The Different Loves of Felix Ostrowski

(Cross-posted from Medium).

1

There aren’t enough words to describe the different kinds of love a heart can contain.

Well, not to the illiterate, anyway.

Just like in Polish, there is a different word for the kind of love that is tangled up in fondness (zamiłowanie), and the kind of love that suggests a sexual desire, like amorousness (miłosny). Yet, all I read and hear these days is ‘love’. A father loves his daughter, a husband loves his wife, but the same word is also used for a woman who loves her dog.

One would hope that the use of the word ‘love’ changes due to context. But alas, the world we live in is disgusting. I have often assumed incorrect things about other people due to my optimism. Yet I refuse to let it go.

We all know that shit exists, we just politely fail to mention the constant flow of sewerage below our feet when going about our day. I like to think it’s the same thing with the grimy, untidy stink of human fallibility. Let’s put it out of our minds until the sewerage of humanity spills out onto the street. Then, of course, it’s unavoidable. You have to mention it then.

There is something about love that bothers me lately. You see, there is a kind of love that I have not yet found a word for in any language. That word hides from me.

It’s the word for the type of love that builds slowly, over time, thanks to the slow drip of gentle experiences. In the way a consistent stream of water can eventually splinter a large beam of wood, the defenses around a heart can snap in two. The reasonable door that we keep closed to strangers and acquaintances can be found left open, to our surprise, because someone has produced its exact key. We don’t always keep an eye on that door because we don’t expect people to show up unannounced like this. But, sometimes, you catch yourself becoming fond of someone despite all reasonableness. Your mind tells you, ‘don’t be silly, you hardly know this person’, and yet those silent moments spent waiting for a train, or sitting on the bus, become occupied. Thoughts of Them begin to intrude on your peace, and a welcome torment begins.

This is the kind of love I found in a total asshole.

I can hear my grandmother’s voice commenting on it already. ‘How do you fall in love with an asshole?’.

She gave good advice.

I often wonder if my poor decisions are due to the fact that she’s dead. If she were still alive, I wouldn’t have given this man a moment of my time. Not a second glance. But therein lies my downfall.

I looked, for slightly too long, which allowed this man to find the key to my heart’s door.

2

It began, as most stories do, with a situation that broke my routine. I was on my way home from work when the sole of my shoe just…fell off.

The experience is quite unpleasant. One never expects to be tripped by the very thing designed to protect one’s feet, but there I was — dangerously close to breaking my nose on the pavement because I had failed to notice the state of an item I had worn for years. Some things you just take for granted, like the fact that a button will fix things into place, or that a zip will always do its job. That your soles will remain attached to the rest of the shoe.

It happened, as if arranged by the Hand of God themselves, directly outside a cobbler’s shop.

Sprawled across the concrete, papers and possessions flying, I grunted. It took me a moment to see if I was unbroken enough to stand (I was), which was just long enough for the Asshole to notice what had happened.

“Couldn’t have picked a better day to fall over, sir.”

Looking up from the ground, I saw Him for the first time. Him — his black, curled hair. His large nose. His trimmed beard, and his ridiculous bow tie and suspenders. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and he was grinning at me.

In hindsight, that was where I was utterly lost. Damn that man, and his smile.

“You all right?”

Dusting my knees off, I crouched to gather my wallet and papers before they were trodden on. He didn’t offer to help, languidly draped over his counter like an asshole. Regardless, I limped over to the wooden counter, took off my broken shoe, and sighed.

“I guess this is the place where I must have this fixed,” I told him. The cobbler picked it up and admired the detail. It was a brogue, hand-made in Ireland. I had gone to the trouble to purchase a set of them when I had traveled there on holiday, and they had lasted a solid eight years before any inconvenience.

“Nice work.” He cobbler complimented, nodding. I nodded back.

“Tutty’s. Handmade.” I responded, “They have my measurements, but I’d rather get this fixed than order a replacement. I’m sure you understand.”

He nodded, then wrote some details down. A price, a date, and a phone number. He flicked the business card to me.

“Other shoe solid?” He asked. I also took it off, standing in the street in my socks like a fool. He tilted his head.

“I can do some maintenance work on the other one too. Make sure they’re both going to last another few years before falling off again.”

“They’re custom orthopedic.” I pointed out. He shrugged.

“Yeah, that’s the inner part. The bit that fell off was the tread, on the bottom.”

He showed me, pulling the broken sole of my shoe out to reveal an intact liner. I nodded silently.

“That’s an easy fix,” he continued, “I can leave your custom orthotic liner unscathed.”

I nodded again, and he took both shoes out to his workbench in the back of his shop.

The event put me in a bad mood, but the man seemed passionate about his work and eager to share his trade, so I endured it. It wasn’t his fault I’d worn those shoes to Asia and back. I had climbed mountains, walked for miles, ran through foreign subways and every day of my working career in them. Reflecting on their use, it was more of a surprise they hadn’t fallen apart sooner. Alas, fate would have it that they fell apart here, now. So I gave the cobbler my name and number, and asked where I might find something temporary to safely get home in.

He handed me a pair of women’s black, elastic-band ballet slippers with a grin. I stared at him.

“Don’t step on any obvious shards of glass, but they’ll do the trick until you get proper shoes back on.”

“You have nothing…for men?”

“It’s one-size fits-all. You’re not going to get stitches in your toes over a marketed gender for shoes, are you?”

His tone reminded me of my grandmother. Patronizing. Asshole.

Scowling, I put on the dainty lady leathers and stomped to test them out. They had a sole, and leather to cover my socks, but barely. Sighing, I rubbed a hand over my face. I had no choice, really. I already imagined the entire train turning to look at my feet, and sniggers during the commute. Ridiculous.

The grin wouldn’t leave the cobbler’s face. I wanted to slap it, but that would have been rude. So I thanked him, and left.

Doing my best to avoid all eye contact, I sat on the train and read his business card.

Penny-Farthing’s. Cobbler, Key-cutter, Engraver. I flipped it over. Tony. Wednesday. $50. His handwriting was a legible scrawl. I popped the card into my wallet and fished my kindle out of its pocket.

3

To my delight, Tony was a good craftsman. He’d repaired the walnut-brown brogues as if they’d never been damaged, and polished them as if they were new. I paid my fee, put them back on with relish, and swapped them with a near-identical pair in bottle-green. Tony raised an eyebrow at me.

“Can you do some maintenance on these, too?” I asked. Tony picked them up and shrugged.

“They’ve still got at least six months in them before you have to worry.” He told me, “otherwise I’ll just be unpicking the stitching before I need to.”

I told him that I knew, but I’d rather fix them ahead of time instead of falling flat on my face again. He laughed. His deep, brown eyes twinkled as his cheeks cracked into deep, mirthful lines, and I was suddenly struck by the desire to make him do it again.

“Alright,” he agreed, “this your only other pair?”

I told him I’d had four pairs custom-made, but these two were the ones I’d worn the most. He raised his eyebrows as he nodded, obviously impressed.

“What is it that you do, Mister Ostrowski?” He enquired with a slight squint.

“I work in the accounting department for one of the businesses nearby.”

Tony looked over my suit, my styled hair and designer glasses, and twisted his mouth in an interesting expression.

“Makes sense.” Was all he said.

That night I studied my appearance in the mirror.

Makes sense. That bothered me.

I turned. My jacket was fitted. My pants were fitted. It only cost a few extra dollars at the store, so why skimp on it? I dressed as well as everyone else at the firm, so why did his gaze feel so…scrutinizing?

Wasn’t he used to well-dressed clientele?

I ran my fingers through my white-blond hair and frowned. I looked like a lanky version of Dan Savage, with black-rimmed, square spectacles and dark blue eyes. Where Dan’s jaw was square and wide, my face had a narrower angle to it. I kept clean-shaven, as beards made me look like an old man at the Orthodox church, but by then the afternoon shadow had crept in. I scratched at it. It was a gunmetal grey, like my eyebrows. Like my eyes.

I usually got compliments on my appearance. Women would come up to me and ask if I was some sort of executive. I had the look for it, but they didn’t seem too disappointed when I told them I wasn’t. They honestly seemed more disappointed when our conversation ended. I never wanted to bring them back to my place — strangers in one’s home were always a bad idea — but I also didn’t want to see how they lived, either. I’d tell them that, and they’d pout, and then they’d walk away.

Women’s homes — particularly their bathrooms — contain a type of grime I’ve never been able to stand. Let’s rendezvous at a hotel any day. Invite me back to your apartment and I’m out.

I spent that evening in a funk. My usual TV show brought me little entertainment, and I could barely focus on the book I’d been slowly working through. I had a drink, paced, then had a shower. I had another drink, paced, then tried to go to bed.

But I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned, cursing the clock that kept showing the snail’s progression of time. Unconsciousness evaded me. All I could think about was Tony. His face, his laugh, and the way his lips curled. What did it mean? I didn’t think it was a nasty expression — he wasn’t sneering, or snarling — but I didn’t feel complimented by it, either.

The sun rose, and I wearily dressed for work.

* * *

“What was that expression you gave me last time?”

I couldn’t bear it any longer, I had to ask. Tony frowned, straightening his back as he held my shoes over the counter.

“What expression?” He responded. I tried to mimic the look, and held my hands up.

“That one. When I told you I’m an accountant.”

Tony laughed again, and my spine tingled. Setting my shoes down, he folded his arms across his apron and leaned back on one foot.

“You’re a character, Ostrowski, you know that?”

A…character? What did that mean??

“That’ll be fifty dollars.”

Tony was a jerk, but I still wanted to talk to him. I wanted him to explain what he meant instead of making vague statements. But my shoes were fixed, and I’d already paid. Calling him an ass would have come out of nowhere, but I kept thinking it. If I called him an ass, he wouldn’t want to talk to me any longer. So I didn’t. But it didn’t change the fact that he was one. Ass.

I had no more shoes to repair, and the lack of excuses to come back made my chest hurt a little. Grumpily, I thanked him as I took back my repaired shoes, and walked back to the train station.

My colleagues noticed that I wasn’t doing well.

“Hey, Felix? You okay? You seem…down…lately.”

The grad hire approached me nervously at the coffee machine, clutching her cup underneath her chin. I didn’t really interact with her much, beyond answering questions about the job, but she had accurately honed in on my disquiet at precisely the moment I wanted to discuss it.

“Just…bothered.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Why not.”

We sat in the break room and I explained to this almost-complete stranger the interaction with the cobbler. I made the expression, and she tucked her lips into her mouth, making a colourless straight line instead. It’s what women did sometimes, when they wanted to hide a smile.

She knows what it means, I was certain of it. So I asked.

“Um,” She responded, taking a sip of her coffee, “Without knowing the guy I can’t say for sure, but I think it meant that you fit into the stereotype.”

“…Stereotype?”

“Of an accountant. You know. Neat hair, glasses, nice suit. Expensive accessories.”

I raised my hands. I didn’t wear rings, or watches.

“Shoes are an accessory.” She clarified. I blinked.

“But everyone has to wear shoes.” I responded. She tilted her head to the side.

“Well, yes, but not everyone has to buy custom, handmade leather shoes from Ireland, do they? Most of us buy our shoes from local stores…a little less expensively.”

I frowned.

“How is the type of shoe I bought…fitting a stereotype?” I asked slowly, trying to comprehend the meaning of it. She waved her hands in front of her face.

“It’s not about the shoe per se, but like…just the whole package. Like if a young mother has messy hair and sneakers on, or if a hooker wears stilettos and false nails. They just kind of…go together…in our society…you know?”

I didn’t know, but I nodded anyway. Since she seemed so knowledgeable about these patterns, I asked her why it might make it hard for me to sleep.

“Oh, you haven’t been sleeping well? Do you feel sick?”

I told her, no.

“Drinking too much coffee?”

No again.

“Scrolling social media just before bed?”

“No, only books.”

“Oh…do you think you might have a crush on Tony?”

I snorted, coffee entering my nostrils. I sniffed and coughed, fetching a paper towel.

Crush? Crushes were for schoolgirls. I didn’t have a crush on Tony the cobbler. But when I came back to the table to wipe up the spilled coffee, the grad hire was smiling. She didn’t even try to hide it this time.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.” She giggled. I frowned.

“How do you know?” I asked incredulously, making sure coffee hadn’t spilled on my shirt. She glanced to the window, then back at me.

“Well, the second I mentioned his name you choked on your coffee…and you haven’t slept well lately. Meeting Tony seems to be the only thing that’s changed lately. So, logically, that’s it, right?”

Logically, she was correct. I sighed.

“So what do I do about this…crush? It’s getting in the way of my life.”

She grinned, shrugging.

“I dunno, talk to him?” She suggested. I frowned again.

“What if he tells me to go away and never come back?” I asked. It was a very real risk, and one that I hated thinking about. I liked being able to go back to a reliable tradesperson. It meant that I knew where to turn the next time I had a shoe-problem. The grad hire didn’t seem to be as bothered by the possibility as I was, and asked ‘what if he asked you to hang out more?’.

The proposition was enticing. I decided I’d go ahead with it.

4

The final few hours before clocking off were hell.

Spreadsheets suddenly felt impossible to do, but I crunched through them. Then, with an elation I hadn’t felt since the day before a holiday, I bounded out of the office on the stroke of five. I was going to ask if Tony wanted to hang out.

I half-jogged up to the cobbler, jacket over my arm, and waited patiently behind a customer. Just one old nanna’s request to get a key cut, and then I could ask.

Once Tony had finished with that transaction, he beamed at me, and I beamed back.

“You’ve returned!” He exclaimed. Then his face fell.

“Oh, shit, did something happen to your shoes again?”

“Nonono…Tony…I wanted to ask if you wanted to hang out.”

Tony paused, expression frozen on his face. I also paused, waiting for his response.

“Hang…out?” was his reply. I nodded.

“Yeah! Like get a drink, or watch a show, or …something. What do you like to do after work?”

Tony leaned back, shaking his head. My heart felt like I’d just dropped it.

“Nah mate, sorry, you’re a good customer but I don’t mix my worlds like that.”

Mix…worlds? Disappointed, I nodded.

“Oh…okay then. Ah. Sorry to bother you.”

We awkwardly nodded at each other and parted ways. On the train home I felt like crying, and drank too much when I got back to the apartment. I drained my whiskey and sighed.

Asshole. Maybe I’d start hanging out with the grad hire instead. I mixed worlds. World-mixing was cool, and a sign of the modern man. Maybe he was too stuck-up to socialize with accountants. Maybe that was why he was so cryptic all the time. I stomped off to bed and fell into a dreamless sleep.

5

I didn’t see Tony again for a few months after that. I deliberately avoided his shop, taking the long way to the train station. I started getting lunch with the grad hire more often — she was called Geraldine — and drinking in bars instead of my apartment. She gave terrible advice, but it wasn’t her fault that Tony was an ass whose mind was closed to new experiences.

One evening, I left the first bar I went to because it had become too loud. Stumbling into a basement bar called ‘The Queen’, I ordered my usual top-shelf whiskey and leaned against the bar, enjoying the gentle piano music. Before long I was approached by a muscled gentleman in a red tank top and ripped jeans. He nodded at me, and I nodded back.

“Enjoying the view?” He asked. I told him that the bar was nice, and I enjoyed it a lot. I told him I might even come back, given that it was quieter than other places.

“I’ve got a place that’s quieter.” He suggested, stepping close. I stepped away, nodding at him.

“No thank you, I’m enjoying myself here right now.”

The man stepped close again, and my skin bristled. He was invading my space.

“We could go to my place…afterwards.” He said, leaning over my shoulder. I pulled back, lifting my shoulders to my ears.

“I already told you, I’m enjoying being here. Please stop stepping into my space.”

The man laughed. It wasn’t a nice laugh, like Tony. It was a laugh like people who used to make fun of me at school. I scowled.

“What’s the point in coming out if you’re not going to have a little fun?” He wheedled, stepping forward again. But this time, he was caught by a strong hand that clapped on the back of his tank top and pulled him away.

“He said no, jerkass.”

Blinking through the fog of my drink, I could hardly believe it. My hand was shaking, and I wanted to run out of the bar, but Tony shoved the tank-top man out of the way. Tank-top man swore and stomped off, leaving me and Tony at the bar. I clutched my drink.

“You oka- Mr Ostrowski?!”

I nodded, gulping. It was hard to speak, my throat felt too tight, but I took a sip of my drink and was finally able to thank him. Tony ran his fingers through his hair and smiled.

“Sorry, I’ll go…”

“Why?” He asked, frowning.

I paused, glass hovering over the bar counter. I raised my eyebrows, reminding him that he ‘didn’t mix worlds’.

“This must be your hang out. I don’t want to get in the way…”

He waved a hand, ordering a drink.

“Nah, don’t worry about it. Stay! I didn’t pick you for the type to hang out at The Queen.”

I blinked, not comprehending. Wasn’t I precisely the kind of person who would hang out at a quiet bar with soft piano music? Wasn’t that ‘the type’? Tony, watching my face carefully, lowered his head.

“You…didn’t know that this was a gay bar?”

I straightened and looked around. There were men and women there, with various combinations of people kissing each other and slow-dancing. Men kissed men, women kissed women, and some couples of indeterminate gender also kissed each other. I shook my head, turning back to Tony.

“Looks like a normal bar to me.”

Tony laughed, shaking his head.

“Knew it. Thought you weren’t the type.”

His tone was…rueful. I blinked. Was he…disappointed? That I hadn’t come to this place deliberately? He sighed and leaned back on the bar beside me, scanning the room. I sensed the shift in his focus, and realized that I had to say something.

“Um…Tony…are you gay?”

Tony let his head fall back, looking at me with one eyebrow raised. He scoffed.

“What gave it away?”

He took a sip of his drink. I sipped mine, heart racing. We were hanging out! I could tell him!

“Uh…I asked to hang out with you earlier because my co-worker said I had a crush on you.”

Tony held his glass top his lips but didn’t drink it. Then he turned his whole body back to facing me, eyes wide.

“You…what…?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” I explained, just like I had with Geraldine, “Thinking about you bothered me. I asked my co-worker for advice, and she said it sounded like a crush, so I should ask to hang out so I could sleep well again.”

Slowly, Tony blinked at me. Then he looked at my shoes. Then he laughed. Softly, at first, then harder. He slapped the bar and I shot a look at the bartender. The bartender just shook her head, grinning. I was thoroughly confused. When Tony put his hand on my shoulder and looked up at me, his eyes were brimming with tears. But he was happy. I didn’t flinch away. I didn’t mind him in my space.

“Mister Ostrowski,” He gasped between chuckles, “you are a character.”

6

“So…does this mean we can hang out now?”

We’d moved from the bar to a fast food restaurant to grab something to eat. Fries at the bar were ludicrously expensive, and chain stores made them much faster. Tony grinned and nodded.

“Yeah man,” he told me, “we can hang out now.”

I ate some chips. He ate some chips. Our hands touched while we both reached for the same chip, and he laughed. I felt nervous, so I laughed too. I didn’t want to ruin our friendship by hogging the crispy chips that he wanted, so I moved my hand for the soft ones instead.

“So,” Tony asked, “do you have a crush on me?”

I considered it. Crushes were a school girl thing, a flight of fancy for people you couldn’t have. I shook my head.

“No, I don’t think so.”

Tony sighed and shrugged. Again, he seemed disappointed. He acted as if he wanted me to have a crush on him, so I asked. He smiled, tilting his head.

“You are very good looking, I won’t deny that,” he admitted, cheeks reddening beneath his beard, “I wouldn’t mind if you were interested in me.”

“Oh, I’m interested in you. But it’s not a crush.”

Tony frowned, still smiling, so I explained. I explained that I thought about him a lot, and I wanted to spend all my time outside work with him. That I felt miserable when he turned me down, but now we were hanging out I was happy again. That those feelings weren’t a crush, they were…

What were they…exactly? What word could describe the…’right’-ness of it all?

“Felix,” Tony asked with emphasis. My mind stopped wandering and snapped back to him. I liked it when he used my name. He used it better than Geraldine did.

“Do you think about kissing me?”

I looked at him. His deep, brown eyes. His curled, black hair. I’d thought about running my fingers through that hair. About touching his forearms. Holding hands. Now he mentioned it, I was thinking of kissing him.

Would he mind?

“Yeah, I guess I do.” I admitted. Tony grinned. He moved to stand, so I did too. But before we fully got to our feet, he planted his lips on mine, and we kissed over the chips.