The sex had gone, replaced by Chinese phone apps in bed. When he and Abe did touch, he had to imagine it was one of the strangers he’d flirt with online to finish. Max was depressed by this, obviously.
The relationship could have crawled a few more months had Abe not turned to him the night before and said, “I think you’d make a good father.” They were watching the Arnold Schwarzenegger movie Kindergarten Cop. Now they were at some French restaurant, pretending to be Prix-Fixe people even though they drank sweet red wine and stole toilet paper from bars. See, Max would say weeks later, we couldn’t have truly understood one another.
Max didn’t share such thoughts with Abe, favoring instead resentment and being drunk most of the time. He watched Abe cut and chew his medium-well steak. Abe had big hands. Max excused himself to the restroom where he sat on the toilet, pants on to Google “how to break up with someone.” Too pathetic so he returned to their table and Abe smiled at him—Jesus Christ! Max ordered more wine. Abe continued talking about the job he hated but wouldn’t quit. Abe had thin lips. The waiter dropped off a cheesecake that wasn’t ordered and said, “This one’s on me.” Max imagined the waiter atop him, back and forth while the headboard creaked. He couldn’t help it. Visions like this made Max feel cold and mean and childish, things he believed he hadn’t been before meeting Abe.
“I asked how your day was,” Abe repeated. Max looked at him. “Good, you know.” Abe had brown eyes. He began to say something else, but Max was already up, his crotch hitting the table as he stood. A wine glass tipped and pooled over the cheesecake.
Max was on the street now. The forecast called for rain but it was mostly mist; he ran down the block, ignoring the shouts behind him. He rounded the corner and slammed into a woman. “Dickhead!” He already knew this. The subway was in sight. 29 steps to safety. Max counted them as he descended below, over a puddle, maybe two of presumably piss, his boyfriend’s voice growing fainter with each stair. Soon he was on the platform. The headlights of an approaching train made the steel tracks look obsidian—Anna Karenina was a coward. He began to salivate, a mix of adrenaline and complimentary dessert. The doors to the train car opened. Max stepped through, looking strictly ahead, the subway AC hitting his sweaty temples like revelation. He could go anywhere.
But of course he had never left. He was still at the table with Abe, who was holding his phone, one tab open to a pending Venmo request (“🍽️”) and another to a shortlist of well-reviewed restaurants that he and Max might try next week.
