Heteroflexible

The projector windows are considerably small, so we have to stand super close to both look through it. At one point, Jimmy goes off-balance a bit, and by reflex, I throw an arm around his waist to catch him, and then my arm just sort of stays there, holding him in place, while we both stare through the window, watching the movie.

My hand stays there at his lower waist, just inches away from his butt, holding him.

Just a couple weeks ago, this act wouldn’t be such a big deal.

Just two buddies in front of a window.

Me, holding on to him to keep his balance.

It’s an act of friendship. An act of courtesy, of compassion.

But now—after that kiss in the hotel room, after that kiss in my bedroom, and after that cruel pact he made me make after all of it—everything feels so different. Just the act of having my hand around his waist, my arm against his back, holding him up … it all seems so intimate now.

Like I’m holding a boyfriend—a real boyfriend.

My lover. Jimmy.

“How much you think them Hollywood actors get paid?” he ask suddenly.

“Shh,” I hush him. “This is just glass. They can still hear you down there in the auditorium.”

Jimmy peers into the window, his nose pressed against it. “I think I see two teens makin’ out in the third row.”

“Jimmy …” I whisper warningly.

“Hey! I see you two horny hooligans!” he shouts. “Quit makin’ your mamas blush! God’s watchin’ you! God’s watchin’!!”

I yank Jimmy away from the window just in time to avoid the heads that turn. “Jimmy!” I hiss at him, furious.

We lock eyes.

He cracks a smile.

I do, too.

Then the pair of us break into laughter so loud, we have to slap hands to each other’s mouths to keep from making more of a scene than we just did. I laugh so hard that I fall to the floor, and without a way to balance himself, Jimmy falls right down with me, laughing so hard he doesn’t seem to care. His crutches are lost. We’re on the tiled floor that hasn’t been properly mopped in months. We just don’t give a flying filmy fuck.

“Bobby Parker.”

I lift my tear-ridden face up.

Mr. Lemon stands at the door to the office, staring down at the pile of clothing and limbs that is me and Jimmy.

Oh, fuck.

My laughter ceases at once. I clamber to my feet, smooth out my clothes, and give a stuttering, “S-Sir, Mr. Lemon,” in return, followed by a hard, throat-tightened swallow.

Jimmy is still recovering from his laughter when he sits up, also teary-eyed, and takes a look at my manager. He wipes his eyes and hugs his knees, his bad leg hovering off the ground. “Hey,” he mutters, then smiles dumbly.

Mr. Lemon recognizes him. “Jimmy Strong?”

“That’s me. And … wait.” He looks around. “The fuck is my …? Oh, there it is.” He grabs the ends of his crutches, which somehow got flung five feet away from us, and uses them to rise back up to his feet. “Damned stupid sticks.”

My face grows redder and redder by the second.

My only saving grace is that the projectionist hall is dark—as it ought to be, since the light would pour into each auditorium.

But Mr. Lemon has the light of the office pouring over him, and it creates a menacing shadow that stretches across the room to the tips of my toes, making him look a hundred feet tall.

“S-Sir, sorry,” I manage, taking a second to wipe the tears of laughter from my eyes. “I got carried away. I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s fine,” says Mr. Lemon at once. “Just … um …” He licks his lips, wipes his brow agitatedly, sighs, then finishes: “Just … don’t make a habit of this, please. Okay?”

I swallow hard. “Y-Yes, sir.”

“Thank you. Did you …” He looks tired and overworked, his eyes going crossed as he tries to finish his sentence. “… uh, finish your … your usher duties downstairs?”

Oh my God, what time is it? How long have we been fucking off up here? “I’ll … I’ll go check with Vince right now to make sure it’s all done, sir.”

“Good, good. That sounds all good.” Mr. Lemon gives Jimmy a hardened smile. “Nice to see you, Mr. Strong. Give your best to my mother. Err …” He slaps his forehead. “My best … to your mother.”

Jimmy smiles. “Sure thing.”

“Yes, good.” Then, with another stiff-necked look at the pair of us, he turns and disappears back into the office, the door slowly closing and taking all the light with it.

I let out a deep sigh at his departure, then turn to Jimmy with a look of oops in my eyes.

Jimmy looks at me the same. “Looks like we funned too hard.”

“We funned way too hard,” I agree. “I should head back down. To, um … check on Vince and stuff.”