Paul reached out toward the image. “Don’t touch it,” Ian said.
“Does it hurt?”
“Yeah, but only for a few days.” He taped the gauze back in place. “Do you like it?”
“I really do,” Paul said. He really did.
Paul stood outside his own skin, marveling at his life. If anyone had told him a year before that he would be in his bedroom with a twenty-four-year-old guy who had just gotten a tattoo in his honor, he would have told them they were insane. It seemed incomprehensible on so many levels. First of all, Paul hated tattoos….
He could never have imagined that he would be moved almost to tears by such a gesture. What a leap of faith, to put something on your skin that will last forever, certain you’ll still want it there in twenty years. No one had ever made such a bold move for him. Paul was afraid he might not live up to it.
When his arm had fully healed, Ian asked Paul to take him to the mall so he could get a shirt without sleeves to show off the new artwork on his shoulder. Ian was immediately drawn to a shop Paul would normally have passed by without even seeing. Its sign was painted in a graffiti style, and the rock music blared a bit too loudly—a tool that was universally employed to drive middle-aged men like him away. Out of all the tank tops in the store, Ian honed in on one with a print of a skull with a knife jammed into the top. Paul shook his head.
“You don’t like it?” Ian asked. “I think it’s cool.”
“Get one with a plain color,” Paul was saying as the store clerk walked up. The clerk had bleached white hair, a nose ring, and his right ear lobe was stretched by a wide rubber spacer. He had poured himself into bleach-spotted jeans and a camouflage T-shirt, both of which seemed to be two sizes too small. He was clearly gay. “Swishy” was the word that popped into Paul’s mind.
I am not like him, Paul thought. He was not sure where the thought came from.
“Hey, Ian,” he said. “I haven’t seen you in ages. Where have you been?”
Ian knew this guy?
“Oh, yeah,” Ian said. “I haven’t been to the clubs in a while. I’m not drinking anymore.”
“No shit?! Ian Fucking Finnerty? Wow. That’s great. Since when?”
“Sober six months, almost seven now, right?” Ian asked Paul.
“Right,” Paul said.
“Congratulations. That’s great. Seriously,” the clerk said. “So is this your new boyfriend?”
“Yeah,” Ian said, grinning with pride. “This is Paul. Paul—Andy; Andy—Paul.”
Boyfriend. Paul immediately hated the word. Heaven help me, he thought. I have a boyfriend. This clearly should not have come as a surprise. He had been living with Ian for months now. Yet for the most part, they had existed in their own little world. Paul hadn’t let himself take much time to consider who they were to the larger world, who each was individually in society, and who they were together. Ian is my boyfriend. Paul tried the label on and tried to make himself comfortable with it. It wasn’t working.
“Nice to meet you, Paul,” Andy said. To Ian, he said, “He’s cute.”
Andy was part of Ian’s other world, a strange foreign place he inhabited that had never included Paul. Andy was ready to accept Paul into their world without hesitation. Paul was sure he didn’t belong. I’m not like him.
Ian chose three identical tank tops in different colors, and Andy directed them to the fitting room. Ian gestured for Paul to come in with him, which he did.
“Have fun, guys,” Andy said and left them alone together.
“Why did you tell him I’m your boyfriend?” Paul asked.
“You are, aren’t you?” Ian reached over his shoulders and pulled his T-shirt off over his head.
“Yeah, but you can’t go around telling people that.”
Ian tried the black tank on first. He was looking at himself from all angles. “Andy doesn’t care,” he said. “Anyway, who is he going to tell? I doubt you have any mutual friends.”
“You never know. We have at least one.”
“He won’t say anything.” He turned so his shoulder faced the mirror to examine the effect of the shirt and the tattoo. He eyed himself critically. “What do you think?”
He was suffering from the delusion that he might not look good in something.