Sitting in the Dark

The house behind Michael still had the porch swing hanging in the corner; it was a netted material that had always scratched his skin when they were on it. The blanket Tailor kept there for him when he inevitably complained; sometimes about the itch, more often about the cold, was nowhere to be found. Tailor had tried to suggest they pick a new swing. One that was softer, more sheltered from the weather, and he had always refused. He liked having an excuse to lean in closer, to feel as though the world beyond that porch, beyond that swing even, no longer existed. But here he sat, shivering with the cold and longing for a moment more in the swing with the sun shining past the scalloped trim of the roof. He had no right to want that, not after what he had done.

Maybe that was why he was here. He knew nothing could ever fix the choices he’d made. Tailor had chosen him, over and over again, chosen to change everything for him, even the little table that sat by the swing. It was round now, but the first time he’d seen the pale blue house there had been a set of old camping chairs on the porch. Tailor picked a square table to sit between them, but on the first day Michael had been there, he had hit his leg on it. The incident left him bleeding, so every day after, the round table replaced it. It had always mattered how he felt, how comfortable he was, but he hadn’t been able to see it until it was too late.

“What are you doing here?” Tailor’s voice was as cold as the rain.

Michael stood up, frantic to find where the voice had come from. Tailor stood behind him, one hand on the gate latch and the other hung loosely at his side as if he had no more will to fight. Tailor had given up on fighting for him - for them - the moment Michael had chosen someone else. The same someone Michael had promised over and over would never come between them. He told Tailor over and over again that he could never stray from his home, and yet that is exactly what he had done.

The distance between them froze him in place. Tailor stood so close and yet so far away. He remembered another night not too long ago when he had sat in this very spot.

Michael was drunk, he knew he would be as soon as he downed the last shot of the night. His vision had already started to blur, sound had already become muffled and he didn’t know how just one more could hurt anything, but that had always been Michael’s problem: he just didn’t know when to stop.

The barback had already called him a cab that now sat in the parking lot of the bar. The place smelled like beer and smoke, both of which he was confident he now smelled like. If Tailor found out he’d come here tonight he’d be in trouble. It wasn’t so much that Tailor didn’t like him drinking, it was more like Michael tended to go too far. He would drink too much, and get caught up; sometimes he would end up talking to the barback all night, other times it was Trevor, another regular in the bar who Michael had become close with. Trevor in particular was what bothered Tailor. It was the way Trevor tended to linger behind to talk to Michael until the barback kicked them out, or the way he tended to sit a little too close, closer than Tailor felt Trevor had any right to since Michael already had a boyfriend.

The barback walked him to the cab through the rain. Had he not had that last shot, the rain might have sobered him up a bit, instead he couldn’t quite seem to speak up. The cab driver had to have the address repeated three times before Michael was finally able to make it out clearly enough to understand.

He didn’t actually remember the ride, he didn’t notice anything other than the warm, sticky substance he had stuck his hand in while trying to keep himself upright. He didn’t remember paying the driver or how he even managed to get out of the car and back in the rain. He certainly did not take notice of where exactly the cab had left him, not until he heard Tailor’s voice behind him.

“What are you doing here? What happened? Why are you not in the house?” His voice woke him up a little bit, the tiniest bell in the back of his head reminding him that he was not supposed to be this drunk. Why was he in the rain? He had a key to the house after all, but he sat on the sidewalk just outside of the fence anyway. Tailor hadn’t waited for an answer. He gripped Michael by the shoulders and hauled him into the house.

“What are you doing here.”

The words were not a question this time, nor were they frantic. They were chillingly calm and disconnected. As limp as the arm that hung at Tailor’s side. The words were a statement, one Tailor did not really want a response to, not that Michael had one to offer anyway. They were a demand. A demand to leave. A demand to apologize, to explain himself. Not just for his presence in the rain, but for his choice to leave the home he now stood in front of.

“I..” He started to answer, but Tailor’s eyes were as cold as the words spoken between them. “I don't know.”

Michael wanted Tailor to close the gap between them. To hug him and tell him it would be okay just like he had all those months ago. But things were different now. He no longer deserved that warmth and it was no longer being offered to him anyway.

Tailor walked by him, careful not to brush Michael’s shoulder during the brief moment they were again next to each other, and continued into the house. The door clicked as it shut softly behind Tailor, the sound echoing in Michael’s ears as he sat back down on the pavement. The night was silent otherwise; no howls of dogs came from down the street, no laughter of the children next door, not even the crickets in the lawn chirped. Only the sound of the click accompanied him in the dark.

The porch light was fixed between the swing and the door. The placement had never bothered him before, but now he couldn’t help but stare at the distance between the door and the light fixture; had there always been so much space between them? It used to be his job when they came into the house to turn the light on. Now it remained off. He didn’t know if it was because he wasn’t there to turn it on or if Tailor had purposely left it off; maybe in an attempt to break the habits they had made together or perhaps to forget him completely. He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure he wanted the answer; it left him on the sidewalk in the dark just the same.

~

Tailor closed the door behind him softly and turned the lock into place. The rain on his hands made the lock slippery, so instead of a near-silent sliding of the metal, the resounding click lingered around him. The house was quiet otherwise, the record player Michael used to keep on at all hours of the day, even when they were out, was absent. The shadows reminded Tailor of when he came home to the house open and full of life.

Tailor knew Michael was home even before he made it out of the car. The porch light was on and the windows were open, the breeze and warmth brightening up the living room which tended toward being stuffy. Tailor could see the cover of the record player standing up and the turn table spinning and dancing with the old R&B album.

Tailor unlocked the door, excited to see Michael in the apron he insisted he needed last winter. It was absolutely ridiculous with the bright red color, reindeer with fluffy cotton noses, and Christmas lights glued to the edges. Tailor only bought it for him after Michael promised he’d wear it all year round and unfortunately for Tailor, he had kept his promise. Today’s menu included chicken and by the smell of the living room, cookies for dessert. Probably orange zest cookies to match the summer air flowing through the house and the candles lit on the coffee table and bookshelves. The home was light and playful, the smallest of impurities bringing a smile to Tailor's face.

“Honey, I’m home!” Tailor sang as he entered the house. Michael was in the kitchen, wearing that ridiculous apron and dancing to the music coming from the record player, the cookies Tailor had predicted would be there were cooling on the counter, with more piled in containers. Once Michael was in something, he didn't know when to stop, or maybe he just enjoyed it so much he didn’t want to.

Michael sat outside, and yet Tailor could not imagine what his home would look like with him in it again. Would they still light the candles that sat on the coffee table? Michael would pick flower-scented ones because he knew Tailor loved the spring and the blossoming cherries; the evergreen-scented ones were because Tailor loved their hikes in the forest, the way Michael used to reach for his hand when Tailor inevitably fell behind him. Tailor would pick the citrus-scented candles because Michael said it reminded him of his childhood in Florida - the oranges and the sunshine were what he always missed most from his past. The last candle they burned still sat on the table, the wax gone and the wick blackened from use. The orange scent no longer filled the space, instead, the air was stale and heavy, weighing on his shoulders as Tailor slid his back down the door, settling on the carpeted floor.

He stared at the couch behind the table, they used to sit in the corner of the L-shaped cushions whispering and laughing until they were too tired to pull themselves up the stairs to bed, usually leaving their leftovers or wine on the table until morning. It was the same couch Tailor used to pace in front of, wringing his hands and staring out of the window. He had lost count of the number of times he waited for the cab to pull up, the driver honking until Tailor went to haul Michael to the house, or until Michael managed to get himself out on the pavement where he’d often stay until he could move in the house. The last time Tailor had sat there had been different though...

Tailor walked through the door, the gravel crunching beneath his feet as he passed over it and onto the smooth hardwood flooring of the bar. Michael said he would be home right after work, yet hours later, Tailor sat in the middle of the couch alone. The dinner he had made as a surprise anniversary celebration sitting cold in front of him.

Tailor had gone back and forth between pacing in front of the window and sitting on the couch and staring at his phone. If Michael hadn’t come home, he had gone to the bar he liked; the one that sent him back smelling like smoke and liquor, only after over-serving him to the point of stumbling blackouts, so here he was trying to find Michael before he stumbled home too drunk to remember where he had put his key… Again.

Michael usually sat in the corner spot at the bar. He liked being able to talk to the barkeep and listen to the chaos that persisted around him. He had told Tailor he liked having the option to interact, to be a part of the chaos while also being set apart from that chaos. Michael had told him that people would see him sitting in the corner and often come to speak with him, sometimes about the nonsense happening in the bar, sometimes about the sports game on the TV, and sometimes just about life. Tonight though, Tailor couldn’t find Michael anywhere. The barkeep told him that Michael was here somewhere, or at least, he better be since he hadn’t yet paid his tab.

Tailor wandered around, looking in any other corners that might draw conversation. One yielded to empty shadows, another to a couple who had long since lost any sense they were in public, so after one last desperate look at Michael’s spot at the bar, empty except for his next shot and a beer, Tailor tried the bathroom.

The hallway reeked of urine and a little bit like weed, the walls and floor were sticky with alcohol making each step echo around him. The door to the bathroom stuck open as if the hinges on the door wanted Tailor to peek inside, the light illuminating a strip of black paint across from the opening and revealing two shadows stretching from inside the space. The light hurt Tailor’s eyes, but a low whine came from behind the door begging him to keep his eyes open, to follow the moaning that accompanied the whine.

One last step to the door and a gentle push let out the brightness trapped in the bathroom. The fluorescent bulbs released a rush of white that did nothing to blind him against the source of the shadows: Michael had Trevor pressed against the white subway tile, Michael’s head buried in Trevor’s neck and working his way back up to his face. Tailor froze, staring at the two before him. Michael had promised Trevor was a friend. Promised he would never hurt Tailor like that. Michael had promised he knew when to quit this time. How could Tailor even be mad? He knew Michael well enough to know that Michael never knew when to stop.

Michael never knew when to stop.

Tailor had to remind himself of that. Why else would he be back in front of Tailor’s door? Why else would he be standing back in the rain? Michael may not have known when to stop, but Tailor did. He knew when it was time to let go, so he stood up from the ground, leaning against the door a minute more; he let it steady him as he took a deep breath and then another; then he stood upright, walking away from the door and the switch that would turn on the light; the light would mean hope, the light would mean forgiveness: Tailor had neither. Instead, he picked up the candle from the table and dropped it in the trash on his way up the stairs.