Fiction: Perpendicular

By Joe Nasta

 

Aaron and Steve had just returned from their latest vacation. 

 

All of their friends wanted to hear about it – so badly, in fact, that they got roped into the couple’s position in the front half of the Pride block party line. Every detail of the trip was so engrossing that a group of first 3, then 6, then 12 people grew and Damien began to wonder if they’d ever move forward toward the entrance or if the line itself was the main engagement of the evening, if catching the bleeding echoes of faraway DJs and sipping to-go cocktails from A Pizza Mart were the same as tucking into a corner inside the gates, if the watching people passing towards the back of the queue or catching the edge of a conversation or leaving to find someplace with a shorter wait was the same as floating with the crowd who made it into the party.

 

Then all at once the line moved forward a whole block. People came and went in waves and the bouncer counted up and down with an electronic clicker.

 

“We just got in this morning! From Iceland!”

 

“The geothermal hot springs …”

 

“No, surprisingly even on the foggiest days it wasn’t too cold.”

 

“You have to go to this little place in Reykjavík we found at the end of an alley.”

 

He liked to listen for a bit and then stare into space. He’d split a joint with some people on the way over and the hybrid mist vibrated from his chest, down his legs, and into his brain making him smile. 

 

They didn’t tell their friends that Aaron had twisted his ankle the first day they arrived. It was their first hike, and right where the main road turned to gravel he’d stepped too much on the outer edge of his Merrell boot and the loose rocks shifted under him. Most of the vacation had seen him laid up with rest, ice, compression, elevation, ibuprofen, anger, and boredom while he scrolled his phone and reposted the stories Steve tagged him in as he explored the glaciers, countryside, and city on his own. The itineraries were already booked and paid for, better not to waste. Tonight he stood unsupported and in pain.

 

They’d been together for just over a year now, not that Damien could tell. They finished each other’s sentences. They wore matching button-up shirts from Express and the same brand of jeans. When they laughed together, Steve turned his head to meet Aaron’s eyes and they harmonized. 

 

In every relationship Damien ever been in, the one-year mark is when it became clear things weren’t going to work out; that’s when the unforeseen tripwires appeared and the inevitably misplaced foot triggered internal alarms, self-sabotage safeties, protective booby traps in his mind. Seeing the group of gays gathering around the perfect couple made him feel at odds with them. Some weekends their lives intersected in these lines but otherwise they grew endlessly in disparate directions. It was for the best, then, that he was alone for six months after Meredith left. 

 

Then you arrived in his DMs three Tuesdays ago, handsome: dark features, classic jawline, full lips kept smooth with frequent spearmint balm applications, unwrinkled forehead that read perpetually unbothered and content. You lived in your own reality, your own perspective. Of course you did. You were over six feet tall. Damien was glad to stand silently with you behind the crowd clamoring. The line moved twenty feet closer to the party’s entrance.

 

The chatter from people waiting and the dance bops from the DJs swirled with the usual Friday night traffic sounds. Steve couldn’t stop thinking about the dick pic you had sent him the morning before the trip. He saw it first thing while checking his messages and brushing his teeth – so exact in his routines. Did he like it? You never heard back, but the message was marked seen. You smiled to yourself because you loved to kick the dust.

 

The world whirred around you, cross-faded. Murmurs and laughter from people you’d known for years, some you’d met once or twice, a few that you loved for a few weeks at a time but no longer spoke to for no particular reason, many that you only waved to in passing or chose to ignore most of the time collected in the air with a pulsing beat underneath it all. Was it like this last year? Will it ever be like this again? If only you could comb through the sounds and the people who made them, smooth and straighten the evening into a flat gravel road you could walk barefoot over without tripping over.

 

Damien grabbed your hand, then let it go. He was too stoned and lost in thought, always watching everyone around him with those hazel eyes, usually in the corner of a dim bar or the edge of the rooftop party. He didn’t like to be alone. It had been a good time getting to know him, sitting with him at Deluxe and watching him eat chicken wings and drink non-alcoholic beer. 

 

When he was happy he grunted and exclaimed, “Scwha!” in an adorable burst of joy when a flower, a sudden realization, a dear friend entered the room. Sitting in those moments was enough. Damien inspired you with his quiet and sincere delight, even if they never lasted very long.

 

The line moved forward again suddenly. “Not too much longer! We’ll be in the next group, for sure!” Aaron said. He was excited to get in so he could find a place to sit down; his ankle was killing him and he felt the limp coming on. Steve wrapped his arm around his waist to support him instinctively.

 

You didn’t want anything in particular, but you hated waiting. A sharp turn cracked in the center of your chest. There were too many things that needed to change. You turned to Damien, kissed him on the cheek until he met your gaze.

 

“I think I’m gonna go.” He nodded. You didn’t text to let him know you’d made it home.

 

 

 

 

 

Joe Nasta is vibing in Seattle. He has whispered 4 poetry collections and one book of short stories into the world. He is an associate editor at Hobart.