Free The Lava in My Bones by Barry Webster

I’m not even sure I even fucking know my friends.” He gazed at Sam for a long time.
    There was a raucous buzz, and someone stepped to the microphone. “Welcome, everyone, to the vernissage of Jean-Paul Gaudet.” The roar of applause. “I’m Lukas Warner, Jean-Paul’s agent. Jean-Paul’s been working on this collection for the past five years, and we’re all very proud of him.”
    Franz hurried over to the dessert table and began speed-talking to a purple-haired woman wearing tiny Statue of Liberty earrings. He thrust his jaw forward. Franz could no longer get excited about other men; might women interest him? “I’ve oftenwondered,” he said, “what women want. Believe it or not, I hardly know any.” He carefully put his hand on the side of her neck and she giggled.
    A green-haired man strutted to the mic. “Hello, everybody. I’m Jean-Paul.” Ecstatic cheering and whooping. Who says the Swiss are uptight? “So glad you could all come. I want to thank everyone for their support, especially”—he began reading from a long list—“Bettina Schumacher, Joseph Schmidt …”
    Sam’s sister drifted by, the train of her dirty dress trailing along the marble tiles.
    Sam watched Franz, who now turned toward him and grinned as he put his hand right down the back of the woman’s dress. The crowd parted before an enraged Sam, who marched over, enacting the high drama of life that he previously didn’t believe existed. This must be what other people feel every moment of their lives, he thought. Sam stepped between Franz and the woman, and this time addressed his lover. “So what exactly are you doing?”
    Franz turned away abruptly so he wouldn’t have to look in Sam’s eyes.
    Over the loudspeakers, “and the person I’d like to thank most is—”
    All at once Sam’s ballgown-clad mother appeared at the podium. She grabbed the microphone and shouted, “The person he certainly wouldn’t want to thank is my rotten little son. He’s standing over there. He abandoned his sister and me and has only ever thought about himself.”
    Eyes lowered, Franz said, “You’d do me a favour, Sam, if you’d just leave. This is all too much for me.”
    Sam just stared at his lover. Behind Franz, they were handing out dishes of syrup-covered ice cream. His mother continued, “And he couldn’t give two figs about the rest of us. He’d once been such a sensitive boy, but he changed and we don’t know why—”
    Suddenly Franz felt a flash of real anger and, thankful for it, reached back, snatched a dish of dessert off the table and, making a swift arc through the air, overturned it on top of Sam’s head.
    His mother stopped speaking. The room was silent but for the sound of the ice-cream slopping down onto the shoulders of Sam’s suit jacket. Everyone turned toward him as chocolate sauce filled his eyebrows, dribbled down his cheek. He tasted sweetness on his lips.
    Franz’s mouth was wide open. He was amazed at what he’d done. Sam’s mother and sister had disappeared. The woman beside him tittered and then someone else laughed and, like fire leaping from tree to tree until the entire forest was ablaze, laughter engulfed the room. Sam pushed past people whose bodies were like tree trunks that wouldn’t move, out the main door, and onto the lamp-lit streets. He was crying now.
    From behind him, a thundering boom and an ear-splitting shriek. The chandelier had dropped.
    Sam began running. What the hell was he doing in Zurich? Why had he ever come here? And where could he go now? What country, what place? Not Canada. This trip had taught him hunger and he’d never feel satisfied in Toronto again. The genie was out of the bottle and Sam couldn’t put him back in.
    He passed lumbering stone edifices he didn’t know the names of,