The Mix of Us

“You’re never going to marry me, are you, Steve?” Steve Quaver watched a relaxing Giovanni Tartini on the sofa, reading again, semi-lost among words, paragraphs, and chapters. He read whenever he had the spare time, enjoying tales of life, here and beyond. Anything he could get his hands on, really. Steve bent over him, kissing Giovanni’s forehead before passing into another room of their Tudor, dusting again. Always dusting. The chore calmed Steve down and maintained his anxiety, particularly when the marriage topic was brought up again. Good therapy during an ugly situation like discussing the holy matrimony of two men, a life-long commitment. It was a lot for Steve to handle, too much, both mentally and physically. It wasn’t as if he didn’t love Gio or want to spend the rest of his life with the man. Bottom line: Steve just didn’t feel that it was necessary to get married. No way. Unable to match the act with his character. “I know you have commitment issues. You’re afraid of marrying me.” Gio closed the seven-hundred-page, hardback novel and place it on his firm chest. Then he laid on the sofa and looked up at the ceiling, probably concentrating on the swirls of white and a plane of nothingness. “You don’t understand why we need a piece of paper to prove our love. I love you. You love me. We’re dynamic soul mates created by the universe. You think that’s enough. I get it, Steve. But we both know I want more. And you should want more, too, even if I can’t convince you otherwise.” Steve stood over Gio again. “Because you’ve always wanted to go through the process and get a marriage license. Because you’ve fought for the equal right to marry for decades, ever since you were in your twenties. Because your uncle was at Stonewall, met Harvey Milk, and died of AIDS in the late eighties during the Reagan years. Enough said.” “I’m sorry you feel this way.” Gio stared up into Steve’s eyes, as if lost there. Steve knew exactly what Gio was thinking, believing that the man was his soul mate: at thirty-eight, Gio was still excited to spend his days with Steve, thought Steve attractive. Giovanni’s true soul mate. His lover. His best friend. His violinist. Someone who Gio could have these uncomfortable and taunting conversations with, which sometimes drove both of them a pinch mad, Steve guessed, but they always struggled through them, surviving, breathing. “You won’t marry me, Steve. I know that about you. You’re not going to sleep around behind my back. You’re not going to have an affair with a younger man in his twenties who looks like Thor or the other Hemsworth brothers, or a studly jock who plays professional soccer and f***s like a porn star in his too-tight uniform. You just really don’t feel there’s a need to be married. I know that. You know that. You can’t see how a license can prove my love for you. Plus, I know your parents never got married. They’ve been together for over forty years now. Hippies, which I respect. The first liberals in your family. Your mom’s totally against it, like you. So, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it? I suppose not.” It’s upsetting, Steve thought. Gio often suggested having (and wanting) a Sunday marriage ceremony with just a few guests; one of those lovely and small luncheon events at The Lou or Low Hollow Park. It somewhat irritated Steve. If only Steve could talk the man into not bringing the topic up again. Why couldn’t Giovanni see that Steve just wanted to be lovers for the next three…maybe four decades instead of having the state government legally recognize them as husbands? It’s not that Steve was against marriage. On the contrary, he was all for it. Honestly, he just didn’t feel as if it were personally for him, an act he could live without. Steve knew he couldn’t go back in time and change who he had fallen in love with, even if he wouldn’t marry Gio. Father Time didn’t allow such actions. So, either he had to suck up his predicament and accept Gio’s harping about marrying him, or move on. Steve said while continuing to dust, “Let’s agree to disagree at this time about the topic. What do you say?” “Agreed. I’ll bring it up again in a few months to discuss.” Or a day, or a week, Steve thought, knowing Gio well enough to admit such a fact, even if it didn’t happen yet. Adorable Gio winked up from the sofa. Damn him for being so cute, charming, and the perfect guy. Doubly damn him. Steve couldn’t help himself and smiled at his Italian husband, adoring him more now than when they met seven years before at one of Steve’s violin concerts. Giovanni’s dark Mediterranean skin, almost-black eyes, and thick buzz cut had turned him on again and again, every time Steve had taken the slightest glance at the man. And Gio’s body was still a temple of muscle since he worked out at Meat’s Gym at least four times a week: solidly ripped with a hulking and hairy chest, veins along his pumped neck, and a flat stomach rippled with perfectly constructed abs that had taken a dozen or more years to construct. Steve had a happy life with the music teacher, as his husband or not. A perfect life between the two of them. He couldn’t ask for a better lover, even when he shared an uncomfortable Sunday chat about marriage. “Someday you’ll marry me. Just not now. I’ll give you time.” Steve said nothing in return, continuing to dust the living room, swinging his feather tool to and fro over knickknacks, books, and other whatnots that had meaning in their lives, stories of their couplehood and love for the last six years. Developments of their relationship. Memorabilia of two men spending one life together. The mix of their belongings that not only symbolized their heartfelt tenderness for each other, but also their individualism. Gio added, “Just don’t marry someone else before the topic comes up for discussion again.” “I promise,” Steve said matter-of-factly. He chuckled and turned away from his dusting. Steve watching Gio pick up his massive book again, flip to the middle, and start reading.