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Read My Lips(93)

By:Daryl Banner


When I kissed her that New Year’s Eve, I’d never felt more complete. I was frigid as fuck and couldn’t feel my dick, but I watched that ball drop, I had Dessie in my arms, and I was the happiest man alive.

And then she dropped the L word on me.

For some reason, I didn’t return it. I felt it. I had it. I still have it, but couldn’t get that word past my frozen lips. What the fuck was wrong with me? The moment was perfect and I let it slip away.

Now, Dessie will be leaving to go back home when this semester’s over. And that’s just in six weeks. Six weeks I know will fly right the fuck by. Then, she’ll have an amazing summer in New York. She told me her sister’s latest “gorgeous boyfriend” also happens to be the owner of a chain of popular piano bars, and he was looking for a regular act to rotate through them over the summer. Of course, Dessie was Cece’s first—and perhaps only—recommendation.

What do I have to look forward to this summer? Cleaning pools. Landscaping work. Construction too, if I can work something out with Pete like I did last year. Anything to build up the funds for my fourth and final year. Normally, that sounds like bliss to me.

But the thought of staying here without Dessie … I feel so guilty, to be so fucking happy for her, yet torn apart inside.

I grip my good-show gift so tightly in my pocket, it hurts.

Brant busts through the glass doors, pulling me from my thoughts, and the first thing I notice is a red hand-shaped mark across his cheek. I squint at him, making the universal sign for “what the fuck, dude?” which doesn’t take a sign-language-inclined person to understand. He tells me that, just now, his girl from last week ran into his girl from this week, a slap or two ensued from one or both girls upon his sputtering face, and now he may or may not have an extra ticket to the show.

I shake my head and laugh, pulling Brant in for a hug and saying, “You’re one fucking mess, that’s for sure.” With a slap to his chest, I add, “I taught you how to talk to girls. Maybe I should have taught you how to keep it in your pants sometimes, too. Moderation and shit.”

He smirks at me, points to his red-as-a-tomato cheek, and says, “With this pretty face?”

Just before the audience is given the five-minute get-your-asses-to-your-seats warning, Dmitri pops in and snatches Brant’s extra ticket. Together, they disappear into the theater, chatting away.

Oh, fuck. The five-minute warning.

My good-show gift.

She can’t start her show without my fucking gift.

Before I realize what I’m doing, I shove through the double doors leading down the back hallways to the dressing room. My feet carry me faster than I can keep up with them, stumbling twice as I make my way. My heart’s thrashing against the bone bars of my ribcage like an angry prisoner determined to break free.

My eyes blink when I reach the dressing room. Where is she?

I spot the backside of Victoria dressed in her costume for the show. I rush up to her and spin her around, her startled eyes meeting mine.

“Where’s Dessie?” I ask at once.

She mouths back: “Onstage already.”

Fuck. They must’ve already called places.

“Thanks,” I say, then smile tightly. “You look great. Break a leg.”

The next instant finds me at the stage door. I pull it open, ignoring the waving hands of someone behind me who may or may not be the stage manager as I fly into the wing, my eyes searching for my woman. I hunt through the darkness, pushing forth. Eyes and faces turn, the actors in the wings who are waiting for the show to start.

I want to cherish every moment I have with her. I ache at the idea that this is our last show together before the semester ends. My insides burn at the mere thought that when summer comes, Dessie goes, and I’ll have to spend three fucking months without her.

Every moment matters.

This is the opening of our show together—her as the voice to this show, and me as the bringer of light to her dark stage.

And I need to speak my piece. And I need to speak it now.

And she needs my good-show gift.

To badly misquote Emily-freakin’-Webb from Our Town, don’t us stupid living people know how precious each moment of our lives is? Even a lazy moment in my apartment, lounging on the couch with Dessie in my arms while we watch some dumb thing on TV? Even another everyday lunch we share in the UC cafeteria? Even a walk to class that we’ve walked a billion times before? Did I truly appreciate each of those seemingly insignificant moments before they slipped by?

Even now, tripping through the darkness backstage searching for my Desdemona. Even now as the final minutes tick away …

The final seconds …