Memory
He sees Tulio everywhere.
Any dark head, any slim back, any set of narrow shoulders—and it sends his heart racing away. And then the head dips, the back bends, the shoulders hunch, and it's all right again, but still his stomach churns.
He barely sleeps at night, tossing and turning. Memories flood him. He remembers Spain, a lifetime ago. He remembers the lifeboat. He remembers how warm the grass always was, in the New World.
I will always love you, he had whispered, curled along Miguel's side. Tulio's lips brushed his ear when he spoke, and it was as though they were one person. Wind ruffled that long hair, loose and damp from swimming, and Miguel could only say Thank God.
But Miguel is alone with only his thoughts, and he knows now there are no Gods—only bitter humans, stealing and clawing their way to happiness. He perches on the edge of his pallet in some dank room, and he thinks I am no better than he is. His stomach rebels yet again and he leans over his chamber pot, vomits. It happens most nights. He empties his chamber pot out the window, knowing that no one will be out this late and if they are, they're up to no good and probably deserve a bucket of puke on their heads. He sighs, staring blankly out of the window.
He wonders where Tulio is now. He wonders if he has babies with Chel. He can't be angry with her, as hard as he tries. It wasn't her who broke his heart.
It's just you and I, he had promised, fists clenched up in Miguel's own. You and me forever. Partners, right? His smile had flashed out, brash and yet guarded, and Miguel—stupid and foolish and so in love—he had smiled back, and believed.
He pushes his hair out of his face, dirty blonde hair that wants washing but he doesn't care enough these days. Movement on the street catches his eye. A man is riding a white horse and new memories come rushing back—they always do. Perhaps it would be stranger to say memories went rushing out.
You gave my life adventure, he had cried out, and Miguel—foolish, trusting, weak from hunger and parched with thirst—had believed he was not just joking.
The man dismounts, willowy and dark-headed. Miguel tries to stop watching him. His boots are quiet on the paving stones. He seems unsure of where he is going.
You are my wealth, Tulio had panted, hot and sweaty above him, their legs slick and sliding against each other. His narrow back arched and he threaded his long hands through Miguel's thick blonde hair. You are all the gold I've ever needed.
"No more memories," Miguel says out loud, standing up to close the window, to block out the pain. Too much pain can ruin a man. And though he still has faith—he still believes, still foolish after all these years, same old dreamy Miguel, he can't help but harden his heart (if just for tonight). Because the dark-haired men never are Tulio, and they never will be. The narrow shoulders are never the ones he has so fondly thrown his arms around. He lays down on the narrow pallet and stares up at the ceiling. "Not tonight."There will be tomorrow night—and the next night, and the night after that, going on forever. Plenty of time for remembering.
At the sound of the shutters banging shut, Tulio looks up.