His Song

Part 1 The things I put up with, Krish Rajendra thinks, glancing around the darkened coffeehouse. The crowd’s his age but this was never his scene—art students with multi-colored hair, poets in dark jeans and black turtlenecks, aspiring writers chatting about Kerouac and Ginsberg over cappuccinos. Give him a sports bar any day, Monday night football on the tube, Aerosmith on the jukebox, beer sloshing out of cold mugs and peanuts on the floor. None of this candlelight s**t, or the heavy scent of espresso that hangs like rain in the air, or the Bob Dylan wanna-bes up on the small stage, taking turns on the open mike with their acoustic guitars and whiney songs. Why is he here again? Dane. Krish lets his gaze wander around the room until he sees Jude Danelian, twenty-three and his lover of two years. He’s the reason they’re at the Dharma tonight—”Randy Blake will be there,” Dane said earlier, when he broached the subject of coming downtown. He sat on the arm of the sofa and leaned onto Krish in that way he has that gets him anything he wants. His body pressed along Krish’s side, his arm draped around Krish’s shoulders, his fingers toying in the short, dark hair at the nape of Krish’s neck. “Come on,” he cajoled. “One night, what’ll it hurt? I don’t want to go alone.” “We don’t have to go at all,” Krish replied. “There’s a game on tonight.” He slipped his arms around his lover’s waist and pulled him into his lap. Dane’s tall, slim, almost bony, and when Krish holds him tight, he’s afraid he’ll snap the boy in two. He was captain of the basketball team back in high school, made it through college on an athletic scholarship, and never even talked to an art student until the year after he graduated, when he ran into Dane at the grocery store where the boy worked. Literally—backed his pickup into Dane’s bicycle; he never did get the hang of reverse. When Dane came out, Krish was already dusting off the bike, thinking maybe no one would notice the bent rims? They weren’t that bad, a little hammering should pop them right back into shape… Then he looked up and saw that light brown hair, streaked with blond and falling like a curtain in front of Dane’s face, one length to his chin. He had an endearing habit of flipping it out of the way as he talked, and Krish was lost. He insisted on taking Dane out to dinner—his parents owned a small Indian restaurant not far from his apartment, it was the least he could do, give the boy a warm meal and fix up his bike, and by the end of the week they were inseparable. Two years later and all Dane had to do was rub along the sensitive skin behind his ear, stare at him with those puppy-dog eyes, give him a slight pout, and damn. So much for the game. Now he watches Dane, waiting at the bar for their drinks. The girl at the espresso machine says something that makes him laugh—he ducks his head and his hair falls in front of his face, Krish loves how it does that. Despite the distance and the crowd, he thinks he can hear that laugh, rich and soft like freshly turned soil. When the girl hands Dane one of the drinks, she says something else, smiles coyly, holds the mug even after he takes it. Dull jealousy curls through Krish, an angry ache that makes his head hurt. Hands off, babe, he thinks, narrowing his eyes. That’s my boy so you best just settle down now, you hear? Dane laughs again—he doesn’t even realize she’s flirting with him; he’s oblivious when it comes to stuff like that. The first time Krish smoothed that hair back from his brow, leaned over him and whispered that he was the sexiest boy he’d ever seen, Dane blushed so fiercely, Krish thought he might spontaneously combust. “I’m not that pretty,” he said. Since then Krish makes sure to use his lips, his tongue, his hands, anything he can think of, to convince Dane otherwise. As his lover crosses the room, a steaming latté in each hand, Krish glares at the girl staring after him. If he were the flamboyant type, he’d greet Dane with a possessive kiss, press him back against the booth and show the girl just who the hell this boy belongs to, anyway. He’d like to see the look on her face then, see that cute smile freeze into place. He could do it here—this is a coffeehouse, not a sports bar; none of these artsy-fartsy kids would say s**t about two guys making out in the corner and he’s still fairly buff, he could take any of them easily in a fist fight—but he’s not like that. What he does with his boy is his business. He doesn’t perform for an audience. Dane gives him one of his self-conscious smiles, the ones Krish loves to kiss away. When he slides into the booth and sets the mugs down in front of them, Krish lets his hand find Dane’s leg in the darkness beneath the table and trails up until it rests in the joint where thigh meets groin. He can feel the pillowy softness at his lover’s crotch, and another smile from Dane makes him wonder why they’re here at all. We should be home, he thinks, watching Dane sip his latté. The game on TV and the two of us naked on the couch…now that’s what I call an evening. Nodding at the bar, Krish says, “She was all over you.” Dane looks at him over the top of his mug as he blows on the latté to cool it down. “What?” he asks, following Krish’s gaze. The girl behind the bar sees him and waves. “Dane,” Krish sighs. “She’s just being friendly,” Dane says, waving back. Krish doesn’t buy that for a minute. “You don’t have to encourage her,” he mutters. He sips his latté, grimaces at the bitter taste, sets the drink down and pushes it aside. “Why did I let you talk me into this again?” Beneath the table, Dane’s hand slips into Krish’s. He may be a little on the thin side, but Dane has big hands, calloused from his guitar, and Krish thinks that old adage is true, about the size of a man’s hands, because Dane’s got nothing to be ashamed of in that department, either. Another reason to go home now, salvage what’s left of the evening by making love on the sofa…in front of the TV preferably, so he can hold Dane close and watch the end of the game when they’re done. “Randy Blake,” Dane explains, giving Krish’s hand a squeeze before he lets go. He cranes his neck to look around but the stage at the far end of the room is still dark, no one on the mike yet. “He should go on by eight…” Krish doesn’t answer. Randy Blake is not exactly his idea of a good time—the guy’s a local musician, a favorite of Dane’s, but he’s pushing forty, and with dark hair in that shag style that went out in the 80’s, a full beard and mustache, he looks more at home on Bob Villa than in the Dharma. So he can strum a guitar and hum a few bars, so what? He’s not all that. But to hear Dane tell it, the guy invented the six-string. When he sings, the heavens open up and the world stops turning, Dane’s eyes get this faraway look in them that makes Krish throb with envy—why can’t he sing like that? Why can’t he put that almost orgasmic smile on his lover’s face with his voice alone? He has to remind himself it’s nothing, just a celebrity crush, if Randy Blake could even be called a celebrity—he’s known at the Dharma and the bookstores around town, a few of the college girls swoon over him when he sings on campus, that’s about it. As Dane sips his drink, Krish brushes the hair back off his shoulder, lets his fingers feather through the silky length, and his lover’s smile is all he needs to assure himself Randy Blake isn’t anything to worry about. Sure, we came to see him, he reasons, tenderly tracing the curve of Dane’s cheek with one knuckle, but you’re leaving with me. Softly, even though there’s no one else nearby to overhear, Krish whispers, “I love you.” There’s that smile again, the duck of the head that makes Dane’s hair fall across his eyes, and his hand presses into Krish’s lap, stirring his groin. “Love you, too,” he murmurs, and before Krish can pull away, Dane gives him a quick peck on the cheek. He’s the open one, the singer, the poet—he doesn’t think twice about touching or kissing or hugging in public. Krish still has to remind him at times to tone it down in front of his parents. “Thanks for coming, babe. You don’t know how much this means to me.” Krish does know; that’s why he’s here. He toys with his mug, running his finger around the rim, not really interested in drinking the tepid latté. I want to go home, he thinks, but Dane’s hand is a warm, pleasing weight on his thigh and a glance at his watch tells him he’s going to miss the game anyway, he might as well enjoy himself. If Dane’s right, they have a few more minutes before that Blake guy goes on, and then maybe an hour of crappy songs, his cover of “Me and Bobby McGee”—everyone does that song at the Dharma, everyone, without fail. He’s already thinking beyond that, though, to their small apartment and the two of them crawling into the full-sized futon they share, and because he came downtown tonight Dane will snuggle up against him beneath the covers, stroke his lower belly right above the hair that kinks where his legs meet, kiss his neck and sing to him softly in his bedroom voice. He’ll want to show Krish how much he appreciates this, coming out to hear Randy Blake when he knows the guy doesn’t do anything for his lover—that’s the real reason Krish is here. Admit it, he tells himself. You just want to get laid. He can stand a few hours of listening to bad music and sipping pretentious coffee if it makes Dane happy. “How’s your writing?” Krish asks, just to make conversation. Dane writes songs—like the ones they sing here at the Dharma, true, but Krish doesn’t mind listening to Dane’s music. He has a breathy, smoked-out voice Krish finds intoxicating, and Dane sits for hours in the kitchen, one leg propped up on his chair and a notebook open in front of him, picking songs out of his beat-up guitar. Krish stands in the doorway watching, listening to love songs Dane says are written for him. That’s why Dane likes this Randy fellow, says his music is everything he always wanted his own to be, only Krish thinks Dane’s a hundred times more talented than Randy Blake. Dane laughs when he tells him that and says it’s because they sleep together he thinks that way. Krish isn’t too sure. “That new song you’re working on,” Krish prompts when Dane frowns at him. “How’s that one coming along?” Dane shrugs. “I’m a little stuck on the bridge,” he tells him. Above the small stage, the lights begin to flicker, signaling the start of the show. “Shh,” Dane murmurs, even though Krish hasn’t said another word. With a sigh, Krish settles back in the booth, crossing his arms in front of his chest like a challenge. This isn’t going to be fun, he thinks as some of the girls in the audience move closer to the stage. It’s just an old man, people. Jesus. He glares at the smattering of applause and kicks at the table leg until Dane stops him with a look. When Randy Blake steps up on the stage, the applause strengthens, and one or two people call out appreciatively. Blake smiles at the crowd, eyes crinkling into crescents, and a part of Krish smirks at that, those wrinkles, the faint threads of gray he can see shooting through that thick beard. It’s past your bedtime, Pops, he thinks, and he starts to lean over to share the comment with Dane before he realizes it might not be a wise thing to say, if he doesn’t want to sleep alone tonight. Another sigh, and he sinks further into the booth, his brow clouding over with anger. Onstage Blake sits down on the wooden stool in front of the mike, pulls his guitar strap over his head, and looks at his hands as he tunes the instrument. “How’re ya’ll doing tonight?” he asks, a slight Southern twang in his voice. Krish suspects that’s forced—the guy’s from DC, not Alabama. But the crowd loves it, they clap again like he’s done something great and all he’s doing is fiddling with the guitar strings. Even Dane’s grinning broadly, enjoying this. Krish can’t understand it. He wants to say something, just to remind Dane how much he doesn’t want to be here, just so his lover realizes what he’s sacrificing for him, so he leans across the table and whispers loudly, “I don’t see what his appeal is.” Dane rubs his thigh and smiles at him like an indulgent parent to a child. Then he leans back against Krish—it’s dark and no one sees them, Krish glances around to make sure no one’s looking their way. With his head against Krish’s shoulder, Dane snuggles into him, takes one of Krish’s hands between both of his, laces their fingers together and as Blake starts in on his first song, he whispers, “Just listen.” Listen. Krish hears the music and doesn’t like it, but now he’s got other things to think about, like Dane’s elbow resting across his crotch, the slight erection already budding in his pants, his lover’s hands around his and their bodies pressed together as if they’re the only ones in the whole place. Another hour or so and they will be alone, back in their apartment, and as music fills the coffeehouse, Krish lets his mind wander to images of two of them making love in the living room, or in the shower, or up against the kitchen counter. Absently, he strokes Dane’s hair with his free hand and thinks, The things I put up with, boy, just because I love you.