Chance's Be A Fine Thing

Monday comes like a shot to the forehead. Unavoidable. I sit on the edge of my sofa and wait for him to show up at my door; we chose mine because it's still going to be there tomorrow and his house won't be.

He arrives at my doorstep in a plaid, green, blue, orange, white shirt and a large cuboid wrapped in paper. It’s half his size and before I question what it could be all I can think is how awkward it would have been to get it here on a train. The sides are bigger than him in any direction, if rotated.

“Hi.”

A simple greeting, from sweet lips, a final greeting I can’t meet with anything except a slight wave to beckon him in. Questions can wait because I just want him where I can see him, keep him.

Michael places the paper wrapped thing against the side of my sofa before grabbing me by the wrists, the waist, the neck, into a kiss with all the light of a dying star, all the desperation of a man drowning and I drown alongside him too. It’s easy to give in, easy to taste him like a last meal, the only drink that could ever quench my first. I want to bite him, to taste his blood to prove he is alive, real, pressed against me. I want him to dig his nails in so hard it leaves scars; evidence, proof, he was there.

We fall into bed before I can question anything; it’s desperate, clawing, leaves marks on each of us that we can and can’t see. Any bliss obliterated by the cool light of desperation, the harsh knife of parting, the feeling that the world has ended and you’re still waiting the the minutes to notice.

I tell him I love him because there are no other thoughts in my mind, no space for worry or loss or anything but telling him how much I love him; I whisper it against his cheek, his jaw, his ear, his neck, I need it impressed on every part of his body so he knows how deep it runs.

“Quit your job and come with me.”

Those cool eyes are even, he’s somehow more suited to loss than I am, but I hear a quiver in his voice, the slight silver that he’s being honest, that he wants me to drop everything and run and of course I want that but it’s ridiculous, it’s insane, what would I even do in another country that I can barely do here.

“Become a famous artist and fly me out.”

It’s a deflection as much as it is a promise, I can’t give him an honest answer because it would kill us both. I’d suffocate him, hold him back, be a distraction from the person he needs to be. All I can do is hope the man he’ll become and the one I’ll be are still able to feel the same towards each other when the day comes.

“I’ll hold you to that. I’ll do it.” He promises back.

“So what’s the…thing.” I nod out the door to the package he bought with him, it's huge, filling my vision even from here.

“It’s your birthday present. You can open it if you want.” His eyes won't meet mine, shame? Embarrassment?

“I want to.”

He walks me through the string and paper like it's a puzzle to be solved, fretting over every part I touch like I’ll dissolve it from the pH of my skin.

And he’s right to worry.

I can’t comprehend what I’m looking at, it’s so…other that my mind sees it as just shapes and colours for a full five minutes. Slowly the picture comes together in front of my eyes only to be blurred as soon as I recognize it; tears streaming down my cheeks, eyes burning, a bubble of air trapped in my chest, bowing my ribs outward.

It must be at least 3 feet wide and just as tall; painted in thick oil paints; colours vibrant but reserved, a face looking just towards the viewer or maybe over their shoulder; from mid chest up to the top of their head, light catching in the wefts of hair that float around like dandelion fluff, blown by an invisible breeze or maybe the turn of the head. That brown hair golden in the light, brown eye amber in illumination, soft pale skin translucent at the ears and fingertips. The background is a kaleidoscope of soft stony shades and chromatic aberration.

All the words, experiences, emotions I’ve received are barely enough for me to describe the portrait of me; painted from someone else's eyes, but still me nonetheless. Through all this Michael says nothing, I can see him in my peripheral vision,, holding the painting up for me to examine from every angle, scrutinise absolutely, a shield from my gaze.

“It’s beautiful.” I whisper, my lungs are incapable of anything but the faintest breath, blown away by the gift, “Am I really allowed it?”

I break the spell on us both, my naivety, stupidity, setting us free of formality and pomp and circumstance.

“I can’t exactly take it to Italy.” Michael says through laughter, infectious laughter that infects my lungs and bursts from my lips too.

“I’ll look like a narcissist with a portrait of myself!”

“Put it in the bedroom then.”

“That’s worse!”

He leans it against the sofa again and pulls me in close, I go easily, how could I reject a man who painted me so beautifully. No kisses, he just holds me close, buries his face in my neck, it's pretty, I can see it from the outside, a pretty portrait of us both embracing each other, entwined, like sweetpeas.

“So what do you think I should call this piece?”

We had discussed naming art a few times but it was nonsensical; there were a million answers for the same question, a name in of itself could be the art piece and yet as I leant over his shoulder and looked at it there was only one answer.

“The Museum.”

He parted from me just long enough to write the title on the backing of the canvas along with his signature before turning to me again, crouched by his work, engulfed by its size, its grandeur.

“You’re not allowed to sell it. Even when I’m famous and its worth millions.”

I promise him that and fetch the gift I have for him, “It’s not much but it’s yours.” It is wrapped only in its own purple skin, the pen still slipped into the loop on the spine, a little purple book with vague platitudes in the front.

He takes it from me, with both hands, and looks up at me from where he kneels, “Don’t you need it?”

I shake my head, “I filled it. So I don’t need it anymore.”

Michael goes to open the book but I reach out to stop him, “Save it. For when I’m not…there.”

He nods, understands, it has purpose beyond the words within it; not just a notebook but a hot water bottle and ice pack all in one.

Our last few hours are spent talking as much as we can, curled up on the sofa both dressed in plain clothes that hide the depths of our words. He cannot stay because he has a flight to catch and I can’t go with him because if I do I’ll never leave. While he is in the air I’ll be alone at a desk but I get to come home to a portrait on my wall with each stroke emphasised by the deliberate hands of the man who loved me and maybe that’s enough to make it all okay.