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| Dan Skinner |
Jason lay half asleep next to Esmé,
needing to wee but very unwilling to get out of the snug warm bed and expose
his unclothed body to the chill late autumn night air. He drifted back into sleep. He woke again, a bit later. The clock on Keith’s bedside table displayed
the time in scarlet letters: 5.15. Far
too early to get up. And maybe they
could have a repeat of the night before.
His morning wood hardened.
Reluctantly, he slid out of the
bedclothes and stood up, yawning silently. He went through to the toilet, his
thoughts far away. He started thinking
about Brent, wondering what he would have thought about him and Keith and Esmé.
He had the oddest feeling that Brent was near, and for the first time since
Brent had killed himself, he didn’t think of the other man as unhappy. The images which came into his mind were
happy ones: he and Brent swimming in the nude in a stream after a cricket game
on a very hot and sticky afternoon and being startled by two teenage girls from
the village who had teased them, before making off. Or a freezing winter’s night, in a snug pub,
the fire friendly in the hearth, the flickering flames reflected off the
polished brass, with their connection so strong they didn’t need to touch, yet
also desperately wanting to. But they were in public, so they just looked at
each other. Their invisible connection
had to suffice. Yet it was a happy memory.
Brent leaning on his elbows, smiling at him on Sunday mornings, his eyes
alight with love and desire and happiness.
But then the images shifted. Brent looked worried, and then, as clearly as
if he’d spoken aloud, Jason heard the words, Look at your phone, love. Now.
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