The Nonconformist
by Ken Cohen
Chapter 22
Squirrel on a Wheel
Alan was gone. Danny still had Gray.
The feelings for Gray had been there for the last two years since that day he drove Gray home near the end of grade 12. He could hardly remember much about it beyond the day it began. It just seemed like the more time he spent with Gray, the more time he wanted to be with him. Unrequited love hurts. Gray was on his mind, in his dreams and fantasies.
The thing about Gray was, he was charismatic. On top of being handsome, smart, athletic. Arrogant. And 100% heterosexual. The charisma was easily apparent to those who knew Gray well. You couldn't avoid it.
Danny especially felt it when Gray's mood was good. In a positive frame of mind, upbeat, he would shine, and something approximating a smile would magically appear. He'd be easy to talk to, it would be comfortable, relaxed, and Danny would want nothing more than just to be with him.
Gray dominated those around him when he felt that way. You couldn't help being aware of his confidence. During the good times, Danny wanted nothing more than to be in the same place with Gray, hanging out together. Even the faintest possibility of a physical relationship was a fantasy to cling to. As for the rest, the intellectual and the emotional sides of Gray's mind, Danny had access to all of that if Gray's mood was right.
Gray's intellect, and his feelings when he showed them, overpowered Danny and everyone else around him. In any case, whether or not Gray was at his best, Danny wouldn't challenge him past a certain point, for fear of being metaphorically beaten to a pulp. Gray possessed something close to a photographic memory, a wide range of knowledge based on copious reading, and the ability and confidence to understand and analyze almost any issue that interested him. He would without a second thought destroy any specious argument a lesser mind might toss his way.
Danny witnessed it happen to others and knew to be careful. He didn't hesitate to talk with Gray, but was careful how he went about it.
He believed his friend's moods rose and fell to some extent because of his brother's poor health. Gray lived with the looming spectre of Eddy's decline. The doctors hadn't said anything further as far as Danny knew, and Gray never spoke about it. But it seemed to Danny that Eddy might not have long to go.
Gray phoned Danny one night.
"Danny, remember you asked me to speak to my uncle about that insurance company? I spoke to him a couple weeks ago. He says the company's privately owned and only sells through brokers in their office who sell nothing else, only their policies. They don't have a good reputation in the business. They're kind of known as cutthroats. If there's doubt about a claim, they'll just turn it down. He described them as basically like shakedown artists. They refuse to pay claims if they can find a weakness in a claim and think the claimant doesn't have money or the will or the courage to pay lawyers to sue them. Claimants like that typically settle for half what they're entitled to. Because many people just don't have the business acumen or courage or money to pay lawyers. Average people only see lawyers to buy a house or make a will."
"Really. Huh."
"What's going on? Why were you asking?"
"My dad bought a policy from them, life insurance. That's what they're doing. They're refusing to pay. We've sued them."
"Why don't you call my uncle? I don't have his number but you can find him in the phonebook, Joseph Samuelson? You know him, I think you've met him."
"Yeah, I'll think about it. Thanks Gray, thanks a lot."
He didn't sleep well that night. He was restless, unable to stop thinking about the lawsuit. What it was costing. What it would take to bring it to trial. Whether his mother could cope with the stress and uncertainty. Whether even he was up to it. He would have to rethink it, maybe they should settle for whatever they can get. Anything to get this over with.
He called Marvin Kingman the next day and had a long conversation. He felt encouraged and spoke with his mom. They decided to carry on. They would have to deal with the stress, it was preferable to letting the insurance company get away with cheating them.
Diary, July 20, 1969. I was at a newsstand downtown and saw the New York Times. An article on the front page about riots in New York. I thought it was a race riot at first. But this was different. The police raided a place called the Stonewall Inn and tried to arrest what the paper called "known perverts breaking the law." The article went on to describe how, after a few arrests, "hundreds of young men went on a rampage in Greenwich Village at 3 a.m. after a force of plainclothes men raided a bar that police said was well known for its homosexual clientele."
The article said 13 people were arrested and 4 police were injured. The rioters were "young men who threw bricks, bottles, garbage, pennies, and a parking meter… the crowd grew to 400 during the melee." Threw a parking meter!
The next night, hundreds more people gathered, began attacking the police, burning police cars, then they burned the Stonewall Inn itself, it said. Within a few days, politicians and police met representatives from the community and agreed to stop harassing what were referred to as law abiding gay patrons. The article said there'd be no more raids.
That would be a change. I wonder if Toronto will ever change. They raid bars, parks and other places here.
Kenny sent me a one paragraph letter, his second year at university was a success, he has the scholarship for the two remaining years. He's working for one of the profs this summer. Signed with love, whatever that means. I threw it out.
It was the first letter in what, over a year? Two years? A letter that said nothing.
Danny began the second year of his undergrad degree in September, 1969.
What he didn't anticipate was the loneliness that engulfed him that fall.
The previous spring he'd attended school while carrying on what he saw as his new gay "social life" in the north Beaches neighbourhood in the early spring of 1969. He believed he had become part of the local gay scene. But he badly messed up with Alan and found himself alone as summer break began.
All this left a nearly overwhelming sense of solitude and loss. He craved attention from Gray but received little in return beyond basic camaraderie. His friendships with his high school friends had suffered by his absence.
So when he returned to school for second year in the fall of 1969, he found himself socially isolated. He hadn't heard from Mike, still in Buffalo, for months, partly because he himself hadn't given that old friend much thought. He hadn't had much time for John over the summer. Instead he devoted most of his non-work hours to Gray, who now was deep into the start of a concentrated medical school education including early sojourns at a downtown hospital with little time left for a social life.
So it was that Danny found himself on his own many weekends, and, except for the company of his carpool buddies, he was even alone during school hours.
As the first weeks of the fall semester passed, the loneliness felt heavier and he fell into a depression. The athletic side of his life remained but no longer seemed to compensate.
Shortly after his first semester exams, deep into a frozen Saturday night in December, 1969, he sat in their chilly dimly lit basement listening to a recording of Arthur Rubinstein playing Frederic Chopin's Nocturnes. He was alone, wracked by feelings of isolation, jealousy, loneliness. He was plagued by thoughts of random couples making love, wondering through a deluded imagination about the lives he believed others must be living. He thought about Gray, the man beyond his reach. And his one-time lover Ken. Even the seemingly endless lawsuit with the insurance company continued to weigh on his wandering mind.
The order of the world seemed to dissolve before his eyes. He could not let go of his controlled, stage-acted existence in any way that made sense to him except for imagined surrender, in some unknown filthy gutter of a place, to the cold anonymity of his basest needs. He didn't want to think about that, either.
He felt like a social outcast. In his solitude he pondered those he had known in the past paired off through what he imagined as salacious nights and days of slinking illicit love-making, living, growing, once kids he knew but now men and women seeking each other. He envied the fantastical lives he imagined they must have. They in turn must surely be oblivious to his very existence. He moved unheeded among his imaginings amid what he pictured as their self-obsessions and clammy couplings, certain he had been cast aside as undeserving, thrown on the reject heap. He had thoughts of suicidal death.
He saw himself a thing in a gutter and sometimes felt he needed to go there, for temptation toward that netherworld seemed a more desirable fate than self-destruction or the ongoing torment of his deluded jealousy. It was a possibility which he sensed Sandi had introduced him to. Better anonymous sex than pariah-like seclusion.
His mother's injunction to find a girl and get married troubled him constantly. To find a girlfriend, he must date girls. He felt guilty for not trying, and reprehensible when he tried. The few blind dates he experienced left him speechless and helpless because he did not belong there, did not fit the role. He was faking it, and the women surely perceived at least some bit of that even after they were together just once. He might try to demonstrate his intellect to impress a girl he could not connect with on any other level, and the evening would inevitably be a failure because he had no feelings for women beyond trying to admire them, while they sought out men who could feel. He would only have felt more guilt by continuing to lead on some hapless young woman whom he could never truly love. So he gave that up.
February, 1970. An early morning phone call. Gray's brother has died. Funeral the next day, Jewish funerals are quick. The death not unexpected. That poor boy, he thought, seemed like a good guy from what little I knew of him, never knew him when he was healthy. He never had a chance to grow up. The cards we are dealt.
He'd only been to one funeral, other than his own dad's.
It was supposed to be very cold tomorrow, 10°F, days of winter, short, glum. He'd go to school, morning classes, then walk up to the funeral home.
That next morning, walking through the falling snow alone to his English class, he felt adrift. Now in second year at the university he hardly knew anyone beyond his immediate small circle of friends. And most of them seem to have paired off with girls. He couldn't blame them. Some people must wonder about him.
He was isolated. A delicately subdued smile for people, slightly curled mouth, little to say beyond hollow words. That was how he was surviving. Fearful and sad, didn't understand why. Couldn't admit to anyone that there must be some basic thing wrong with him. Surrounded by people in a hurry, with those he knew now living deep in their own lives, Danny felt like no one cared. He had the constant feeling he lacked the social skills to do anything about it. So he was feeling sorry for himself again.
He attended his English class, ate lunch at the Hart House cafeteria, went to the library for a short time.
In English the professor introduced them to Anton Chekhov. Russian lit in an English lit class? Prof. Engelhardt wanted them to see how writers in every culture faced similar human situations. But how, the professor asked, do you capture in another language such a unique and lovely sounding language as Russian?
As things turned out, Chekhov fascinated Danny. He was a playwright, and master of the short story.
Danny was captivated by Chekhov's classic short story, About Love, about the unrequited love of a bourgeois land-owning man, Alekhin, and a married woman, Anna. Their friendship always maintained a correct distance and never manifested itself in anything physical.
He concealed his love for her. She also secretly loved him. But their feelings were illicit due to her marriage, forbidden to them by the church and social convention. They were not to find happiness, for neither dared break the taboos of conformist life. They only discovered each other's feelings when it was too late. Chekhov described his wealthy protagonist as "this man with the kind, clever eyes… rushing round and round his huge estate like a squirrel on a wheel" after he was tearfully parted forever from his beloved.
Danny teared up. He could not break free of convention any more than could Alekhin and Anna. He too was in a self-imposed cage of solitude, frantically desperately trying to pretend all was well. He feared he would waste his life running in circles, gaining wealth yet living a special kind of poverty.
It was snowing when he left school to walk to the funeral home. He had worn boots. The funeral was at 2:30, he had to hurry, a two mile walk. The hood of his winter coat was covered with snow by the time he arrived. He shook himself off. There were people to take coats and boots.
The funeral home, a small, worn out building, felt cramped. The service would be held in a room that seated perhaps 200 family and friends, with some standing room at the back. It overflowed with people, some crying, speaking quietly among themselves.
At the front under subdued lighting on a bier was the closed coffin, always the case at Jewish funerals. Plain unfinished wood. The body within once a human being who awoke every day, thought, spoke, yawned, dreamed, and performed all the human ablutions, necessities, labours, rituals, games, before returning home to sleep for another night.
Here though lay a boy of 17 given no further chance to do those things. Nor to make love.
Who could understand such a premature death?
He saw Gray up front, appearing impassive, talking to an old man. He walked to the front, looked around, waiting for Gray, their eyes met, recognition for a moment before the calm facade returned. They hugged. He saw Gray's sister, then she was hugging him. Gray's parents sat in the front row, red-eyed, huddling together. He knelt next to them, talking for a while.
He felt he was flowing from one person to the next in a deep sea of shared grief. How else can you comfort the bereaved? Be present, let them know what you feel.
Gray motioned him to sit in the front row with the family. The place is full, looks like the service will begin. Gray gave him a little black cloth skullcap for his head, he remembered Jews cover their heads when they pray, opposite of Christians. At first it felt odd. But the head covering gave him a feeling of belonging. All the men were wearing them.
The room went spontaneously quiet. The older man Gray spoke with earlier, short beard and glasses and an even, pale face, must be a rabbi, now stood at the front at a small lectern. He began to speak. Talked briefly about Eddy. Explained the memorial prayer, read it in Hebrew, then English. He read a eulogy about Eddy, his short life, the kind of child he was, the young life of a beautiful boy cut tragically short. There was another prayer in Hebrew.
Six men came to the front, pallbearers. Two Danny recognized, Gray's cousins, Josh and Laurie. In unison the pallbearers lifted the casket, began to carry it past the many mourners toward the exit door where the hearse waited, while the rabbi read the 23rd psalm: the Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want, he makes me lie in green pastures… he restores my soul… though I walk through the shadow of the valley of death I shall fear no evil…
The rabbi explained that those who wished could follow the hearse to the cemetery where the burial would take place.
They slowly left the building. A procession of cars formed up, moved out of the parking lot, headed slowly uptown toward a cemetery in the suburbs. Two of the boys, Gray's friends on the university basketball team, had brought cars and would go to the cemetery. One, Greg, had room for Danny. The cemetery was near Danny's and Gray's homes, just a couple miles away. They talked in the car about different things. It seemed odd to make small talk with guys he only knew casually, but no one wanted silence and it didn't seem wrong, so they spoke soberly among themselves as they drove.
At the cemetery, fresh snow fell softly. In the distance, disappearing into a white haze, thousands of gravestones fanned across the immensity of the place, all the same low height, in long neat rows. In death all are equal. The pallbearers carried the coffin to the yawning grave. The mourners, maybe a hundred left, trudged behind the pallbearers in a slow procession. Footsteps crunched the snowpack, the only sound to disturb the silence.
At the graveside the coffin was lowered deep into the ground. Presently the wind picked up, lightly blowing snow in the faces of the mourners, who bent forward as though into a gale, murmuring the traditional prayer for the dead. Gray, his parents and sister clung together shivering and weeping.
The first shovelful of earth thrown by the rabbi struck the coffin with a loud thud. A few people gasped. Others joined the ritual, shovelling more and more earth into the bottom of the grave. A sense of finality. After about 15 minutes the coffin at the bottom of the grave was mostly covered in earth. The cemetery workers took over and began to fill the rest of the grave. Gray's family left first, the rest formed a double column for them to walk through, to remind them they're not alone.
Some time later, Chris dropped Danny at Gray's home.
A shiva is the one week mourning period after the burial. The family is at home and can be visited by friends and family.
It was getting dark as he entered the house, removed his boots, hung his coat. Gray's parents, sister, aunts, uncles, cousins sat talking in the living and dining rooms which were lined with extra chairs. Other family and friends were in the kitchen and den, some stood talking softly in the halls. At first he joined the family. Gray's mom noticed him. He sat quietly as they talked among themselves. Then, "Danny, Gray is in his bedroom if you want."
"Okay, thanks Mrs. Samuelson."
He walked through the hall of the bungalow to the bedrooms at the back. He had been here before. The door of Eddy's bedroom was closed. He knocked on Gray's door, heard "come in," entered and closed the door behind him.
He remembered how he felt after his father died. It seemed so long ago now but the memories had not faded. He felt terribly low then and felt that way now, on the day of Eddy Samuelson's funeral.
Gray lay on his bed, face down. He turned on his side when Danny entered. His eyes were red and wet. Danny felt the most intense compassion. "Hi."
"Hi."
He sat on the side of the bed next to Gray. "Is this okay?"
"Yes. You know about this, about how I feel right now. I feel so low, I don't think I've ever felt this bad. I miss him so much. I can't stand it."
"I remember it seemed to ease slowly over the first couple of weeks, but it was a hard time to go through. Eventually I accepted it had happened. We couldn't go back in time."
He had to stop. He bent over, elbows on knees, placed his hands over his face. The tears were unexpected, surprised the hell out of him. He couldn't remember doing that in the presence of anyone but the doctors and Kenny since late in his childhood. Even at his father's funeral he had only cried a little.
The feeling subsided. "Sorry, had no right to do that. I'm really sorry."
"It's okay, I understand. You're entitled to have feelings. You don't show them very often."
"You'd think after a couple years I would've gotten over it, but I haven't. I try not to think about him too often.
"I saw once how you loved your brother. That day, the first day you brought me here."
"Yeah."
There wasn't much to say. Couldn't make small talk. He remembered a few people trying to make small talk at his father's visitation. They couldn't handle the silence. His own silence left some people uncomfortable. They wouldn't stick around long. Silence has a stark painful intimacy of its own.
But at this moment they were okay. When they'd been together in the past, just the two of them, neither had felt uncomfortable when they hadn't much to say. It was part of their friendship. Being with Gray was enough.
He sat on the edge of the bed for the next few minutes. Gray lay on his back staring at the ceiling.
"How did you feel after your dad died? How did you remember him? Maybe memorialize him?"
"I felt lost. I'd lost him, of course, but something else. He never used to say much to me. He never talked to me like a father should talk to his son."
"That's pretty sad."
"He never said he believed in me. I think I disappointed him."
"Sometimes they tell you things like that by their actions."
"He didn't. Not that I was aware of."
"There's something I want to ask you, Dan. Don't be offended. Are you a homo?"
"Why are you asking me this?"
"I want to hear you say it. Just you and me. One on one. To hear you trust me. Instead of being like the kid back in that classroom a few years ago, that talk you gave about homosexuality when you thought you had a psychological advantage by playing teacher, so I couldn't call you on it, argue with you, I had to keep my mouth shut."
"What are you talking about? What classroom? I never said anything like that." He knew what Gray was referring to. He felt he had to feign forgetfulness to make the episode seem insignificant. He still could not be honest about his feelings, even with this man he believed he loved.
"Okay." Gray took a deep breath, as though searching for patience. "If that's how you want to do this. That day in high school. When you gave that sex ed. talk. Only a gearbox would give a talk to a gym class about homosexuality."
"Oh yeah, I remember that. What makes you say that?"
"I knew you would say that. 'Oh yeah, now I remember.' Some guys were talking about it afterward, the general consensus was you're a homo. Nobody cared."
"Just because I gave a talk? What's the big deal? It was on the list we could choose from. I thought it would be fun. One of those mysterious things I didn't know much about."
"You're a terrible liar. You know, we're currently spending time in hospitals following doctors around and kind of learning as we go. Introductory stuff. I was in an emergency department downtown a month ago. A man came in with his girlfriend, complaining of severe back pain. His family doctor was not available that day, his pain was terrible.
"He said his family doctor prescribed some painkiller he couldn't remember the name of. The attending doctor examined him, asked a bunch of questions, listened to him moan and groan, told him to take aspirin, that was the best he could do. The guy said no, it wasn't aspirin, it sounded something like oxygen, ozone, what was it? do you remember, sweetheart? and the girl rhymed right in, oh, oh, it was oxo-something, oxo-something, and then he said it was, uh, oxy something, oxyco, um, oxycode, um, oxycodone! That's right! That's it!
"They both started saying yeah, that's it, oxycodone! They were pleased with themselves for recalling the strange name, they said 'yeah that's it' all excited. The patient said something like, 'That's what the doctor gave me. It worked real good.' The doctor said, take aspirin. He turned his back on them and walked away.
"He told me, there's nothing wrong with his back, he's faking. He explained how he knew. The guy was shopping, he's hooked on the stuff. Oxycodone is an opiate drug, highly effective, addicts love it. He said it's happened before. He sometimes can see these people coming from the other side of the room before he even speaks to them. They'll just go on to someone else until someone prescribes it for them, or maybe their drug dealer can get them some. Or maybe the guy was a dealer himself. He said some addicts also sell.
"That's what you remind me of, Danny. A bad liar. You remembered what I'm talking about. You knew enough about it, more than anyone else knew.
"In fact it was a very good, thorough talk. It was insightful. Obviously you had thought about the subject for a long time. It seemed reasonable to believe much of it was based on your personal experience, things you actually felt. Maybe if you had messed up the presentation pretending ignorance, pretending you hadn't done the work, you would've got away with it.
"But the fact is, it's a taboo subject. Straight guys don't even wanna talk about it, we're afraid someone might mistake us for something we're not. It's ridiculous how insecure we all are about our own sexuality.
"So it's a subject only a gearbox would pick. Maybe you figured everyone would think the opposite, but you were wrong. It was overkill, your ploy didn't work. Your sexuality was obvious while you were talking. Ironic, none of the straight guys in the class would touch it, but the gearbox picked it and gave himself away.
"Besides, you were and still are one of the few guys I know who never talks about girls. You'll happily talk about cars, music, school, politics. But never girls. If the subject comes up, you clam up. You always have. That's another telltale, it's a giveaway.
"You're still like that. And you don't go out with girls. If you want to fake it, you have to find a way at least to pretend you're interested in girls."
"Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what? Asking you if you're a homo?"
"Yeah."
"I like you and respect you a lot, Dan. But you hold your cards close to your vest. I want to know you better, understand your mind better, push you and watch you react. I want you to be honest, to trust me. I like to know who my friends really are. How can I trust someone who won't trust me by being honest about what he feels?"
"What is this, something you're learning in medical school?"
"No. And—you're not a patient."
"No I'm not. What am I? What am I to you?"
"You're my friend. Not just any friend. I like you, a lot. I can learn things from you, I think you have lots to teach. We share many interests. And I want to trust you. But I don't understand your limitations. You never show weakness. You won't let me see you clearly. In a way, you won't let me near you. Know what I mean?"
Danny said nothing.
"How many girls have you kissed in your life? I'm not talking about your mother or your sister or some girl you gave a kiss on the cheek to. I'm talking about kissing with sexual intent? If you know what I mean."
"Um, two, I think."
"You're what, a 20-year-old man? You've kissed two girls. Probably had sex with neither of them. And like I said, you've never talked to me about girls in all the years I've known you. Does that sound like a heterosexual male?
"So I want to know you trust me. I need to know that."
"You want to know? All right, I'll tell you. I'm in love with you."
Gray laughed.
"You're being an asshole, Gray."
"So? I'm well known for that. Stop kidding around with me. You're not in love with me."
Silence. Danny was thinking. Should I be the adult? Oh, the hell with it.
"Why do you think I've never told you? We've known each other going back what, to grade 10? Six years? We're pretty close friends? And I never said a word to you about my feelings until now.
"I was being careful. The most important thing to me has been having your friendship. I knew I could never have anything else, I never expected to have your body along with your heart. But I had your friendship. You let me see into your mind and understand a lot of you. If that was the best I could ever get, it was good enough, because I loved you and I couldn't lose you. You're the smartest guy I know, and I've learned from you. That's why I've never told you. I didn't want to ruin it."
Silence.
"Gray, what do you want?"
"I want to know what kind of man I'm talking to. I want to see that you trust me."
"Let's start over."
"Alright. Start by telling me why you're here."
"Why I'm here?"
"The easy answer is for you to say, 'Gray, it's your brother's funeral.' But behind that is more. Tell me the more of it."
"Why are you doing this?"
"Why won't you be honest with me? We're supposedly friends but you can't be honest with me. You don't have to get upset, you don't have to cry. You just need to explain to me the reason why you're here."
"I can't. I told you what there is to tell. What else can I say?"
"You know, my brother loved me, but we had no relationship worth speaking of. He didn't tell me he loved me, not in any meaningful way, until he was dying. Then he actually said, 'I love you,' to me. He even cried, right in front of me, when he spoke those words. But by then it was too late. My parents are not much different. You're not, either. You're hiding from me. I hardly know you. You hang with me, you spend lots of time with me and we talk about interesting things and play sports, but I hardly know you. You don't tell me what you feel, your deepest feelings. You blame it on a fear of losing me. Well, that fear is unfounded, it's all in your imagination, there's no reality underlying it.
"I've never given you the slightest reason to believe I would mock you or hurt you for who you are. You know, people with dark skin can't hide, so most of them at least nowadays are proud of who they are. Just because people with oddball sexualities can hide, doesn't mean that they should. Especially you, but instead you're lying by omission day after day. I really don't give a damn who you love. I do give a damn about who you are and whether you have the courage to stand up for yourself instead of hiding in corners."
Silence.
"Well? Come on, Danny, say something. This isn't about me, it's about you. For once, it's about you. Today we're talking about Danny Stavros. Stop hiding. Tell me about yourself."
Danny felt like his mind was being read. "I'm here because I love you and want you to know I care."
"How can you love me? You hardly know me. You keep me at arm's length all the time. So how do you expect to ever get to really know me?"
"I know as much as you let me know. I know when I love someone because I feel it. There's among other things a fine line between love and hate. You're pushing me closer to that line."
"So you hate me too."
"Not yet."
"Fuck off, Daniel. What are you hiding?"
"I'll tell you the ultimate reason. I suspect it's the same for all of us. I'm here because I'm clinging to life. Trying to fathom it. To feel it. Live it. To be or not to be. On a day like today, as awful a day as this has been, I have to think about it and feel it and wonder about it, try somehow to get a glimpse of understanding it. And when I'm doing that, I guess I have to be honest."
Then Danny leaned over, kissed him on the cheek, and looked into his eyes.
Gray drew him down the rest of the way until Danny lay next to him. He wriggled a leg between Danny's. He embraced Danny with his arms and kissed him hard on the lips. Danny was stunned and put his arms around Gray. They lay there kissing.
Then Gray pushed him firmly away. Gray said, "There, I tried it, it doesn't work. I don't feel anything when I do that. I don't feel anything when I kiss you. There's no physical attraction. I don't get hard, it doesn't even twitch. It's like kissing the wall. I can't explain it any more than you can explain why you're attracted to me. Maybe if I drank half a bottle of whiskey it would work, but it doesn't work like this. So let's not do this any longer. We've tried it, it doesn't work. You should go away. It's not good for you to feel this way about me. It will destroy your life. Find yourself someone who will love you back. All I can offer you is my intellect, my honesty, my non-sexual love and respect. And that is not enough for you, it's not what you want. You're wasting time on me."
He sat up on the bed, shoved Danny away. And did it again to the point where one more push and Danny would have fallen to the floor. Danny swung his legs off the bed and stood. He closed his eyes.
"I'm going."
"Bye."
Fuck, he thought as he walked out. I hate him. Why did I come here? Why did I ever pay him any attention? I hate him.
He walked out toward the front door, shaking, on the verge. Managed a polite goodbye to the family gathered in the living room. Put on his coat. Struggled with his boots. Stepped out the door and into the icy darkness, closing the door quietly behind him.
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