North Moore Street

Are you okay with this, I asked, which was funny, since he'd been the first to make a move.

"Mmm, ohhhhh."

"I'll take that as a 'yes.' I just want to make sure that this isn't going to --"

"Shut up," he said, pulling closer to me. I suddenly felt ... something that told me this was definitely okay.

We rolled around a lot and pants were unzipped, but no clothes came off. Was this a tip-off that it was going to be a one-time fling? I helped him come but then, as is my usual habit, I stopped before finishing myself. He didn't pursue it and I was too shy to ask.

I went home that night, still drunk but smiling. After the dark, quiet coolness of the loft, the sounds of people laughing and shouting started to dissolve my buzz. The neons signs hurt my eyes and I looked down at the street. Once in a while, I'd stop and glance behind me. You had to stay on guard in the city, and though I never showed any fear I always had an eye out for trouble. Although in the soupy sludge of the heavy humdity, thugs would have been too sluggish to strike.

Nicholas asked me to come over the next night, and we would go on to spend every day of his two-week visit together. I'd go home, feed the cat, get my mail and come back. We wandered around the neighborhood, he bought me flowers (okay, carnations, but the thought was nice), I bought him gelato. Pistachio, at his request. Right then I should have guessed he was a little strange. I even grew to like the dogs.

The night that John-John and Carolyn died, North Moore was an extraordinary place to be. On the street below, people were leaving cards and flowers, and every time we came back there were more. It was too sad to bend down to read anything and we didn't have to; there were enough sentiments scrawled on poster paper large enough to read. Candles were lit. The street was quiet. I felt like I was in church every time I crossed the threshhold.

As touching as this display was, it didn't dissuade us from shutting the door and going back to bed.

"Boooo, I'm the ghosts of John and Carolyn" I moaned, hiding under the covers.

"Stop it, you're freaking me out."

"I can feeeeel them swirling around us! This was their home, where else would they go?"

"You're sick!"

"Eh. I'm just purging myself of all the mojo down there."

"I'll purge you," he said, climbing on top of me.

"You shape those eyebrows," I said.

"I do not."

"You do. It's all right. You don't look like a drag queen but you got a little stylin' going on."

"You're an asshole," he laughed, and pulled me on top of him. When we kissed, he grabbed at me like a drowning man. It was like he wanted some of whatever I had, my experience, my talent, my way of moving in the world. "You do shape them," I said.

Later on he nodded off, but I was too anxious to sleep. I edged out of bed and took the long journey to the living room at the front of the loft. He had three days left. "What are you doing" he asked, coming up behind me. His white underpants glowed in the moonlight. "Can't sleep?"

"Can't and don't want to."

"Come back to bed and let me hold you."

"Nah, I need to be up."

He sat at the Steinway and started to play quietly. He sang that song from "A New Brain," that I only partially knew:

"The sun is on my neck, the wind is in my face
The water's incredibly blue
And I'd rather be sailing
Yes, I'd wanna go sail
And then come home to you

He laid his head on my shoulder and we sat there not saying anything.