the man who stayed

I ask if he wants to meet up. He says he’s busy, that he’s got a million things racing through his mind and he just doesn’t have room for one more. I’m sorry. My hands are tied. I smile at him and say that’s okay. We’ll use our mouths.

I arrive at his apartment a few minutes after midnight. He opens the door, sleep in his eyes, and motions me to come in. It is pitch dark and so my hands are on the wall feeling for the light switch.

Leave it, he commands. Everything’s a mess. It’s embarrassing. From the light that filtered in through the hallway, I could see pillows and clothes on the floor. They form a line into the queen mattress in the middle of the studio, like a lazy pigeon’s nest. I turn on my phone’s flashlight so I can take my boots off. He plops down in the middle of the bed, turns on the TV, and asks me what I’d like to watch. 

Anything, really. I tell him. I don’t have a preference. He puts on a playlist of music videos. I walk over to him slowly, like he’s a cat I’m trying not to startle. He rushes to take his shirt off and unbuckle his belt. 

Easy, tiger. What’s the rush? I’m here all night. He looks at me with a pained expression – like he was hoping for a quick tug but I was taking my time. He picks his shirt up from off the floor and puts it back on. I sit beside him on the bed. 

Do you kiss on the mouth? he asks and I wonder – what would bring him to ask me this question? Who could have turned him down once so harshly that it would alter the course of all future intimacies? 

With consent, I say. And only if you want to. He brings his face closer, tentative, and I can tell despite the darkness that he’s been crying. He kisses me gently at first, like the first drops of rain building up to a ravenous crescendo. His mouth tastes like stale cigarettes and broken promises. I place my hands on his cheeks and he begins to cry.

Are you okay? Is something wrong?

He shakes his head. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m a mess. I’m sorry. He looks down at his feet, refusing to meet my gaze. It was clear that we were here for two very different things.

Did you ask me to come over so I can fuck the hurt away? He looks up at me with sullen eyes and rests his head on my shoulder, embarrassed. C’mon now. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. He wraps his arms around me like he was trying to fill a void inside him. I squeeze his body closer to mine, so tight I could feel his heart beating.

He places his hand on my crotch again and I ask Is this what you really want to do? He shakes his head, mumbles an apology, and lays his head down on a pillow.

What do you want to do? He stops, considering the question. He turns his back against me and whimpers out a request.

Can you just hold me? Please. I’m sorry. I just – can you please hold me? I lay down beside him, wrap an arm and a leg around his frail body. We marinate in our silence, like two spoons from unmatching sets, and I can feel his body tremble as he weeps. His breaths, uneven, begin to slow. His tears are soon replaced by quiet little snores.

I gently pull my arm from underneath him, carefully as to not wake him. I get up and out of instinct, I begin to tidy up. From the garbage around the apartment, I don’t think he’s seen sunlight in about a week. I find clues on the dresser – a breakup letter scribbled hurriedly, an oncology report for a woman in her 70s, a discipline notice from HR. This boy’s been through the wringer. I empty the ash trays and take out the trash. I pick the clothes up off the floor and clear the dishes on the table. I get a glass and some water from the fridge and set it beside him. Even in slumber, he looks disturbed. Lines form between his eyebrows as he curls up into a ball for comfort. His lips move like he was arguing with someone in his dreams. I kiss him gently on the forehead and the lines, they melt away. He stirs awake. 

You know, my life’s been a mess these last few weeks, he tells me. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be putting all this on you. I know we just met but… it feels like you’re the only calm in my life. Would you… would you mind staying the night? Just for tonight. I just really need someone to hold me.

I turn off the lights and climb into bed. Like clockwork, he slinks over to me and snuggles into the crook of my arm. I run my fingers through his hair, making circles out of curls. I look over and for once, he looks at peace. 

It’s a strange situation. You show up to a hookup and find the one place in the world you’re supposed to be in. I don’t know what ails this broken boy but if I had to spend the rest of the night figuring it out, I wouldn’t really mind. He says I’m the only calm in his life and it feels good to be needed. My arm falls asleep under the weight of his body, heavy from carrying the world on his shoulders. It hurts a little but I don’t dare move him. I want him to stay right where he is. 

Sleep well, you sweet boy. You’ve had a rough time. I know it doesn’t feel like it but one day, you’ll look back to find you’re no longer in the dark. You are bigger than your problems. You are stronger than you think. There will be dragons to slay but that’s not till morning. For now, you can rest in my arms.

♫: Lykke Li | Time Flies (2008)

We grew up with fairy tales, colorful stories of damsels in distress, fair maidens locked in towers or attics full of ash. Why did we find them so plausible then but so impossible to believe now? The mythical creature isn’t the mermaid who turns into a woman or the girl banished to sleep after eating a poisoned apple. No, the real fairy tale is the man who stayed.