Free Look Away Silence by Edward C. Patterson

the week between
Christmas and New Years working the post Holiday rush and shopping
for my own bargains. Then I would find a date or, in recent years,
gather lackluster with the New Jersey Gay Sparrows at The
Cavern . It was generally on New Year’s Eve that my life came
apart, realizing that my date was a shallow dipstick just, waiting
to plummet the oilcans of others. New Years day was a ritual of
hangover and depression. I shunned the world, except for Viv, who
would seek me out for her own sob story only to comfort me with
mine. I had concluded that if I maintained this pattern that my
last New Year would be less than a decade away. Fortunately, I met
Matt and the cycle was broken — split right down the middle like an
uncanny spare.
    I did my post-Christmas sales hitch at A&S. It
was required. Then, instead of seeking out Russell and making the
rounds at the other stores, I hurried home and waited for my
cowboy. He came every night and it was more than just passion. He
brought me little gifts — a holly wreath (from a post-Christmas
sale, no doubt) and a little angel figurine. I guess he was working
himself up to the toaster oven. No more ugly purple ties, thank
God. He also did something that most of my former beaus did not. He
talked. He chatted about cars and planes and sunsets over Houston,
and he was clean too. Always showered before bed — brushed his
teeth even, which surprised me. The closest anyone did that before
was this guy named Fred, who carried around a spritz of Binaca . Then after three days, I was invited to his
place.
    Matt Kieler lived in a garden apartment in Eatontown
called Wisteria Terrace, second floor, and neat as an ice cube. I
could imagine the summer blooms even in the dead of winter. He had
a porch and four rooms — large rooms. They were sparse compared
with my fru fru place. I wouldn’t call them sterile, but
unfortunately, I implied that when I first came across the
threshold.
    “I’ll have to lend you a picture or two,” I
said.
    He had nothing on the walls, which for a queen was
punishable by excommunication, but his couch was velveteen and
green. His kitchen was modern, with a small dining room —
uncluttered table, just a simple white tablecloth and an artificial
bucket of roses center stage.
    “Stark, I know,” he said. “I haven’t been in here
that long to make it a home yet.”
    He turned to me, his blue eyes pleading for
decorating tips.
    “Well,” I said flipping my hand across the roses.”
These need to go. It’s Christmas time and they’re out of
season.”
    “They never wilt.”
    “You may not think so,” I said. “But you should
surround yourself with the seasons. The place should reflect your
soul.”
    He frowned.
    “Then I’m a sorry lot, then.”
    “No,” I said. I never meant it as such. “I have seen
your soul, Mr. Kieler, and it has decorated me already. This place
just needs a little . . . a lot more of . . . you.”
    He wrapped himself around my waist.
    “Or you, Pumpkin.”
    “Pumpkin? Wrong season again.” I kissed him.
    I then got the privilege of seeing and trying out
the bedroom, which was even starker and more cluttered — sharing
residency with a cache of computer equipment and manuals. I felt
their cold breath on my back as if they were alive and spying on
us. I remember recovering in bed, both of us awake in the
aftermath.
    “So am I the first man you’ve had in this bed?” I
asked, fresh smart-ass that I am.
    “In fact, yes.”
    I raised myself on my elbows.
    “I don’t believe you.”
    “Believe me. It’s a new bed. Now if this were
Houston and the Melrose . . . “
    “I don’t want to know.”
    I really didn’t want to know, because the ghost of
Luis and his feather boas and falsies would soon loom over us, and
it was bad enough that he was always only an arms-length away . . .
or so I supposed. It’s funny how the shades of old love never fade.
They leave a trace in their wake. I wondered if ghosts lingered