“Now,” she said, “about you and your boyfriend. This is going to be complicated for the both of you, but not impossible. I’ve known many successful positive-negative couples.” She made it sound as if they were a battery. “It’s important that you not be afraid.”
Afraid. No, not afraid. More like numb. In stasis. Given over to inertia.
“I want you,” she said, “to get tested every six months.”
So — The Conversation must have taken place before, then, obviously. But the fact that he couldn’t recall the exact date bothered him. It was something he swore he’d never forget, and now, he’d forgotten it. John must have told him, maybe as early as their third or fourth date, when they first undressed in each other’s presence, Ted unwilling to relinquish his undershirt and boxers, ashamed of his doughy skin, his undefined form, and John, with a serious expression on his face — serious? — maybe resigned. Maybe he’d grown familiar with rejection and fear and wanted to get it over with. Or maybe it was even later still, after Ted had grown accustomed to the excitement of walking to John’s apartment, and to the marbled strength of John’s thighs, and to the silly bombast of John’s pronouncements. Maybe John told him late enough for Ted to harbor a secret grudge—Why did you wait until I couldn’t pull away? — and that was the first crack that would eventually split them apart. Ted couldn’t remember. But he knew that The Conversation must have happened, because Ted made his choice, and in this way, The Conversation wasn’t important. Not compared with everything that followed.
“I feel like I’m going to die,” Ted said to Dev.
“Dehydration has made you delirious. Drink some of your chai.” Dev fetched the thermos from the upper bunk. Ted pushed it aside. “At least drink some water. You feel weak because you haven’t taken in any calories. Here.” Dev reached under the seat and brought out a tray, still covered in foil. He peeled back the foil. A pool of water had formed on the surface of the chicken.
“I can’t.”
“Something bland. Some bread.” Dev ripped off a chunk of naan, and Ted chewed until it was paste in his mouth.
“Swallow,” Dev said.
“Too dry.”
Dev unscrewed the cap on the thermos and poured a cup. Still warm.
“Can I ask a favor?” Ted said.
“For what?”
“I need a prescription. For Triacept,” Ted said. “It’s not for me. I met a friend at the conference… I hadn’t seen him for years.”
Dev laughed, a sound so startling Ted realized that he’d never heard it before. A snicker, yes; an amused chuckle, yes; but never laughter.
“You want me to write you a prescription for Triacept.”
“It’s not for me,” Ted repeated. “John — before Crixevir, he wasted away to almost nothing. I took care of him. He’s alive today. I want to help him.”
Dev wiped the corners of his eyes. “Do you not see the irony? In what you’re asking?”
Ted, for a third and final time, said, “It’s not for me.”
He and John were together for four and a half years. Ted wished that he could say those were happy years, because if they were happy, then it would never have ended. But he couldn’t say they were unhappy, either. They were just there, like a bedsheet tossed in the air. While it was airborne, the cloth stretched out forever, billowing like a parachute, and when it landed, he could see how rippled and crooked it was, and how it came to an end, right at the hem.
John opted not to take AZT, because he was asymptomatic. “If things get worse,” he said, “I’ll think about it then.” If, not when: a practical consideration. AZT’s price had come down, but it was still out of reach, a sum that made student loans seem like pocket change. Most people their age saved for vacations or bigger apartments, but Ted knew his life would be dedicated to medication.
That meant keeping their lives afloat. Normal. Maybe that was the problem. Ted wanted them to be normal. They could have gone on that way, not comfortable, but… living. They weren’t “normal,” of course, not in the way Ted had imagined normality to be. They had so long ago diverged from normality that Ted could see neither where they had been nor where they were going. They lumbered on. People told Ted, Don’t blame yourself. Your relationship was a unique circumstance. But circumstances didn’t negate Ted’s desire. John’s face had a righteousness, like he was a preacher in a past life. When his stubble grew out, or when the hair poked its way back through his scalp, he projected a magnetic force, drawing even faraway objects into his orbit. He was lean and muscular from cycling. Not the hard chunks of overexercise but something taut and sinewy — something supple.
But desire alone couldn’t override Ted’s fear. Once, they attended a nonpenetrative eroticism workshop at the Gay and Lesbian Community Center. A small, bearded man who looked like he should have been selling apples conducted it. There were exercise mats along the floor. He and John were the only couple who weren’t middle-aged.
The leader asked people — only if they felt comfortable — to take off their shirts, and Ted saw how some men were little more than rib cages on spines. One had dark lesions dotting his body, as if his skin had burned away. That, Ted knew, would be John someday. But the man’s boyfriend held him and caressed his skin, on the verge of crying. Beyond the illness, there was an aching love, a heartbreaking tenderness. That, Ted hoped, would be him someday.
The workshop was mostly holding exercises: Ted behind John, then the other way around. Ted closed his eyes and waited to feel John’s fingers skating along the curves of his body. They worked with differing sensations: hot breath on skin, and the cool moisture left behind. Ted ran his chin up the side of John’s torso, coming to rest with his nose buried in John’s armpit, a secret nook. But — as wonderful as all that was — it wasn’t the same. It didn’t feel as close.
They walked home from the workshop, passing by the Chelsea Piers. The piers jutted into the river like legs. They had missed the heyday of the piers’ mass debauchery by almost two decades, but that didn’t mean that there wasn’t cruising going on. Each time they passed a good-looking man, John stole a glance. Ted asked, “Am I cuter than him?” and John replied, “Yes. Much cuter.” The lie made Ted feel better, nevertheless.
Then, John stopped. “Look,” he said.
At first, Ted thought John was indicating the sky, the stars barely visible against the city’s electric thrum. Cloud edges glowed neon. But John pointed toward a balcony six stories up, a cocktail party, figures in elegant silhouette. Music tumbled over the edge, where it mixed with the general cacophony: thunderous rhythms from tiny cars held together with duct tape and Bondo, the pound of the joggers’ feet, the susurrus of the river. On the balcony, a woman stood with her hands dangling over the railing. Her wineglass threatened to crash onto their heads. She looked utterly bored, utterly beautiful. John leaned in close and whispered, “I wonder if that woman is happy up there.” If Ted had answered what he really felt, he would have said, Yes. But he knew that this wasn’t what John wanted to hear. “She looks miserable,” he said, and John pulled him close. Sweat sparkled along John’s collarbone like a necklace. Ted caught the eye of the woman on the balcony. She reared back as if she’d been insulted and walked inside.