in parentheses

Jesse Liberty is developing a novella-in-flash. He is also the author of twenty five best-selling computer books. Jesse lives in Massachusetts. He is active in the queer community and has been out since high school in the early 1970s. Social media: https://hachyderm.io/@jesseliberty, on Twitter as @JesseLiberty

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David and I are slowly taking off each other’s clothing when I notice that the moles on his arm are larger than they used to be.. I run my fingers over them; they are jagged and raised slightly. While he undresses me, I say, “The spots on your arm have changed.”

He shrugs and continues removing my clothing, but I stop him. “They’re not the same,” I insist. “You have to have them looked at.”

“Not now” he says.

“Promise me you’ll see a doctor soon.”

“Okay,” he says, lowering his head, “I’ll find a doctor.”

When I see him next, he is crying. “The doctor thinks the melanoma may have come back. He took a biopsy.”

I tell him, “He doesn’t know. Wait for the results.” We cry together anyway. I’m sure it is going to be very bad news, and that makes it hard to comfort him.

“Just hold me,” he says. “Don’t try to make it better, don’t try to fix it, just hold me.”

That week is hell. MRIs, blood tests, more tests. Finally, the doctor calls and I go outside while David speaks to him. When he hangs up, he comes to join me. I want to run before he can speak.

  He is talking about how the cancer has spread, but I can’t hear him. There is a buzzing in the wind and all I can see is a bench about 25 yards away. It’s green with speckles of white bird droppings on it. There are six slats and they are held up by concrete posts. It’s in partial shadow. No one is sitting on it. It is peaceful. I want to sit there. Alone.

 I come back to what he is saying, and take him in my arms. “They can’t be sure. They could be wrong. You need to see another doctor.” It isn’t clear which of us I’m reassuring. Of course they are right, he is going to die. I’m helpless, unable to offer anything but fake reassurances that neither of us believes. I hold on tight, but he is crystalline-fragile and I’m afraid to hug too hard.

I look at him, and the changes from just a few weeks ago are catastrophic. His face is sallow and the skin under his eyes is dark. He is dying right in front of me, sitting here in our pathetic back yard with brown grass and ugly trees.

 “David, what can I do? Tell me what you need.”

“I don’t need anything.”

“God damn it, I have to do something.”

“Men are such assholes,” he says with a slight smile. “Make love to me. That’s all I need. That’s all I want.”

I pull him close to me and gently begin to unbutton his shirt. But there is too much fear in him to go slowly. He tears at my shirt, frantically pawing at my belt.

“Slow down,” I say, but he shakes his head and pulls down my pants. He strips off his own. Before I can remove the rest of my clothes, he is pulling me toward him.

He is demanding, urging, pressing for more. He begins to grunt: atavistic, primal, insistent. I’m afraid of hurting him, but he won’t relent.

When we finish, we lie in silence for a long while, breathing heavily. Then he says, “I hate this. I just want to live my life with you. I want to travel. I want to think about other things.”

 I’m terrified, not only for him, but of him. He is sickness; he is death. I can feel my skin beneath my clothing, covering itself with dark spots, blemishes, moles. Every day, I tear my shirt up and of course there is nothing there, but as soon as I put it back down, I feel the moles growing again. 

I have nothing left to give him. I’m consumed by my fears. I live on cold coffee, and cigarettes and I’ve begun to drink at night, but it doesn’t help. I stare at the ceiling, trying to decide if I’ve drunk enough.

 “David, we need someone to help take care of you.”

“I need you,” he says. “I need you to take care of both of us.”

He enters hospice care and I break. The building is death. I can smell it on me.

I am standing with his mother, just outside David’s room. It is late afternoon. People are there, but they ignore us; lost in their own worries and grief. They walk by, heads down, murmuring, some weeping quietly.

 “He is asking for you,” his mother says. She has been telling me this for weeks. Each day I hover in the hall, immobilized, unable to go in.

“I can’t. I want to, but I can’t.” I say, and again the tears come. A nurse passes in the hall with a tray of medication. Doors swing shut. There is an announcement over the public address.

“You are a child. Really, I am disgusted by your leaving him like this.” 

I am disgusted by me too.

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