Prelude

Frank stormed into his room, disturbing the quiet spring evening. Tired and frustrated, tears imminent, he walked to his bed, and the sight of it caused all the heat of his spite to give way to a chill self-pity. How can that man treat me like this, he thought. He threw himself onto his bed, head first into a pillow. He shouted curses into the pillow, which quickly became warm by his face.

"Talking so bluntly, like some...expert," he said, and turned himself over like a fish with the pillow still in his face. He wanted to go to the bathroom mirror and take another look at his hair, but he did not want to prove Benjamin's point. It wasn't the disapproval that Frank dislike, but the serious and unrequited compassion. Frank's pride made him defiant at every turn. He knew his boyfriend was right, but it was unfair. Simply unfair. He spoke little the rest of the night, and apparently Benjamin thought it best not to say much back, not yet.

Later that night Frank lay awake while Benjamin slept soundly and wisely. The radio caught Frank's attention when a reporter reminded listeners to turn their clocks back tomorrow. I would love to turn the clock back, thought Frank, and wondered if he was not losing more than just the color of his hair follicles. His anxieties mounted and then, at long last, gave way to sleep.

The next day, Frank woke up to a sound that was strange to him. It was coming from his left, a ringtone he'd never heard before. He reached over to where his clock was supposed to be, but he felt nothing. Confused, he opened his eyes. Panic immediately took hold of him. He wondered if he was dead, but his racing heart convinced him otherwise. "A coma," he said out loud. the room was empty. It wasn't a hospital room. someone was sleeping next to him. The phone was still sounding on the floor next to him. He looked at the phone. it was strange. His mind was spinning. He had to make the phone stop; it sounded like terror now. He ripped off his blankets and retrieved the phone. He'd never seen this phone before, but for some reason, it felt so familiar in his hands. A dialpad appeared on its face. It was a sleek device, thin with a big screen. His two thumbs seemed to twitch towards certain numbers. Frank found the volume button and squeezed it hard, half way hoping that the phone and the rest of this nightmare would disintegrate into dust. He closed his eyes, and hid himself under his pillow. Everything around him became like television static, and he fainted.

"Wake up. Wake up." a voice became clear in Frank's ears, and he realized that he was being poked repeatedly.

"Stop that!" shouted Frank, and fought off the assailing digit.

"You overslept," said a low, gentle voice from beside him. Frank opened his eyes and looked at the source of this voice. A boy, leaning in too close with his face, though a handsome face, if a little too old. Then Frank snapped back into alarm, and with a jolt he started backwards.

"Where, what am I...," Frank could not think of what to ask first. For some reason, the man at his bedside looked almost hurt. At last Frank said, "what's going on? Where am I?"

The man's expression became serious but gentle, "Did you hit your head?"

Frank paused as his head became clear and then considered this. "I think maybe," he said.

"There's some egg salad if you want it," said the man. The way he said it, like someone's parent, made Frank feel nauseated. I've got to play along, thought Frank.

"Ok, let me just go to the bathroom," said Frank.

The man looked concerned, but said "ok," and walked out. Frank waited for a few seconds and then ran to the bathroom. There wasn't much in his stomach, but he felt better after heaving, and then he went to the sink. He looked in the mirror and his heart dropped. there was hair on his face that had never existed before. Not like this, so full and so purposeful. I'm older, he thought. I've gone through time. Oh my god, it WAS a coma! But, this house, and where--"where's mom and dad?" Frank asked the bearded man in the mirror with a sense of dread. He stared at himself a long while until the man called for him.

"Coming!" Said Frank. He began to strategize.

The man was in the kitchen sitting stoically with a cat in his lap. Frank stepped into the kitchen and hesitated.

"Are you still upset about your gray hair?" Said the man. There was a light in the man's eyes that seemed to warm Frank's heart. He's either holding me prisoner here, or we are husbands, thought Frank and looked around for signs of entrapment.

"We can talk about it some more," the man said, I was too harsh."

Frank breathed deeply in and out and walked to the refrigerater, and said, "Okay, let's talk about it, but first, can I see your ID?"

"Yes, I had gray spots on my beard three years ago, if that's what you want to know," said the man, petting the cat.

"No," said Frank, "well, just let me see it. I want to see how much more handsome you've gotten since three years ago". Frank grinned.

"I'll play along," said the man and fetched his ID while Frank scrambled to find the cupboard with the bowls in it. When the man returned, Frank was seated with a bowl full of egg salad.

"That is a lot of egg salad," said the man. Frank felt a deep humor buried in the man's stoic and blunt manner of speech. The man gave him his ID. "Benjamin Park," said Frank out loud. He suddenly felt very strange, like the answer to everything was on the tip of his tongue. The feeling grew and grew until--was he disintegrating from the inside out? At last he shouted as if to drown out the universe.

"Yes! So, let’s talk about IT!" The dizziness subsided. He was still himself. He put his head in his arms on the table.

Benjamin seemed surprised, and the cat decided to leave them.

"I don't know what IT is," said Frank, his eyes welling, "but let's talk about IT!" He hoped the conversation would keep his mind from spiraling out of existence. This was no dream.

"Dude," said Benjamin, "I did not know it was so important to you. I don't care if you've got one gray hair or a whole gray head. Just don't go bald."

Benjamin's words seemed now like the only things keeping him on the ground. He felt laughter somewhere in his heart, and he smiled, but not without more tears.

"Benjamin, I don't know what's going on," said Frank, but I'm scared.

"I understand. But you don't have to go through it alone. Why don't we both get some hair dye. It doesn't have to be hair color, either."

Frank smiled again and suddenly looked directly at Benjamin, stopping him in place with such a look that he could only gaze back in absolute wonder.

"Benjamin, have you ever felt like you wasted the best years of your life, and you've got nothing to show for it?"

"Yes," he said as if he were being held struggling in Frank's gaze, "sometimes, I think we all feel that way."

Suddenly Benjamin rose up from the table, took Frank by the hand, and sat him at an old upright piano.

"Play that song you wrote for me," he said, speaking differently than before, almost like a child."

Frank stared at the keys. But I don't know any songs, he thought. Still, he placed his hands on the keys, and struck a note. His fingers seemed to know where they were supposed to go. He began to feel the song appear in his mind, and he played it. It was a beautiful song, powerful, but soft. Frank felt the music reach into his mind and start pulling out memories, but whose memories? drawn to continue the piece, Frank looked at Benjamin, and he saw a man so in love, as if his life and happiness were being affirmed, renewed by a song, whose song? Someone so important and so special, how could the world go on without them? Frank began to feel himself slipping away again. I am afraid, he thought to himself, oh God, I am afraid, but--a smile began to appear--but this isn't my world, not anymore. Frank finished, and he laughed, and his eyes shined. Benjamin kissed him, and then they both remembered that it was time to set the clocks forward one hour.