Flaming

“Oliver is a clown, my friend. And that comment stays just between us, by the way. But I assure you, you’re far … far more than just a ‘cute coatrack’. Though I don’t disagree with the ‘cute’ part.” Jonatho tilts his head. “By the way, did you even hear me call your dimples adorable just now, or do compliments really fly by your red ears that fast?”

“Red?”

“Yeah. When you blush, even your ears go red. It’s adorable.”

Zakary bites his lip and glances away. His ears don’t really go that red, do they?

“Ugh, don’t bite your lip like that,” Jonatho begs. “It does things to me.”

Zakary looks at him, clueless. “Does things …?”

“Never mind. I’m coming on too strong, I can tell.” Jonatho laughs at himself and shakes his head. “This is why I only write love stories and never live them. Anyway, what I’m trying to explain to you is … I think there is something inside you that you won’t let people see. I know, it may be presumptuous for me to say it like that, but I have a real sense for these things, for people. Something tells me you don’t belong hidden away in the wings of the stage. Something tells me …” Jonatho squints at him, then lets on a hint of a smile. “Something tells me there’s a reason you colored your hair—beyond a playful post on a meaningless forum.”

Zakary stares back at him with no idea what to say.

Perhaps there was, indeed, a reason he colored his hair. Was it a cry for attention? Was it a bold defiance of his own shyness?

Was it a cry for help?

He considers thanking him for the kind words—if “kind” can be what they’re called—but decides not to. Then he considers just laughing it all off again, but he’s already laughed off about twenty other things Jonatho has said.

Finally, Zakary settles on truth: “It was one thing today with an empty room and no one’s really paying attention to me. Sure, I can sing in my shower every night, and maybe I can say a few lines to an empty audience, but that’s it. That’s … that’s where my stage presence ends.”

Jonatho considers him for a moment. “I was paying attention.”

Zakary bites his lip. The rain is practically gone by the time they reach the front of Zakary’s apartment building. “Here we are.” He gives Jonatho a smile. “Thanks for walking me all this way. You really didn’t have to.”

Jonatho shrugs. “And I thought you said it wasn’t that far.”

“Well …”

“Not that I minded.” Jonatho smiles. “The least I could do is keep you dry after making you so wet.”

Zakary blushes. He lingers for a moment under the umbrella. It’s suddenly very difficult to willingly remove himself from the comfort of being side-by-side with Jonatho.

“I like it, by the way.”

Zakary turns to him. The rain has stopped. There’s no need for the umbrella, yet they still stand underneath it, their faces so close. “Like what?”

“Your hair.”

Zakary tries to smile, but his heart is beating too fast. They are so close, they could kiss by total accident if one of them just leans in a little. It would be so easy.

And yet the next instant, Zakary hands off the umbrella to Jonatho and heads up the three steps to the front door of his building, preparing to let himself in.

“See you tomorrow, then?”

Zakary turns. Jonatho stuffs a hand in one pocket, the umbrella slung over his head, and he wears a charming, expectant smile.

Instead of answering his question, Zakary says, “It needs a happy ending.”

Jonatho lifts an eyebrow. “Happy ending?”

“Your play. That’s what it’s missing.” Zakary shrugs. “I know most gay stories are full of despair and grief, probably involve an unaccepting father, or a homophobic bully from the past, or a lover who dies in some sad, totally foreseeable way. But aren’t there enough gay stories from the past few decades that end in tragedy? Movies, plays, books? Maybe it’s what was more popular ten years ago, but tragedy is all we grew up knowing. It’s all we’ve been taught to expect from life. Is it asking too much to have more gay stories that end sweetly? That give us … hope?”

He can’t seem to believe his ears. “Sweetly?”

“It isn’t so far-fetched. We deserve happy endings, too.” Zakary finds himself smiling. “I think people like us could use more of them.”

A tender, contemplative silence swells between them. Jonatho slowly lowers his umbrella, then frowns at Zakary in thought. “Happy endings …” he murmurs ponderingly. “You surprise me, Zakary.”

The quiet between them seems to deepen, worsened now without the cloak of rain. Why is Zakary suddenly wondering if he should invite Jonatho up to his apartment? Is that what he’s expecting him to do? Until today, he was certain the playwright didn’t even know he existed. Now, it feels as if Jonatho has noticed him since day one—including what color his hair is or isn’t.