wingborne | who do you think you are;

Late-night Italian food lying on the coffee table, infomercial for blenders humming in the background, flickering neon advertisements from the store across the street, they crammed together silently in a yellow-walled apartment with their legs nearly touching. He jabbed his chopstick through a thick slobbery noodle, and slurped loudly like he was making a point.

He wasn’t making any damn point.

John sat beside him, folding himself into the patchwork couch with guilt written all over his sad eyes and nervous fingertips. Every loud slurp bouncing off the walls, he chewed deeper to the corner of his lip until specks of blood splattered across his teeth. That was the damn point.

They were quiet because Dave was sulking, even when he was damn well done sulking an hour ago. His own hubris, coiled hot against his throat, stopped forgiveness. John, faithful boyfriend and dog, already apologized profusely until his voice grew hoarse. Not like he had anything to apologize.

The great crime, with the punishing sentence of the silent treatment for five hours, was John had been five minutes late coming home and he hadn’t called ahead. If he had called ahead, the crime would have been the tardiness. If he had been on time, the crime would have been he dressed too sloppily. John’s entire existence was a constant courtroom trial, and every judgment day proclaimed he was guilty for being John.

Dave hated himself for guest starring as judge every episode, but he couldn’t stop himself. It hadn’t started out with everyday being Judge Strider. He had been a good friend. He had been a great friend, and in the beginning, every day was a miraculous eruption of good hearty fun. Farting together in symphony, tossing water balloons out the apartment window, jumping on the shopping carts as they barreled down grocery stores, that was fun. Then they began dating. At first, they had great fun. Soft hesitant kisses in the back rows of movie theaters, pinkies touching in cafes, a slow motion romance film for the emotionally impaired.

But then he, well adjusted bastard, had to ruin everything. He started pushing John in the buttons he knew would hurt. He picked on John’s existence, mocking his teeth, his poor taste in clothes, his piss poor taste in movies, his goofy attempts at going outside. Brutal and conniving, he laid down the hurting insults even unheard by his worst enemies.

He knew some of those made it past the great wall of optimism, and sometimes he could see John look at him with the saddest eyes behind those thick glasses when he thought Dave wasn’t paying attention. For the most part, John was a good sport, and he apologized. That was the prissiest part about it. John always apologized in the end, and hugged him and kissed him and loved him. Gee golly willikers, sorry, Dave, for being myself and for being good and for being healthier than you.

Every time, he waited for John to get mad. John called him names, scowling and angry, but he didn’t get sincerely mad. He always came back to Dave, and maybe that was the whole thing.

It was messed up. John didn’t deserve any of the crap, but he took it. Dave knew he could end it. John would blame himself for all the troubles of their relationship, and maybe they wouldn’t be friends anymore, but that would be better for John. But every time, instead, he reached out to nudge John’s shoulder. He never apologized and he never forgave, but every time, John’s face brightened unmistakably and he hugged Dave with the quiet apologies for crimes he never committed.

One day, maybe John would leave. Maybe John would have enough of the constant interrogations. Maybe, on that day, Dave would try to feel relief and tell himself he knew it all along and nobody really understood him.

But that night, he gripped John’s head tightly and buried his nose into the artificial strawberry scented hair. He watched the television screen flicker in the dark room, and wished the night would never end.