Free Bouquet by Kody Boye Page B

car, then begins to fix the problem he has fixed ten times
before.
     
    He returns home at six in
the evening dead tired and covered the
grease, so into the shower he goes. His clothes on the floor, his
mind in the ground, he barely hears the creak of the door opening,
much less feels the press of naked flesh against his.
    “ Hey,” Michael
says.
    “ Hey,” Jim
replies.
    His boyfriend slides his arms around his
waist and leans against his back. It is not sex Michael wants when
he displays this sort of emotion. No—what he wants is company, as
he feels loneliness during the day that Jim can’t help abide.
    It’s all right, he thinks.
    His heart wants to break out of his chest.
It’s a sick thing, a creature of guilt and sorrow, though he knows
it is truly his mind who forces him to feel the way he does. A way
to a man’s heart is not through his chest, but his mind, and were
someone to want a direct way to the mind, they might try finding
way through his nose, as it’s the closest, most direct route to the
inside of his head.
    “ How was work?” Michael
asks as the lukewarm water falls on both of them.
    “ Fine,” he says, then
thinks to add, “I fixed Mr. McKinny’s car again.”
    “ Again?” Michael
laughs.
    “ Again,” he
nods.
    Michael doesn’t ask anything further.
Instead, he tightens his hold around Jim’s midsection and presses
his body against him.
    In that moment, Jim can’t help but feel
sorrier than he already does.
     
    He lays awake. Like he often does during the
night, he ponders on life and just what is happening around him. He
doesn’t believe in God, as it’s too complicated with the church in
such an uproar, and it’s not worth it to try and wish for better
things, as ninety-five percent of his check goes into rent,
utilities and living, so most of the time, he lays there and tries
to imagine just what the future would be like.
    It may be great, he sometimes thinks, or
it may be dastardly horrible.
    He can’t imagine a future with anything good
in it, at least not in the foreseeable distance. He’s been trying
to shave away the block of indifference with the change jar he
keeps at the side of the door, as he often finds change in the
garage, though whether or not he’s stealing it is up to anyone’s
discretion. He doesn’t think it’ll hurt anyone—a few pennies here,
a dime or so there. Some would argue that a dollar could save a
child’s life in Africa, but with twenty-five cents, they’d still
need another seventy-five to get anywhere.
    Shaking his head, he begins to make his way
out of bed, to get the customary warm glass of milk that usually
helps him sleep, but stops when Michael stirs at his side.
    Will he wake up? he thought.
    It wouldn’t matter. Michael knows of his
sleeping problems. He won’t say a word.
    Rising, he makes his way toward the door, but
stops before he can do so.
    In the bed, Michael turns.
    He can feel his boyfriend’s eyes on him.
    “ Jim,” Michael
says.
    “ Yeah?” he
replies.
    “ Are you coming back to
bed?”
    “ I will soon,” he says,
then makes his way out the door.
     
    The milk does little to help him sleep. It
seems to upset his stomach, and when he goes through the entire
night in rolls of agony and frustration, it is Michael who tells
him he should call in sick for work.
    “ You should,” Michael says.
“You’ve been on the toilet all morning.”
    “ Shut up,” he
says.
    When Michael doesn’t say anything further, he
sighs, knowing that he has crossed a boundary that he knows he
shouldn’t have broken. He begins to say something, but Michael
leans forward and captures his lips before he can finish, an
apology not broken, but accepted.
    “ The boss is a hardass,” he
says.
    “ You can’t fix cars if your
stomach’s messed up.”
    “ I know.”
    “ So why not call in
sick?”
    When his stomach rolls, he decides to do just
that.
     
    It is the next day, when he is only barely
beginning to feel better and isn’t