Free Object of Desire by William J. Mann

become an artist. She’d had the passion. She’d had the talent. I remembered the easel that had stood in our backyard—
    â€œDanny.”
    My thoughts shattered, like glass through which a rock had been thrown. My eyes darted away from the mountains and onto Frank’s face.
    â€œYou seemed far, far away,” he said.
    â€œI’m sorry.” I rubbed my forehead. It was damp with sweat from the sun. “I was…thinking.”
    Frank nodded. Twenty years we’d been together. He knew how often I got lost in thought. And he knew where those thoughts usually led. No matter what I began thinking about, they often seemed to come back to one thing. He smiled gently.
    I was fortunate to have him. Many men would gladly have traded places with me, sitting there in studied contentment, sipping my coffee with my partner of many years, watching the sunlight dance against the mountains. Frank knew me better than anyone alive, and more than anyone, he had been there for me. For two decades, Frank had believed in me, encouraged me, supported me—even when I was at my nadir, convinced I was a failure. Frank had never bought that line, and consequently, he’d kept me from buying it completely, either. So what if I knew, deep down, that Frank’s heart had never been fully mine? What did that matter? He had never left me wanting. Many men indeed would have made the trade.
    But not, I suspected, those boys across the way, the ones giggling and wrestling each other in the grass. They wouldn’t want to switch places with me. After this, they’d probably go back to their guest resort and fuck in the pool. And then maybe they’d do a line of coke or a hit of E. Tonight they’d dance their asses off at Hunters, and tomorrow they’d head back to West Hollywood, sated and satisfied and happy. No, those boys wouldn’t make the trade. The question was, would I?
    I looked from them back over to Frank, and then to Randall, who had pulled off his shirt and stretched out on the grass. His face was turned up at the sun. Frank and Randall. The two people who knew me best in the entire world, who understood what my birthday made me think of every year. I looked down at Randall in the grass, the hair on his fleshy torso glistening with perspiration. I knew he shouldn’t get too much sun, that it could affect his meds. But not once in more than a decade of living with HIV had Randall developed any opportunistic infection. His T cells remained high, and his daily regimen of pills and potions had rendered the virus undetectable in his body.
    Still, I asked, “Do you have sunblock on?”
    â€œIt’s just for a few minutes,” Randall said to me, eyes closed.
    We stayed that way for a while more, three silent men occasionally distracted by the laughter drifting across the grass from the boys under the tree. I slurped up the last of my iced cappuccino, making a noise, the way a kid would do.
    â€œDon’t you think we ought to get moving?” I whispered, leaning in toward Frank. “I don’t want it to get too hot in Joshua Tree to go hiking.”
    Frank’s eyelids flickered. “Danny, you know, it might be too hot at that. Maybe we should plan to do it another day.”
    â€œIf we leave now, ” I argued, “it won’t be too hot. It’s not as hot up in the high desert as it is down here.”
    â€œYes, but you know, I’m kind of tired today.” Frank’s eyes were making an appeal to me. “I’m afraid I’d be a drag on you….”
    â€œFrank,” I said, the annoyance tightening my throat. “You said last night we would go hiking for my birthday. Just you and me. Maybe we’d even finally see a bighorn sheep. Those were your words.”
    â€œI’m sorry, baby. If you really want to go, we’ll go.”
    I turned away from him. “No. Forget it if you’re too tired.”
    We sat in