Talker's Graduation

Brian had been in
    the hospital, and Big Harry Nads, her replacement rat, had lived
    right until Brian had almost graduated. They had debated then—
    what next? Another rat? A cat? A dog? And then the opportunity
    had come to move here, their little cottage by the sea, the tiny
    haven of peace and heaven that Talker had never dreamed about.
    When Brian’s Aunt Lyndie had suggested they raise the
    animals to sell the fleece to local spinners/dyers, it had seemed
    perfect. They had the two cats, half-feral, half-affectionate, slinky,
    purring things that may or may not wake up on the foot of their bed
    or the hood of their car, but the sheep and alpacas had been…
    well, exotic, and sweet, and fun.
    Talker loved them—he could feed them and stroke them and
    they simply enjoyed him, and then baaad or bleated or whatever
    and trotted away. They were actually better company than
    Sunshine or Big Harry, and Talker would bring carrots or sweet
    grasses or oats and spend hours petting them, just listening to the
    wind and the surf and feeling that luxe, living fur of theirs under his
    hands.
    If he’d had any idea that he and Brian would have ended up in
    this little cottage right by the sea, he might have been more excited
    about the offer to move to Petaluma, actually. But then, Brian
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    hadn’t exactly been forthcoming about the offer. How were either of
    them to know that Mark was being completely sincere?

    THE show had been held in the reception hall of the library, which
    Tate had always thought sounded like a tiny room with gross
    carpeting and plastic chairs. It wasn‟t. It was called the Library
    Galleria, and it was a big, gorgeous ballroom with marble floors and
    arching ceilings and a second story level where people could
    wander and look down at the crowds below.
    It was beautiful, and the art being displayed there was even
    more so. Brian was one of three artists being showcased, and Tate
    Walker couldn‟t look at the sculptures on their pedestals or boxes
    without feeling cowed and unworthy.
    This was Tate Walker‟s boyfriend here? Brian looked good—
    handsome and assured. Talker had made him cut his hair the week
    before, so it was only a little long, because that much long, wheat
    colored hair just shouldn’t be cut short, and they had both hit the
    thrift stores hard until they‟d come up with sports jackets to wear
    over jeans. They‟d sprung for new shirts and Brian had a tie, and
    they both were freshly shaved (even Talker‟s tattoo side of his
    head), and Talker had bought a new nose stud for Brian with a tiny
    Celtic cross etched on the top, to match his own.
    But Brian looked—professional. Self-contained. He‟d nodded
    and smiled and stood quietly, listened intently when people spoke,
    and never made the mental missteps that might frighten people into
    thinking he was a temperamental artist who couldn‟t be relied upon.
    Talker had twitched so badly in the course of the night that
    he‟d managed to scatter hors d‟oeuvres all over the carpet once
    and spill wine on his blazer another time. Brian had stopped what
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    he was doing both times and tended to him—helped him pick up
    the food, wiped gently at his coat with a napkin.
    “It‟s okay,” Brian had murmured the second time. “No one here
    is paying any attention to us. It‟s all about the art, all right?”
    Talker nodded and covered Brian‟s hands with his own. “I
    haven‟t even seen all your pieces,” he mourned. “I just want so
    badly for them to think you‟re awesome.” And to not embarrass
    you.
    Brian colored. “You haven‟t seen them all?” he asked, a little
    strained. “Have you seen the main one? The one Mark put in the
    center of the library? He said it‟s the cornerstone of the show. You
    haven‟t seen that one?”
    Talker shook his head. He knew instinctively that this was the
    piece that Brian had shown Orenskeezer to make the guy back off.
    Talker had never told Brian he‟d been there that night—and he‟d
    never doubted, ever again, that Brian would simply forget that he
    loved his boyfriend.
    Brian looked strained and upset for the first time that evening.
    “You have to see it, Talker. You have to.”
    A lovely woman in her fifties came up and touched Brian‟s
    arm, looking for attention, and Brian turned to her with a smile that
    Tate was beginning to recognize as his “This is a patron” smile.
    “Thanks,