Swift as a Coursing River | Ongoing

15. On the road

"Let's do your usual run," Vincent suggests. He's wearing skin-tight running clothes that are somehow more modest than what he usually wears, in conservative dark colours. Only his shoes are flashy, with rainbow colours and reflective stripes. Edwin looks at Vincent in short glances, never more than a few seconds. The clothes might be not unlike his own, but they accentuate Vincent's body and if he looked any longer, he might stare.

"Let's go then."

They're in a quiet neighbourhood where Edwin often goes running. Traffic is sparse in the hours after dinner and it's safer to run here under the street lights than the unlit trail in the woods that he prefers in the summer. But even on the sidewalk, the first autumn leaves from the trees lining the street crisp under their feet, so it's not all grey stone and asphalt.

The night air is heavy with silence. Vincent isn't talking or flirting and there's just the sound of their shoes hitting the pavement. It's weird. Vincent is always so obviously loud and flashy and different than Edwin, but now they seem almost alike. The feeling settles like a pebble in his shoes, throws him slightly off-step, never finding his rhythm.

It's too easy. Vincent is never an easy road, never safe ground. Edwin is always at risk of falling, when Vincent is near. He's thought about that all weekend because it would explain why he thought on Friday that he was attracted to Vincent. He just mistook his discomfort for attraction. Vincent makes him question himself, flirts until Edwin's heart races and he tenses up. But he can't be attracted to Vincent. Vincent is feminine and Edwin knows he's not attracted to femininity. He spent most of his life with a feminine woman and he wasn't attracted to her, not like that. He likes men. Their muscles and strength, their body hair, their jawlines, their chests and broad shoulders, their smell. He likes masculine men. Vincent isn't masculine like that.

But now that the thought has first taken root that he might be attracted to Vincent, it's already more firmly entrenched than Edwin would like. He can't stop thinking about it. What if he's wrong? He was wrong about who he was attracted to for fifty years. But he doesn't understand why he would be attracted to Vincent. It makes no sense.

Sure, he can understand why other people might find Vincent attractive, but that's no different from how he understands Ellen is attractive. He even doesn't dislike Vincent as much as when they met. But Vincent still unsettles him, disturbing his balance and the surety of his steps in unpredictable ways. Vincent flirts and jokes and provokes and pokes and Edwin doesn't like that. He's only learned to tolerate it. But what if he's fooling himself? Those thoughts on Friday were so unexpected, they must be his. Or maybe it's just that, a weird thought that doesn't mean anything, not a genuine desire.

Edwin glances at Vincent. He wouldn't want to touch Vincent now, would he? Sleep with him? No, he wouldn't. He can imagine the jokes Vincent would make and his heart curls up in his chest. He shouldn't go down that path. They should talk. That's why they're meeting up, isn't it?

"You're not wearing make-up now."

Vincent stumbles sideways into Edwin for a second. "What? No, I'm not. Have you now arrived at the point where you think I should wear make-up all the time instead of never?"

"No, no! I just ... noticed." Maybe he should have taken more time to think about a conversation starter, but he always flaps out things before he can think about them when he's around Vincent. Vincent's presence does that to him because he is never so impulsive with anyone else. It'd be so much easier if Vincent had started talking. "I thought ..." It's weird to see Vincent without make-up, quiet and in practical clothes. He looks plain. Approachable and friendly, not dazzling and overwhelming. He thought Vincent always wore make-up.

"Lots of sweat and make-up don't mix well, darling. And believe me when I say I sweat rivers."

"Oh. I hadn't thought about that." Of course Vincent doesn't wear make-up when he's sweating a lot. Exercising. Of the literal kind. Not in a bed because he doesn't want to think about that. Would Vincent put on make-up for that? "I thought ... You said gender was a performance and with the drag show, that was ... special. They don't do that all the time. But you're not performing like that. So I thought you wouldn't want to go out without make-up." He glances at Vincent, who catches his gaze and smiles. That's a better reaction than he expected. Whenever he asks a question or expresses an opinion, he is waiting for Vincent to tell him he put his foot in his mouth, again. Even when Vincent doesn't berate him, his words feel sharp.