Talker's Graduation

offered (with Tate‟s
    agreement, of course) to have Mark over for Christmas Eve, along
    with pretty much everyone who helped them move, but Mark had
    declined. Talker never knew exactly what was said during the
    conversation, but he did catch Brian‟s muttered, “If he wants to be
    alone that‟s his problem. A man who can‟t just have friends doesn‟t
    deserve boyfriends.” Talker was very proud of how he didn‟t push
    that issue. The man had made his choice, and for Brian, it
    obviously never was a choice, and Talker was content with that.
    Talker’s Graduation | Amy Lane
    49

    They hadn‟t even seen the studio/gallery yet—it was on the
    main street of the town and it would take Brian about a month to get
    it ready to open—but the house was another story.
    “Oh Jesus, Brian,” Tate had said from the passenger seat of
    their little car. “It‟s twice as big as our apartment—and it‟s so
    pretty!”
    It was very pretty. It had weatherproof paneling in gray and a
    teal-colored wooden trim, and it sat on a small patch of lawn that
    had been once carefully planted on the sandy ground. The two
    acres the place sat on was mostly that same hard packed sand, but
    there were lots of succulents, the kind with the purple and gold
    blooms, and some earthy parts that held poppies in the spring.
    Later, Tate would start carting in earth whenever he could find it
    cheap and trying to landscape in his spare time, because his first
    view of the cottage, small and perfect in its ragged little lawn with
    the ocean at its back, had been almost like a Thomas Kincaid
    painting come to life. Once he and Brian got moved in, he‟d been
    driven, somehow, to keep that gold light on it, the kind that came
    when the sun slipped horizontally between the clouds and
    saturated their little home with a shining, joyous blaze.
    But that night, it was perfect just as it was. After they‟d moved
    all their stuff in, someone had gone to town to find pizza to feed
    everybody and they‟d had a quiet, celebratory dinner. They ate it
    bundled up in sweat shirts and blankets as they stood out on the
    back stoop that walked straight onto the sand and watched the
    ocean at night. That night, Lyndie and Craig had sacked out on the
    couch under a sleeping bag and everyone else had driven the hour
    and a half back to Sacramento in the late night. Brian and Talker
    had managed to assemble their own bed, and they fell into it, tired,
    bemused, and happy.
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    50

    “Look at that,” Brian had whispered, and sure enough, they
    could see the stars and the moon on the water through their back
    window. Later they would put the insulation up, so they only had to
    see it when they wanted and they didn‟t wake up shivering, and
    they would add area rugs and remember to wear moccasins
    because the gorgeous, hardwood space of the cottage was not
    always warm. Tonight, though, it was like looking at the whole wide
    world spread out below their toes, while they cuddled in bed with as
    many blankets as they could find.
    “God, it‟s like we can reach out and touch something,” Tate
    had whispered back reverently, and he caught Brian‟s quick grin in
    the dark.
    “Wait until tomorrow—I‟ll reach out and touch something!”
    Tate rolled his eyes. “You know—you‟re supposed to be an
    artist or something, but I swear, you don‟t have a scrap of poetry in
    your soul.”
    Brian‟s mouth had been hot and demanding on his, and Tate
    hadn‟t said another coherent thing after that. The message was
    clear as they huddled under the thousand and one blankets on their
    newly stained sheets: with them, sex was all the poetry Brian‟s soul
    ever craved.

    THEY both put on trunks and hoodies because their wetsuits were
    outside, hanging over the fence by the outside shower, and it was a
    little too chilly to be wandering around in their underwear. Brian put
    on coffee for when they were done, and then turned to go out front
    to the pens with the animals when the phone rang. He grimaced
    and Tate said, “I got it, baby. I’ll meet you in the water.”
    Talker’s Graduation | Amy Lane
    51

    He had a feeling he knew who it was and had to brace himself
    when he saw the caller ID.
    “Tate?” JoEllen had the voice of a large middle-aged black
    woman, which was good, because that’s what she was, big bosom,
    red lipstick, and short-cropped girl-fro and all. Her voice made Tate
    feel warm and cared for, which was probably a