Page 15

Fifteen

Tuesday sometime

Tom

Charlie had spent ages looking at a Robert Rauschenburg piece made from layers of plexiglass each printed in abstract black and white patterns which played off each other depending on the angles of the light. Tom was impatient. He wanted to see the Georgia O’Keefe exhibition, and then the huge Miro in the big open space on the way out. But he told himself to get a grip. Charlie was new to all this, and he, Tom, wanted Charlie to enjoy it without feeling rushed. It wasn’t as if they couldn’t visit again. The Georgia O’Keefe was worth waiting for, but he struggled to focus. Paintings of desert landscapes. Hard blue skies, dark red rocks. The sun changing the colours to bronze and purple as it moved overhead, a huge yellow ball burning up the sparse vegetation, sending small animals scuttling to underground burrows, drying any moisture in an instant. Tom could feel the heat on his skin, reddening it until it was sore and peeling. He looked down at his feet. They were bare, sinking into red hot sand. The sand was blowing across the floor of the art gallery, getting deeper until he struggled to walk. The ceiling had gone, leaving only the sky and the sun and the heat, always the heat.

Tom heard himself cry out for water, but no one came. It was just him alone in the desert, sinking deeper into the hot sand, feeling his skin peeling from his body as he burned.

He heard a voice telling him there was an oasis ahead if he would just walk toward it. But when he lifted a foot out of the sand, more sand tumbled back into the hole until his foot was trapped again. He fell forward and tried to drag himself toward the oasis. It has water, and trees and soft grass the voice said. All you have to do is walk toward it.

This is a dream, he told himself. A dream . I went with Charlie to the Museum of Modern Art and there was no sand on the floor. We held hands and I showed him my favourite pieces, and he told me how he loved the big, crazy abstracts even though I make, and like, small, intimate prints of people. Charlie was getting the confidence to say what he liked and it just made me love him more. This is a dream of a memory, or the memory of a dream. Because it wasn’t hot that day, and now he was burning up.

It’s a dream.

* * *

Tom woke up in Wales. It was cold and wet as he and Charlie trudged uphill through the woods. The scent of pine trees and damp earth was strong. Lichen glowed after the rain. At the top there was a magnificent view, or there would be if the clouds lifted. On a good day it was possible to see right across the valley to the mountains of Snowdonia rising beyond. Beyond the mountains was the sea and then Ireland.

He reached for Charlie’s hand, and found it slick with rain. He pulled Charlie toward him and they kissed, faces speckled with tiny drops of moisture. Charlie’s lips were warm, and he smelled of sheep’s wool from the new sweater he had bought from a craft stall on the market.

“It’s still too warm, really,” Tom heard Charlie say. “But it’s cooling down. Don’t you feel it cooling down?” Tom didn’t know why he should worry about cooling down. He was in Wales where it rarely got hot enough to worry about overheating. Charlie would keep him warm. He slipped his hands under the bottom of Charlie’s new sweater, feeling the smooth skin beneath Charlie’s clothes and he kissed Charlie’s neck below his ear. Breath caught in his throat and he suddenly had difficulty swallowing. Charlie was beautiful in the rain and Tom needed him so badly it hurt. He had a sudden vision of Charlie, drunk in the Rainbow, and again, in the dark outside the college asking him about his work. He licked up the side of Charlie’s neck and teased the lobe of his ear, tasting the rain, and the hint of salty sweat. He shuddered with desire.

“You’re tickling me.” Charlie was laughing, but he didn’t move away. Tom’s dick was on board as Charlie pushed him against a tree and their kisses became deeper, tongues tangling. Charlie was hard too. They drew away to breathe and Charlie laughed again. “I can’t get enough of you, Tomos Dylan,” he said. “I even want to fuck you halfway up a mountain in the rain.”

Then Tom realised that he wasn’t awake. He was still dreaming. He tried to force himself to wake up but all that happened was that he was back on the path through the woods, walking upward in the mist but he was on his own. Charlie had gone. He began to sweat under his waterproofs. He wanted to take them off to cool down. He needed to wake up, but the dream wouldn’t let him go. Every time he thought he was waking, he realised it was only a dream about waking from a dream.