In the Closet (boy x boy)

13. The Irony of Jewel

Saturday, April 8th

It's rare for my Saturdays to be spent without Barbara Willow. Lately, it's even rarer that I don't think about Tavish McCloud. So it's only natural that on a Barb-less Saturday, I find myself wandering in a park alone, trying to pry Tavish out of my mind. I've always been prone to restless fixation; before, I've fixated on, well of course, the lives of ants, the evolution of snakes, domestic fish in general, the horrid physical reality of horses, the domestication of dogs, the functioning of beehives, how microwaves work and why they suck, cups (all of them), ballpoint pens with tiny pointy tips, different types of spoons, the physics of smooth-edged rocks and, at last, Tavish McCloud. I'm not particularly proud of myself but I can't help it. It's part of me now. As my heart is lodged in my chest, as blood flows in my veins, as muscles line my bones, Tavish jogs around my conscious and I can't believe he hasn't tired himself out yet. I recall his charming smile I want to kiss away, his lean figure, his gorgeous hair, the fire that his touch spreads upon my skin, his fucking nice hands. Then I snap out of it, walking on a path around a pond, and temper myself with a big breath of fresh air.

A soft light shines on the water. Spring's breeze caresses trees to their branches to their leaves. I allow myself to sway. It's the first time in a while I'm not working on the weekend and left to entertain myself on my own. Barb's parents are hosting a barbecue, they're all busy with the preparations. I even offered to help but I was shooed away because this is an "opportunity for familial bonding." Whatever the Willow are on, I very much appreciate them anyway. Anyway, I was bound to somehow make do of my Saturday. I found a nice paper by a renowned researcher about the survival of albino animals in their natural habitat on my laptop and initially decided to read it in my room. Then my mother begged me to visit the outdoors therefore I had to change my plans. So there I am, satchel hanging on my shoulder, ready to find a nicely shadowy spot and please my zoology-oriented mind.

I didn't plan on thinking about Tavish today. Then again, I don't ever plan on doing so and that doesn't keep it from happening. We haven't spoken, not since he touched me in a public bathroom which, in retrospective, was fully gross. It's been weeks since he was keen enough at the idea of discussing with me that he decided to ruin my life. Since then, the graffiti on my locker has been cleaned and changed every week. From Ugly Ant-Boy to Perv to Don't pretend to You didn't to Love it. The time it took me to piece it all together is embarrassing. Don't pretend you didn't love it. I shiver just rethinking it. It's so bold, so direct. Barb asked me about it a thousand times and in fear her yammering would damage my ears, I briefly told her we met. It seems she might hate Tavish more than I do by now. She says she's tired of hearing about him from me, that I'm not very creative with my subjects of discussion. I admit that I barely notice myself ranting until she verbally expresses her disinterest. Even, at one point, she said she prefered listening to me explain and list off all my issues with microwaves than hearing anything about Tavish and his nice hands. I hardly agree. I would pick Tavish over albino animals in a heartbeat although it's not something I would admit to anyone other than my fish.

Anyway. The park is nicely calm, sparsely occupied by a mother and her kids, and an old man, and some waddling ducks, and a girl with long shimmery red hair and how nice is that hair? And is that dog about to run into me— I topple over onto the harsh ground, satchel in hand. A Rottweiler barks in my face, I cover away with a turn of my head. An infernal smell of canned patty mixed with something close to skunk liquid emanes from its agape mouth. I glimpse at those carnivorous teeth designed to rip flesh into shred and I might just see the light at the end of the tunnel. Then, I flinch as licks of warm wetness cover my forehead. I feel baptised for the second, third and fourth time around simultaneously. The dog moves on to my cheeks, my chin and inevitably, my mouth. I'm saved from this torture when someone tugs at the dog's collar and yanks it off. Dazed, I prop myself on my elbows. My face feels wet, sticky and stinky.