It was supposed to be a One Night Stand

It was supposed to be a One Night Stand

Unknown Sadie

1

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When I first moved to Boston, two and a half years ago, all I had honestly seen were photos from the internet, and the few that my friend Tracy sent to me via e-mail. It took me all of four pictures to fall in love with the city; the archaic brick buildings and the naturalistic serenity of skyscraper lights glinting diamonds off the smooth surface of the ocean with a crescent moon hanging in a star lit sky. The orderly hustle and bustle of cars moving like carrier ants over the Longfellow Bridge in their eternal commute from work to home; all of it made the city look so glamorous - even if they were simple photographs.

I had to see it all, though. I really did!

When I arrived in Boston, the very first thing I was itching to see was the Boston Public Gardens, to sit before the stature of George Washington and absorb the scenery around me.

But, like anything in this world, money is an essential. I never made it to the Public Gardens or Fenway Park, or even the lush courtyard of the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. You see, I moved to Boston to escape the scrutiny of my parents over their now eighteen year old…son.

I know it’s dangerous, but I met Tracy online when I was fifteen. He had just turned eighteen when we started talking, and after taking out my internal and emotional frustrations on him for three years, he agreed to let me move in with him provided I get a job and split our rent. Without much else of a choice, I’ve had a full time job in Boston’s Veggie Planet working first as a bus boy. My personality and perseverance, though, quickly landed me the job of manager, which took the stress off of Tracy and I. Before that point, we were only just barely able to handle the rent on our one room apartment.

But, I’ll admit, that’s a story in and of itself. One I keep firmly in my past.

All this goes to begin my latest adventure, though. After almost three years of now non-stop work in a very stressful environment, about two days ago I had collapsed on the job from exhaustion. Though I didn’t threaten to sue, the higher ups assured me that it would be best for my health (and for the wellbeing of the company’s legality) if I took two weeks of a paid vacation.

Today, the third day of my vacation, I’ve decided to begin my explorations of the city of Boston, and thus is how my adventure begins.

My first stop was bound to be the most sentimental. Tracy had agreed to join me on today’s exploration to the Boston Central Cemetery located in the Boston Common.

In the middle of the park, before we reached the Cemetery itself, we paused for a moment. The stark trees of the park were either limp with the weight of sodden leaves trying to troop it out through the dull throb of winter, or intricate webs of dexterous, finger-like branches nakedly reaching for the sky in vain. The branches, the grounds, walkways and lamp posts were all covered in a fine layer of innocent white powder. The pathways were lit almost brighter than I could have ever wanted them with the sun glinting its blinding judgment off the snow and into our meek human eyes.

“It’s so beautiful.” I observed - unneeded albeit.

Tracy nodded his red head, pale skin blending in smoothly with the milky background. His eyes, the color of frosted glass examined the scene with a certain mechanical observation, taking in everything to a more precise degree than I ever could with one sweeping glance. “I was ten, the last time I was here.” His voice surprised me - smooth as liquid and rare as gold.

Both of us wore long overcoats, and had grown out our hair to give our necks added protection from the bitter cold. Tracy and I are opposites, you see, in almost every way.

He’s rather tall, closing in on six feet with handsome red hair and scrutinizing, analytical features. His glasses slipped down his nose awkwardly. My hair is an unruly blonde, my height just over five four putting us at ends with one another.

I rubbed my gloved fingers together in the shelter of my deep downy pocket and smiled at nothing in particular, “Is it different than you remember?”

His eyes grew dark - they always did when he thought back more than a few years. After a moment, he returned to my reality, “I was smaller then; this park seemed so much bigger. I thought that it could take me days to walk from one end of the park to the other. But, no. The park has not changed.”

I nodded, knowing that was more of an answer than I had ever expected of him. Perhaps he was feeling philosophical today. No, that’s wrong; Tracy is always in a Philosophical mood. I wondered what had made him so decidedly talkative today, though.

We continued in silence for a short while until we came upon the Cemetery gates. Ominous metal doors hung open, widely accepting mouth ready to swallow the souls of the visitors coming to mourn or to learn from some Godly experience the whole of what life offered after death. We entered slowly, each of us partaking in the ominous dull glow of the sun, the looming weight of souls on our shoulders. We paused at the gate, and I watched Tracy close his eyes and twitch his lips in an infallible prayer to someone. I suddenly got the sense that there was more of a moral reason behind his coming with me to these parts.

As we started into the deeper regions, winding through tombs that appeared paper thin, leaning forward with that same ominous weight that drew our shoulders down and made our breath heavy, I began to fully appreciate the reasons I had come here. I pulled out my camera and began to take pictures, making sure to stand far enough away from the tombstones sunken into fresh snow as to distort the words or images carved into the hallowed stone precepts of each gravesite. I noted that some stones held blank canvases, towards men who probably had blank faces some distance below our feet.

Sighing, I ran my gloved fingers over one particular face, brushing off the bits of snow and dust that clung to the stony surface. A name, unrecognizable, stared me in the face. Dark and heavy, as if I should have known the name of the person but, like an ignorant child, had brushed it away to some dark chamber of my mind where the information would be forever lost, no matter how many times relearned.

“Abraham H. Roux.” Tracy stood a handful of graves away, kneeled down in the cold snow with gentle fingers dusting vainly at the inscription on its face. I turned and moved towards him, trying to measure the paradoxical look in his eyes. “He was my great, great, great grandfather.” He answered the unasked question.

I was tempted to ask the necessity of his coming down here just to see the grave of a man whom he had never met, who would otherwise have no significance in this man’s life. I let the curiosity starve in my throat, unasked.

He smiled then, and it lit something deep in my chest. A tenderness in both of us. “He left my father heirlooms, precious gifts. I just wanted to be as close to Him as I could be before I inherited them. Perhaps to let us both know that I still find respect for more than the gold baubles locked away in some box.”

I frowned, confused. There were often times that sentiment bothered me. I never had it growing up, after all. I never felt any need for sentiment, seeing as I never had anything to feel sentimental about - perhaps it’s a personal flaw, a character complexity that made me unique. Perhaps I’m simply trying to rationalize my own insensitivity in comparison to someone so righteous - or someone whom I find so anyway.

It was another long moment before Tracy stood and tightened his overcoat with a visible shiver. Smiling at him, I shook my head, dislodging the freshly fallen snow.

“Forecast didn’t call for snow.” I noted as I looked up at the testy skies where the sun had been only moments before, now shadowed over in discomfort. I bundled up myself as a chilled breeze picked up over the grounds, enough cold to send a chill even down the spine of God should he have chosen to take yet another human frame.

Tracy was already walking towards the gates, “I think it’s time we head back.” he called.

Perhaps a little disappointed, I followed suit.

The door clacked shut with a rattle. It was loose in the frame, leaving a constant draft of cold air in the winter, making the small apartment Tracy and I shared terribly uncomfortable on days like this. Neither of us unbundled our jackets as we moved through our respective routines.

Tracy pulled a hard right upon entering, moving into the small kitchen, separated by not more than a thin, low wall, and put a kettle on the stove. I moved the opposite direction, towards the crooked, haggard old wood burning stove and settled to work with two logs, an old news paper from, perhaps, a year ago and some soggy matches.

As if by some miracle, one of the matches sparked and caught the newspaper. I sat back on my toes and gingerly tried to coax the flicker into a flame.

“That was certainly an interesting venture.” Tracy slipped onto the room quietly, slowly relieving himself of his scarf. Our living room was our bedroom, both mud green couches having seemed to see many years of intense battle doubled as fold-out beds. He draped his scarf over his prospective couch, closest to me and plopped himself down with a heavy sigh.

The sounds were comforting to me as the room came to life. The slow flicker of my growing flame, the subtle gurgling of the water in the pot, the shifts Tracy made on the couch. I never took these sounds for granted, seeing as I’ve come to realize that the insanity of silence is a God given torture.

I breathed life into the flame. It gave a solid snap as it took the wood and I closed the little metal door with triumph, “It was. Today the Public Gardens, tomorrow…”

I could hear the sound of his smirk beside me as I continued to stare at the little closed door. Each metal filament stood out to me, awkwardly dancing with the growing light and warmth of the fire. “You don’t know what to do next, do you?”

He was right.

“There’s so much to do. I’m not so sure I know where to start!” Eagerness flooded my veins, but uncertainty made me nervous.

Tracy shrugged and sat back into the couch, laying his head back and getting comfortable. “Hmm. I have work in six hours…” He mumbled, usually indicating that he was ready to sleep. I did empathize, working in a bar meant he worked night shifts, which also meant that he was gone by the time I got home (or asleep) and by the time and asleep when I left. Sometime I knew we didn’t spend much time together.

And then it struck me, clear as day! “How about I go to work with you tonight?” I asked. He perked up, curious, “I’ve never actually gone out to a bar, you know.”

“That’s because you’re still only twenty.” He said pointedly.

“You started working there when you were twenty.”

“Work under special pretenses.” He growled, none too pleased.

The room fell silent. Then: “You should get laid.”

Tracy was silent, then burst out into a helpless fit of laughter. “What?” he demanded, another loud chuckle, as if it were funnier than it was supposed to be. It wasn’t supposed to be funny. “And what is your reasoning?”

“You’re a grumpy old man!” I stuck my tongue out at him, “Twenty-three is the new thirty, you know.”

He scowled, and then grinned again. “And I suppose you feel as if you’re getting closer to being an old man yourself?”

“Perhaps…” I sat down on the floor, opening the door to throw another log into the fire. The room was warming up now, and the cold outside world was already appearing to be an unpleasant memory. “But perhaps not; I never get to have any fun!”

He chuckled. “And what would be fun? Going to my bar and being picked up by strangers? You’re too young for that, I wouldn’t allow it.” His voice took on a paternal effect.

In the other room the tea kettle sang.

“This may be my only chance to ever go to a bar.”

He was frowning again as he stood to go tend to the screaming contraption. Meanwhile I sulked backwards and folded my arms on my knees, leaning against my couch. The house went quiet, as if Tracy had dropped off the radar for a moment with sound.

The screams stopped and Tracy returned with his usual tea. He sat back down and drank it quietly.

“You know, I’m still a virgin.” Tracy coughed on his drink - startled by the comment, “I hate it too. I always have to turn people down because I can never afford to miss work…”

“And you think that having sex will fulfill some deep rooted qualm you have? What will happen when you give yourself up to someone who doesn’t deserve it?”

I shrugged, “Maybe. It just sucks.”

“If that’s how you articulate this situation, then perhaps you’re not ready for such an experience.” He took another long sip.

I twisted my face, glared at him. “And what about you?”

He shook his head, “Young and foolish. I would take it back if I could. For her as well.”

Oh yea. I sometimes forgot that Tracy was straight for all of the free time we had was spent together. I sighed again. “I wanna make my own mistakes.” I said, shaking my head, “It’s a burden I’d have to bear, but something new to life.”

“You have enough burdens.”

I stuck my tongue out at him again. “I’m tired of this though! Every day is the same - this apartment, my job, the only people I know are you and the guys at work! I haven’t had a relationship since I was seventeen and then I was…”

“I know.”

The room fell to painful silence. The fire snapped beside me and my eyes became heavy with the tranquility of the warmth seeping into my core. That’s one aspect of the winters here that I adore - the warmth of a real fire is enough to put anyone at peace.

There was a long silence. “Perhaps if only for the social aspect of it, I suppose I can let you go. You can meet Dalton and Sherry.” I perked up, he took another long sip, “But know this - you aren’t to hit on anyone. This isn’t a speed dating thing, this is a social trip. I can get you in, but no alcohol. Understand?”

“Yes!” I jumped up with new energy.

“I mean do you really understand?”

“Yes!” I hopped up onto my couch, feeling like a little kid.

He sighed, “I have a bad feeling about this.”