The Mix of Us

Chapter 2

Steve’s Alice in Wonderland moment happened the following Monday morning. Gio was making the drive to Buffalo for a music convention, exclusive for high school music teachers in the tristate area, which left Steve alone in their Tudor at 17 Tone Street. Steve spent the morning with two cups of coffee, his violin for a few hours of practice, and a cold and snowy February day ahead of him. He had fallen in love with the violin at the very young age of ten and turned into a professional violinist at age twenty-two, a graduate of Julliard in New York City. Steve wasn’t a millionaire by any means, nor did he have world fame, but he was happy and content with the product of his skills.

Dust. Dusting. More dusting. Still dusting. He could hear Gio from the day before.

You won’t marry me, Steve. I know that about you.

Of course, he wanted to spend the rest of his mortal life with Gio. Never did he look at another man his age, wanting to kiss, hug, or f**k the guy. And never did he crave the romance with anyone else he had (conditionally?) had with Gio. Honestly, he always felt a strong something for Gio since the first time they had met. And that same feeling—a blend of chemical reactions that caused Steve to become aroused by the man—had a strong way of still being present and active within his heart and mind, even today. Those tumbled feelings were always there: at cocktail parties or other social events like fund-raisers for music scholarships they attended together; during walks in Low Hollow Park; at the movies on a Sunday afternoon; during the book club they attended once a month to discuss Barbara Kingsolver, Joyce Carol Oates, or Amy Tan novels; and so many more fun-filled activities when they were among other men their age, or younger. He couldn’t marry, never. He wouldn’t. How could he after being unhitched for so long?

The previous day’s uncomfortable conversation with Gio became unleashed inside the folds of Steve’s mind, tumbling there, unfolding, spreading out like a table cloth, and covering his real thoughts; a tempestuous and agonizing memory that caused his stomach to turn, unable to leave him.

Steve resorted to more dusting, using his favorite feather duster, the one with the rubber handle and faux peacock feathers that Gio purchased for him in Toronto two summers before. Dusting relaxed him, taking him elsewhere, far away from the world’s bitter realties and the thought of marriage. The act numbed him; cheap therapy.

Steve neared the walnut coffee table Gio sometimes built five-hundred-piece puzzles on during passionate, but angry, snowstorms. The table had been purchased at a secondhand store on Mill Avenue in downtown Low Hollow. The place had a strange name, like Vintage Things Accepted or something similar. Harry Mander, one of Steve’s former high school blowjob buddies, owned and operated the establishment. Gio didn’t know Steve had given Harry numerous blowjobs in high school. If he did, Gio would probably stop shopping there as a regular.

Steve could still hear Harry’s grunting and long moans from those evenings when they were eighteen: usually quick oral fixes for Harry in the kid’s Mustang, mostly because his girlfriend wouldn’t suck him off, give him a pleasurable hand job, or let him slip his pre-twenties d**k inside her. Honestly, Steve had good times with Harry and his d**k. The best times of Steve’s high school years. Now, Steve couldn’t help from thinking of Harry every time he looked at the coffee table, flashbacking to Marlow High School, horny as hell, bending over Harry, and giving the young man exactly what he wanted…desired in a time of selfish need. Open-mouthed. Hungry. Always having the taste of salt and sweat on the roof of his mouth in Harry’s presence.

Frankly, the coffee table had to go because of the blowjobs. Steve was pretty sure Harry would take it back, refunding a portion of their cash. If he were going to be the best husband to Gio in their shared future, he couldn’t have the piece of furniture around, reminding him of Harry’s uncut and seven-inch d**k inside the back of his throat, rubbing against his esophagus. Bliss of a pre-eighteen-year-old boy. s****l madness. Naughty memories of a time when Gio hadn’t been present in his life.

Dust. Dusting. More dusting. Still dusting. Another end table next to the sofa. A floor-to-ceiling bookshelf filled with crumpled and battered Robert Riley paperbacks that had been read a few times. Steve’s heart raced, and his head buzzed as he dusted, swinging the feathers to and fro like a fairy in a Disney movie. Lots of dusting. And lots of dust.

Fuck. He couldn’t get marriage out of his head, which bothered the piss out of him. Sonofabitch. Shaky. Upset, feeling dizzy, he began losing oxygen. Something happened within his body that caused him to feel drunk, light-headed. His heart thumped, thumped, thumped chaotically within his chest. His temperature rose a half degree, and perspiration covered his forehead.

“f**k,” escaped his throat as…as…

It was another panic attack. Typical in his life. An almost everyday occurrence these days. Damn, why didn’t he take his anxiety medicine? Dr. Marie Reinold would be pissed if she knew he wasn’t listening to her, following her instructions regarding his attacks.

Steve mumbled to himself, “Should have, could have, would have, I guess.” Then he stepped forward, felt as if he were suffocating, dying, something, and tripped over his own feet. Crashing. That’s the feeling that swept over him. Crashing and having no control of himself. None.

Honestly, he didn’t feel any pain as his left temple cracked against the corner of the coffee table. The blackout he suffered happened at light speed. An obnoxious grunt escaped his lips, but he didn’t hear the sound, couldn’t actually. Rather, his vision turned black, empty, and his mind started to float…float…float…