"'Lo?" A gruff voice answers the phone.
I clear my throat. "Um, hi, is Anthony there?"
"Who?"
"Anthony. Or Tony."
The voice coughs and I detect the faintest hint of emphysema. "No. No Tony here." Click.
I sigh and replace the phone in the cradle. I've called every Higgins in the book and that was the last one, and there's no Racetrack. Whatever. I'll check the alumni association at Pulitzer's later.
Right now, I have things to do.
Rising from the couch, I straighten my flannel pajama pants and pad barefooted into the office, where Specs is diligently drawing the next installment of his comic. I stand in the doorway a moment, examining the way he's bent over his desk, his hair falling in his face and his glasses sliding down his nose. He's in The Zone, which means I am on The Prowl.
He doesn't hear me come in as I walk up behind him and wrap my arms around his shoulders. He jumps, and then relaxes as I plant kisses along his jaw and neck.
"Don't you have some work to do or something?" He sets his pencil down and tilts his head to the side a little, which, for some reason, tells me that he doesn't really want me to go to work.
"No weddings, no parties, nothing going on in the city, and it's Sunday. Gallery's closed." I nip at that little swell of muscle between his shoulder and his collarbone, pushing aside the collar of his T-shirt to plant more kisses.
"Well, don't you have a wedding of your own to plan?"
I nuzzle his neck and spin his chair around. "I'm working on it."
He chuckles. "Yeah, I can see you're just working your poor hands to the bone."
"Hey, I'm practicing for the honeymoon."
Specs laughs and puts his hand on the back of my head, bringing my lips to his. "By all means," he mumbles against my mouth, "don't let me interrupt your work."
I grin and take his hand, leading him through the office door and down the hallway to our bedroom. I hastily yank his shirt over his head and get to work on undoing his pants and belt.
"Are we in a hurry today?" He smirks at me.
I kiss him and smile. "Not so much with the talking, Specs."
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
I love the way our bodies fit together. Specs has fallen asleep and I'm curled against him, bare chest to bare back. His skin is warm and his breath is even, his stomach moving in and out against my arm. I lift my head a little and look him over, smiling.
Over the past twelve years, I've gotten to know every last inch of his body. Nothing is new to either of us when it comes to that. And yet he never ceases to amaze me, never fails to take my breath away at the most random moments. Like right now. Everything is the same it was when we were sixteen, but at the same time, it's all so very different.
"Stop staring at me, Dutch."
"What?"
Specs adjusts his head on the pillow without opening his eyes. "You're staring at me. Stop it."
I chuckle and press my lips to the back of his shoulder. "Sorry." I lay my head back down and draw him closer against my chest, sighing contentedly.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
"I'm sorry, you're what?"
"I'm getting married."
There's silence for a few moments on the other end of the line. I bite my lip. "Why am I afraid to ask to whom?"
"I don't know, Dad, why are you?"
My father sighs, and I can imagine he's pinching the bridge of his nose like he always does when he thinks about my life. "Is this one of those gay-marriage things that people go off about every couple of years?"
I smirk to myself, but try not to let it show in my voice. "Yeah, Dad, it's one of those."
He goes silent, and I know he's thinking. I figure he's probably leaning his head back in his expensive leather armchair, closing his eyes to the view of Central Park out his living room window, and thinking. "Johannes," he says, "I just don't know what to make of you sometimes."
"Feeling's mutual, Pop." I lay back on the couch and stare up at the ceiling. "So, look, I know you'll be uncomfortable and all that, and I know you hate my lifestyle. But I love him, Dad, and we're getting married... or as close as we can get to it, anyway. And it'd mean a lot to the both of us if you and Mom would come."
There's that silence on his end again. I don't know if he's considering my invitation, or if he's finally cracked and popped a cyanide capsule. I hear him sigh and smirk, knowing that the latter is at least out of the question. He takes a breath and I think he's going to say something, but it's at least thirty seconds before he does. "When is it?"
I grin. "October twenty-first. Three o'clock. At the gallery. You remember how to get there?"
"I believe so." I hear him scribbling down the information. "And is this a formal affair?"
"Well, no, we were thinking maybe we'd go for a nudist theme."
"You what?"
I laugh. "Kidding, Dad. Don't have a heart attack or anything. I can't get a wedding gift out of you if you keel over." He chuckles, even if he's trying to hide it. "Yes, it's formal."
"Alright." He pauses, like he's going to say something important, but instead says, "Well, I should be going. I have a lunch meeting."
"Okay." I sit up, stretch a little. "I'll see you on the twenty-first, Dad."
"Yes, you will. Goodbye, Johannes."
I start to say goodbye, then stop. "Dad."
"Yes?"
"Um. Love you."
"I love you too, Johannes."
