A Heart-Shaped Leather Box, Tied Together with Frayed Shoelaces

He did that thing with his hands. He extended his thumbs, curled his fingers, and brought his hands together, just in front of his Adam’s apple, in the shape of a heart. And locked their positions. He tilted his head, coyly, cigarette dangling from his lips, dropping his chin too low so that the cherry brushed the knuckles of his left hand. His lips contorted into a ghastly smile as he tried to move the cigarette away from his hands. He broke the heart by shaking his left hand erratically, then rubbing the top of his hand on the back of his thigh.

The only thing I could do was laugh. At least it was a real cigarette. Not one of those insipid vape pens. There was real danger. Visible danger. The possibility of lighting his hair on fire as it dangled in front of his nose when he lit his cigarettes. His insistence on a post-coital smoke, even as I’ve worn him out. And the many times I would reach over his body, slide my fingers along his arm, just to feel him, just to feel his breath on my ear while he snored. I would take that cigarette from between his fingers, still lit, and smash it into the ashtray on the floor beside my mattress, just before I would bring my arm to rest across his abdomen. I’d fall asleep next to him, my chin on his shoulder so I could breathe in the soft subtleties of his smell, his hair, his neck.

The ashtray was heart-shaped. Kind of a joke, really. He told me his mother threw it at him when he came out to her. His parents didn’t even smoke. She kept loose change in it. And buttons. And sewing needles. And a few bobbins of thread. Things to seal up one’s heart, to lock it. Keep it closed, from leaking its love out. Now, all it ever held was ash. Never much. I don’t smoke. Even after I dump the butts in the trash, there is still a grimy, gray patina lining its heart shape.

He didn’t think his mom would tell his dad. At least, not the same day. According to him, she waited until he had gone to bed. Til all of them had gone to bed, really. Because he was awakened by the blankets being yanked violently from his bed. His dad stood there, togged in tighty-whiteys bulged out by his own swollen cock, the reason for this, he never did explain. He told me his dad just stood, breathing heavily, gravelly voice grating, “Get out!” over and over. After a minute, his dad grabbed his arm, pulled him off the bed, and dragged him to the door of his room. “Get out!” he yelled. His dad opened his closet, and threw a gym bag towards the door, followed by clothing, some still clinging desperately to hangers.

He made his way out of the bedroom clutching the bag, trying to stuff clothing into it as raiment was thrown at him by his dad. Near the front door of the house, under the entryway table, he saw the heart-shaped ashtray, right where it came to rest after his mom had thrown it at him. He picked it up and stuffed it into the duffel bag, more by reflex than for any sentimental reason, and unlocked the front door. As he was trying to exit, his dad rushed him, slammed his body against him. He fell through the screen of the storm door, tripped down the steps of the porch and hit his head on the concrete. Bleeding from a cut on his head, he slunk away from his parents’ house, with not enough clothes.

I watched him through the glass door of the bar. He should have been farther away from the entry. Most of the patrons of this dive smoked, so, little was ever made of being too close to the door. But, if you were caught smoking inside, you were banned for a week. He posed with his cigarette, leaning against a railing, lower lip jutted out in a comical sneer. Holding the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger while inhaling vigorously, gritting his teeth as if the action hurt him. Mooning, as if for a camera, trying to blow smoke rings. Exhaling, with closed eyes and a lock-tooth grimace, again, as if the action hurt him.

He stood up straight, cigarette between his lips, left-hand clutching the side of his jacket. He ran his right hand through his hair, then shot it out from his hip as a couple patrons came into my view on the other side of the door. He smiled broadly and shook hands with the taller one. “Good to see you,” I saw the patron mouth.

“Good to be seen.” That was his pat response. He always said that, as if he needed someone else to notice him, as if he needed someone to confirm he was real. “Yeah. Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see you inside.” I couldn’t hear what he or his interlocutor was saying, but I’d known him for months. He was such at his ease around people. His lexicon so limited, I was confident those were the exact words he used.

There was a whoosh of air, and a change of pressure I felt in my ears as the door opened. I raised my hand in a feeble wave and nodded at the two newcomers. The shorter put their hand on the chest of the taller and quickly kissed the other on the corner of the mouth. The taller went to order drinks while the other sat in a chair next me. I felt a slight quaver as the entry door settled into its jamb.

He remained outside to take one last drag on his cigarette. The cherry flared as he inhaled, dangerously close to the amber colored filter, so close to his fingers, I thought he might again react by shaking his hand, rubbing the fingers against his jeans. Instead, he held the smoke in his mouth, dropped the butt on the ground, and stepped on it with the toe of his boot. Slowly, he exhaled the smoke. He coughed. I didn’t hear it. But I saw his torso convulse. Barely. It began.

He opened the door. And I heard the fresh passage of air, felt the pop of the pressure in my ears. I could see a slight discoloration at the corner of his eye. His friends wouldn’t notice, the taller one, only now, returning with drinks.

“Hey, uh, yuh think you could spot me for a beer?”

I reached into the pocket of my jeans and produced some crinkled bills. I handed him a ten. “Get me one,” I said as he took my money.

I was quicker when he wanted another. When I saw he had almost finished his beer, I rose to go to the bar. I returned with a bottle in each hand and knew he had finished the last half of my beer. He was smooth about it, though. He gesticulated animatedly while talking with his friends, each time planting his bottle slightly closer to mine. Finally, he picked up my bottle and drank. It’s better he got drunk. It would make it easier for him. I don’t think his friends were fooled he was drinking half my beers. I don’t think they cared. If anything, they may have been surprised I was so acquiescent about it.

The next time I went to the bar, standing in line, I felt a tingling on my scalp. It was near. I think my hair grew almost a half an inch since he and I first got to the bar. Most of that was just in the time since his friends got here. It was very near. I needed to get him out of here. Quickly.

While walking back with our beers, he coughed again. This time, it was a little more violent. But he played it off like he was clearing his throat. I set his beer down in front of him. “How ‘bout we finish these and head out?”

“Uh, yeah.” He barely moved his head as he spoke. His eyes could hardly focus on his beer. His friends likely attributed it to the alcohol. He carried on like it was nothing, drinking from both my bottle and his own indiscriminately. He was mostly lucid when he talked, loquaciously. But, about halfway through both beers, I could see him [hic], like trying to hold in a burp, before he erupted with an expectoration that was half cough, half sneeze. Mucus clung to his upper lip and chin.

“You’re allergies are really bad today.” I gave him the napkin from under my bottle. He wiped at his face. “Why don’t we get out of here for the night? You can take a Benadryl in the morning.”

“Yeah, sure.” He picked up his beer and drank it to the dregs. “Late.” He slapped hands with the taller of his friends, pointed his finger at the shorter.

The taller one slapped my hand as well. “It was good to see you.”

“It was good to be seen,” I said.

I let him put his arm around my shoulders. He rested most of his weight on me. I felt a lot of pressure against the door, trying to open it with one arm. The whoosh was louder so close to the exit and a blast of warm air hit our faces as we stepped out of the bar and onto the sidewalk. “Can I have a cigarette?” I asked him.

“You don’t smoke.” He smiled coquettishly. He fished inside the pocket of his jacket and retrieved his packet of cigarettes. He shook one out and I put the filter between my lips. He already had the lighter lit and held up to my face. My hair, barely hanging around my eyebrows when I arrived, now hung dangerously close to the flame while I puckered my cheeks.

We walked slowly to my apartment, stopping frequently so he could cough into his hand, doubling over with the effort. By the time we got to the door, his face was ashen and his hands were clammy. He sat heavily down on my mattress. He extended his feet across the floor, kicking the heart-shaped ashtray across the room. Gently, I removed his boots and clothing.

After taking off my own clothes, I grabbed his legs by his ankles, and turned his body to lie on the bed correctly. I lay down next to him. His breathing was labored, but he seemed calm. I pulled a thin sheet over our bodies. Afterward, my arm came to rest across his abdomen. I fell asleep with my chin on his shoulder, breathing in his smell, his neck, his hair. In the morning, I was alone. On the sheets was a gray, ashy patina outlining where he had slept.

The outer door still hadn’t been repaired. There was a doorbell, but I chose to reach my hand through the hanging flaps of screen to rap loudly with my knuckles on the heavy, wooden interior door. I stood back. I waited until the peephole turned black.

I did that thing with my hands, extended my thumbs, curled my fingers, and brought the tips together, just in front of my Adam’s apple. Because, I know what you have to do. If you find something in this world…if you find something, inside you…and it’s heart-shaped…

Lock it.