Amalgam

The people behind me are talking about the end of the world. I deduce that they are a type of fundamentalist Christian based on the Bible verses they quote and the flavor of their interpretation. Specifically, they are discussing the End Times as described in The Book of Revelation.

“All that needs to happen now is the rebuilding of the temple in Jerusalem,” says the lady with the Midlands English accent. She sounds very certain, there behind my back somewhere.

As I continue to eat my bacon (crispy) and eggs (fried) on toast (gluten-free), I wonder when I last sounded that strident about my religious convictions. Not that I considered myself religious at all anymore. A memory touches my mind with infinite softness. I look out the window, in the way I usually do when reminded of my past, looking at nothing and everything. The smell of something burnt wafts in from the unseen kitchen.

Across the street, a boy with shining yellow hair waits for the bus. His clothes remind me of my old school uniform, and I focus on the details, mentally ticking off the similarities. The strap of his faux leather satchel pulls at a bony shoulder under a blue sweater over a white button-down shirt and tie. These are joined by dark grey pants, once black, and lace-up tan shoes. He grips a small, wheeled suitcase close to his body as if it is a strange rectangular dog that might suddenly run off and chase cars.

Is he me? I see myself in that slim frame, akin to when I was his age, if only in body. Not as loud as he, I would never have dared, but his stance and the way his hand runs through vivid locks recalls a time when I was that thin and uncertain of how my fringe would move in the wind. The overheard conversation continues as I remember and my food cools. It knits with the vision of the boy and the smell of char and builds a picture I had forgotten.

Did Mark have blonde hair?

I met Mark when I started high school and my memories of him are now shaded by time and fervent wishes. I had just turned a horrid thirteen while he strode through the glorious freedom that is age sixteen. Our school, small and religious, kept us in the same class, for which I remain supremely grateful. My first year was also his last, yet he treated me as an equal. I saw him far above any others. Our studies and sports interests were surprisingly aligned.

The days I looked forward to the most were those centered around him. Once a week our class, boys and girls, would run to the river as part of our physical education requirement. I reveled in the completely silent way Mark and I changed into our sports clothes together, just the two of us. He would always face the wall in modesty. I would do the same, only changing much faster, hoping when I finished to turn and catch a glimpse of his bare skin. The yearning for those swift looks battled against my efforts to keep my own skin hidden in a frustrating war no side ever won. After the running portion came the opportunity to swim. Watching Mark dive and power across the current made my heart huge. He would lie on the warm stones, his brief black shorts clinging, and soak up the sunlight. I cannot remember what I did at those times. I probably talked with the girls, trying to not make my glances at Mark’s almost nakedness too obvious, the fear of being caught so very real.

A year of idolizing made me feel like love could conquer anything, except the very circumstances I found myself in. Mark was perfect and I wanted to be his peer, his match, his twin. I also knew wanted to be with him, even if I did not understand how, but the adult voices around me condemned such wickedness, and my wants became secrets. This conflict created a distance, both physical and spiritual, that I thought could never be crossed.

After Mark graduated, I saw him only once more, around two years later. My school produced a play, with me in a minor role, and he found me afterward while congratulating the cast. He was taller, even broader, and my heart pounded that same way it did each time I saw him rise out of the river and throw back his head, reaching for breath the same way I longed to reach for him. We talked for a moment, then he had to leave, to go wherever young Christian men go. I walked him out and as he left, the open theatre door let in a pall of cigarette smoke from those huddled outside. The smell lingered in my senses all night.

I looked him up almost thirty years later. He had changed, of course, but the memory had not. Neither had the fantasy. The odd mix of faith, shame, desire, and unspoken longing rose in me as I perused pictures of his wife and children. Could that have been me?

This is what I see in the boy with the yellow hair as he flags down the bus and boards it for parts unknown. He looks like my past if my past had been unfettered. The fervent conversation I eavesdrop on connects somehow with his image, bringing that memory of myself as an adolescent, all those feelings and scripture and hormones suddenly just a thought away. It sticks with me for more than a week, and not just because my thoroughly subjective vision of Mark is so captivating now that it has returned.

Contemplating the end of the world is a type of mania, I think. As a child, it filled me with fear and made my nascent faith something to cling to. I was confident I was going to heaven, like everyone else in my family, therefore I would be fine if the end came to pass. Later, in my early adult years, I became something of an evangelist. I joined a group, and we toured the country, singing songs, doing outreach, while on a mission to save the lost. Not that we said it that way. It was God’s job to save the lost; we merely had to make sure our targets were aware of the choice before them and the consequences if they got it wrong.

The consequences are the reason the strident words of Midlands Lady stay with me. She made her assertions so boldly, and I know why. Even if the worst happened, and believe me, the stuff at the end of the Bible is definitely the worst, she would be fine. Could I have been her? It gets under my skin. I go about my week, doing the mundane and accomplishing little, her voice in my ear. I think of possibilities, memories, split timelines, infinite earths, the multiverse, and places where all the might-have-beens became realities. I do not want to ponder these things, I tell myself. What is the point?

The days tick by and I return to the café for my weekly breakfast which is closer to lunch. I look up many times as I eat but I do not see the boy with the yellow hair. Midlands Lady is not there either. While she is absent, her words are not. My food and coffee are delicious, the reason I come, and willingly consumed. I chew and contemplate how the promise of youth and chance can rise involuntarily from the subtlest of inputs, bringing with it clarity, power, and change. Perhaps I am Mark, sans wife and heterosexuality. Perhaps I am Midlands Lady after all, minus the decades of steadfast belief. Mostly, I think I am a version of the boy with the yellow hair, going somewhere, unsure, but still traveling. Revived wanderlust brings a small smile, which is shattered by the sound of cutlery hitting the concrete floor. Instinctively I reach under the table, searching blindly for what I have dropped. Instead of silverware I find warm skin and look up. Deep eyes under heavy brows meet mine.

“Sorry,” I mutter, trying and failing to pull my gaze away. A small Star of David shines on his collarbone. I smell oranges and earth.

“No problem,” he answers. My hand is still on his and I clear my throat. “Are you brunching alone?” he asks. It is corny, and my smile returns. I reluctantly remove my hand. We both sit back up in our chairs and I notice for the first time that he is seated right beside me at the very next table. When did he sit down with those eyes? My heart is moving in a way that I will not let myself describe. I clear my throat again, about to introduce myself, but he is too quick.

His name is Marcus.