are my own and this night isn't. It's not an efficient use of my time to sink into the dark muck of my soul now. Not while Barry is turning to me and leaning on his elbow and smiling at me with an openness, a brightness I never see outside the bed. Not while the moon is shining and there's warmth to be had.
So I smile too and reach out to roll him on top of me and the living weight of him is the best thing I've felt in a long, long time. Maybe ever. His kiss is languid, slow like honey, and his fingers find their way into my hair. Moving my hands over his back, smelling the spent energy of our bodies, I wish that I could fall in love. I almost could, right now. Almost.
Maybe next blue moon.
FINIS
nasty completly nasty