Promises

They had made the same promises all lovers make when there's going to be some distance between them.

"New York isn't really that far away…"

"We can call each other every night. Phone sex can be pretty good…"

"And emails and IM…"

Nothing would change; they loved each other too much for anything to happen to their relationship. He had finally said, "I love you"; those three little words that had meant so much.

Now they were going their own ways all because of a magazine article. The wedding was postponed and the rings were in their small box, waiting for another time.

For a while it was as they planned; quick plane trips each way just to be together for a day or two. If they were lucky, they had a long weekend.

The sex was intense, made so by the time apart. Although after all their years together they knew each other's body perfectly, they still spent hours touching and relearning for the next time they were apart.

In New York they would dine at new restaurants and shop at the best stores. Unlikely as it sounds Central Park became a favorite place. Occasionally they'd visit a dance club, but always danced together and went home together, alone.

In Pittsburgh they'd visit family and friends, go to the new Babylon, and as in New York, they always went home together, alone.

Then the phone calls they both knew eventually would come, did.

"I have to see these clients on Saturday; it's a multi-million dollar deal. Next weekend though, okay? I promise."

"I'm going to be really busy this weekend. I have to finish two paintings for my show and my agent wants me to meet the owner of a new gallery. You're coming to the opening, aren't you?"

"I have to go to Toronto to see my son…"

"I'm going to LA for a show…"

And so it was falling apart. Time together became less and less. Even the phone sex and emails dwindled until they, too, were mostly lost. A holiday or birthday note would show up on one computer or the other as would an invitation to a gallery opening or a party for a mutual friend.

A surprise visit to Pittsburgh by one would coincide with a scheduled trip to Toronto by the other.

Before they realized it, months had gone by.

Then a year.

Then two.

The art world adored the fresh young artist. His name was always appearing in the Times or Art World magazine. He painted and sold his paintings for very nice sums. He occasionally went to dinner with his agent or a few friends, both male and female. Sometimes they'd end up at the hottest gay clubs where they drank beer and danced. But he would go home each night very alone. There, he'd settle himself into his comfortable sofa and look through the magazines that accumulated on the side table. He knew, just by looking, which ads were His and the realization of how lonely he really was crept in on him, causing a chill.

The advertising world was changing; blatant sex no longer sold everything. So he changed, too. Oh, his ads were still edgy and interesting and his company was one of the foremost advertising agencies on the east coast. He doubted that would ever change, but it wasn't his goal now. He had a son whom he saw as often as possible. Babylon kept him busy and he even got out on the dance floor like old times. But these were new times; he no longer visited the back room for anonymous sex, and each night he would go home alone.

That's not to say there was no sexual outlet in their lives. There was the occasional liaison, very discreet and not very satisfying except for the briefest of time.

The paintbrush dangled loosely from a pale hand, blue paint dripping onto the worn linoleum. He had been using an awful lot of blue and black lately. His agent brought this to his attention one humid summer day as they ate lunch at an outdoor café. He shrugged his shoulders and sighed. It was true, he realized. Painting wasn't fun anymore. New York, once magical and promising, was now just big and noisy. His new friends didn't know him as well as his old ones back home. He finally lifted his hand, the tip of the brush almost touching the white canvas. Nothing happened. His arm wouldn't move.
He had no idea what to paint.

Woody's was busy during this hour before all the clubs opened. An untouched glass of Jim Beam sat on the bar.

"Something wrong with the J.B.?" the bartender asked a half hour later.

"Huh?"

"Your drink…"

"Oh. No, guess I wasn't thirsty."

He stood up as the rest of the gang surrounded him. They said that they were off to Babylon for a few hours of dancing and hopefully a trip (or two) to the backroom. They invited him to go along with them.

"It'll do you good…"

"You haven't been to Babylon except to sign paychecks in months…"

"Maybe you'll meet the love of your life…"

That comment garnered a raised eyebrow. The forgotten glass of Beam was picked up and swallowed in one gulp.

"I doubt it," he said softly and pushed past his friends and out into the cooling night air.

 

He had been painting since late afternoon and the last canvas for his new show was almost done. He stood back from the easel and stared at his work. He studied the color and composition and wasn't sure he was satisfied with it. His hand still gave him trouble, especially when he worked long hours, but he wasn't going to use that as an excuse to quit. He rolled his head from side to side to get some of the kinks out of his neck and shoulders. A massage would do wonders right now, he thought, but considering there was no one else in the room with him, he would have to settle for a hot shower. He tried not to think of the strong hands that would massage the kinks and cramps from his hand after the bashing. He shook his head and sighed. No matter how much he tried, the memories kept creeping into his life and he wondered what he was doing here instead of being where he really wanted to be.

With the person he really wanted to be with.

 

Babylon was still going strong when he walked out into the spring air. The sidewalk was crowded with young men going to or coming from Woody's or one of the many clubs in the area. He tried not to glance at the lamppost that had sealed his fate one fall night many years ago, but something made him look this night. He stared at the light that shone off the shock of blond hair. The figure leaning against the post stood up straight and stared back at him.

Time stood still for both of them.

The older man moved slowly toward the younger, afraid that if he moved too fast, the vision would disappear.

But it didn't.

"You're supposed to be in New York."

"I was, but it wasn't where I wanted to be."

"Where do you want to be?"

"Where do you want me to be?"

"I want you to be with me, forever."

"Then I'll be with you forever."

"I still have the rings."

"Yes," was the answer, spoken with a Sunshine smile.


 

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