He stood next to his girlfriend and I couldn’t help looking at him. Discreetly like. But Matchstick Man had clocked me and looked at me like I’d done something incredibly bad. I wanted to shout, “Fuck you, Matchstick Man, you had your chance!” Instead, I went bright red and looked at my phone where an app nudged a virtual taxi nearer towards me. Sometimes thinking about it is better than doing it.
Charlie didn’t know it, but he turned heads at the beach today. I watched from a bench as he stripped down to his swim shorts and waded into the sea. For a guy who spends more time relaxing on his bed rather than putting in hours at the gym, he looked remarkably toned. His ancestral line is Mediterranean, and despite a Paris upbringing, he had the physique of his Marseilles cousins.
I was a solitary figure and had become the shadow in his life. Inseparable, comfortable, but never lovers in the truest sense. But I was pleased that he was attracting attention from females, and, dare I say it, a few jealous husbands and boyfriends. And yet, strangely, I also felt envious.
He shaded his eyes, scanned the promenade and waved. A few looked to see who had caught his attention and were disappointed that it was only me. I wanted to shout that Charlie was mine, only mine, and that I was proud of him, and that we shared a bed. But all that glitters is not gold.
The North Sea in April is bloody cold, but Charlie went full steam into the surf and threw himself into the water. His head broke the surface, and I could see that his teeth were chattering. I’d tried to tell him that the water would come as a shock, but he knew better, and would never admit to being wrong. He started swimming, long determined strokes, and completed two sweeps of the beach.
I contemplated that hypothermia might set in or that he might be out of his depth, but, after thirty minutes he swam back to shore, and pushing hard through the water, he reached dry land again. By now, I’d smoked several cigarettes and thrown the stone-cold remains of a takeaway coffee into a nearby rubbish bin.
Charlie dried himself on his towel and sat warming himself in the afternoon sun. Only now did he realise that people were looking, and it prompted him to put his tee-shirt on. He rested his arms on his knees and watched the world around him.
He was perhaps thinking about childhood holidays spent on the beach. He once told me that his family had rented a house every summer at Le Touquet-sur-Mer, and that he’d spent hours playing on the sands with his brother. I thought about Thomas, the older brother, and remembered that the tall boy had asked me to visit him in Paris, but not to bring Charlie along. My heart went out to Charlie, alone on the beach, who suspected that his older brother had an agenda, and was frightened that I might buy into it.
I saw you several times and you ignored me. Why do I remember that? It was because I thought you were handsome. But ignorance turned into friendship, and I hadn’t realised how generous you were. And that generosity came from Robin Hood. Steal from the wealthy, and give it to others. I met you tonight, fresh faced and smart, a tap on the shoulder, a cheeky wink, and you gave me a bottle of beer. I doubted that you had ever ignored me.
A girl who was supposed to be Ian Van Dahl mimed Castles in the Sky on stage. We wandered along the dark balcony and thought that it was incredibly good. Balloons rained down and the crowd shrieked. She reached the chorus line – Oh tell me why. Are the castles way up high. Please tell me why. Do we build castles in the sky? – and it all went wrong. I tripped over a hidden step and fell twenty feet below. I felt nothing because I was happy. I lay there and heard a guy say, “That was a fucking big balloon!”
Simon felt good because the girl in front was interested in him. She had been talking to his colleagues, and they had smiled like conspirators do, and offered her words of encouragement. He knew that they were talking about him, and for the first time in ages, he remembered what it was like to be wanted again. The fact that she was a girl didn’t matter. What did matter was that she had seen something in his declining years that took him back to a time when he was a young man, and everything was his for the taking.
He guessed that she was in her twenties, slightly drunk, and that explained why she wanted to speak with him, someone serious, and older. At least I haven’t lost it, he told himself.
But he didn’t want a girl, never had, and the girl didn’t want him.
She told him that she wanted to introduce him to her mother because he would be perfect for her. How old was he? Was he single? He found out that her mother was fifty four. Simon knew that the girl was vetting him. Where did he live? Who did he know? And Simon politely answered each question hoping that she would go away.
I’m waiting for my little brother, she said, and when he appeared, she was obviously proud of him. Isn’t he gorgeous? Wouldn’t you like him as a stepson?
Simon agreed but inwardly sighed, because if he had been forty years younger, he would have been more interested in that little brother
You are the son of Venus, Goddess of Love, because you are Italian with thick black hair and dark seductive eyes.
You gave me a red rose and spoke of your sacred mother who ran towards her lover to warn him about the plot to murder him. She cut her ankle on a thorn bush, and her blood turned into blooming red roses wherever it touched.
“I will stand by your side,” you said. “I am showing you my depth of commitment and my intention is to build a lasting and meaningful relationship that is based on my love and devotion.”
I took the red rose and thought about passion and love, romance and deep feelings, desire, beauty, harmony, joy, luck, and pride.
That enchanting fragrance mingles with the water, salt, and the delicious oils of the body.
That moment was meant to be. A crackle of excitement that bubbled up and brought with it the unwatered lust of these desert years
A figure walked towards me. A mysterious figure striding through the coldness of a swirling mist. You were upright, tall and lithe, with a confidence that might have made someone wary. I didn’t recognise you because of the glasses and the fact you had bleached your hair. And I never realised how tall you were, Alfie.
You smiled and said ‘Hi,’ like you always did. You said the same when I last saw you outside a coffee shop in that sweltering heat of summer. Then, you wore a tee shirt and shorts and wore no glasses. But it was the legs I remembered most. Those fucking legs!
Tonight, you made excuses for wearing glasses because it seemed to bother you. I would like to have told you that they made you look handsome but was afraid it might seem like I was flirting.
My nose started running and I thought ‘shit,’ that looked bad. But you didn’t seem to notice. You told me about your new job as a waiter and that you wore a smart waistcoat.
I think you wanted to talk longer, but tonight my conversation seemed awkward. My words were too big to come out of my mouth. As such, I made excuses to leave, and I detected that look of disappointment. But you perhaps weren’t as disappointed as I was with myself. I looked back. You were walking away, going somewhere secret, and I was jealous
The sweetness is in the boy. It’s there for all to see. JJ asks him how old he is, and he replies that he is eighteen. Such a young boy to be working in an uptight environment. But when he talks, Oliver looks JJ straight in the eye, but there is wariness.
“Who are you waiting for?” “Nobody.” He looks to the floor. “Why are you still here?” “I don’t know.” And Oliver clutches the skateboard to his chest. “I guess I’ll get going,” and Oliver walks into the dark. A small, lonely figure.
And then Caitland rushes out and asks where Oliver is and sees him standing alone at the edge of the road. She rushes towards him and puts her arms around him. He drops the skateboard, and they embrace, but this is no romance, because it is a comforting hug that suggests that Oliver is not in a good place.
I’ve been watching in silence, and I tell JJ that we need to go. We get in the car and JJ says that Oliver reminds him of me. Cute and polite. I’m flattered.
As we drive away, I see them huddled together under a streetlight and it looks like Oliver is crying. I feel sad and when I get home, I write a message.
“Hey Oliver. There was something wrong with you and I talked to JJ, and he thought the same too. A bit of anger in those eyes. Hope all is ok with you. I’ve got a lifetime experience of fucking up, so I’m well qualified if you need a chat.”
I never send the message.
He was called Fabrício and said he came from Rocinha in Rio de Janeiro. It was the tattoo I noticed first, a bird on his neck, and I was suspicious of guys who had tattoos. We sat drinking beer at the counter. The barman cleaned up. The night was ending.
“What is your name?” “Where are you from?” “What do you do?” “What are you doing here?”
Fabrício wanted to talk, but I was tired, and came across as being rude.
Tito’s Vodka. Corn Whiskey. Pama Pomegranate Liqueur. RumChata. Rye Whiskey. Southern Comfort. Tennessee Whiskey. Jack Daniel’s. Bourbon.
I read the labels on the bottles behind the bar.
In the mirror I saw two guys. And I found a thousand things wrong with me, but only the bird on Fabrício’s neck.
“I’m gonna make a change, for once in my life. It’s gonna feel real good. Gonna make a difference. Gonna make it right.”
Fabrício gently sang the opening verse from Man in the Mirror. It was a sweet voice. I could not sing.
I looked in the reflection and noticed him looking at me. It reminded me of a scene in Rebel Without a Cause where Plato looks at Jim with a look of adoration. A coded declaration of love. Gay desire.
“I’m starting with the man in the mirror. I’m asking him to change his ways. And no message could have been any clearer. If they wanna make the world a better place, take a look at yourself, and then make a change.”
That was it. The first time for me. We had met in a hotel bar in Fort Lauderdale and ended up making love behind a stack of deck chairs on the beach, protected by the roar of the sea, and waiting for the cop with a torch and gun.
Perfectly Hard and Glamorous 