Page 15 of Rhymes with Metaphor

R eg had written all of the poems in his chapbook, Player , in a white-hot fever while Flip was playing in his first Wimbledon.

Reg liked to tell himself Flip was the creative spark of his genius, but in practice, Reg barely wrote anything when he and Flip were together.

The brief time they were together consisted alternately of fucking and arguing about how little time they had together, Reg’s resentment of having to keep their relationship secret, and their mutual suspicions of what the other was doing and with whom when they were apart.

Flip hated Martin. He was convinced something was going on between Martin and Reg, no matter how many times Reg reminded him Martin was straight.

For the past few years, after playing in the French Open, Flip would fly to England from France, rent a car, and drive to Reg’s father’s place.

Normally, Reg was waiting to meet him. But today was Reg’s first day with Joel after Martin and Juliet had left, and Reg had forgotten about Flip, so when he heard the crunch of pebbles as a car pulled into the driveway, he thought that Martin and Juliet must have forgotten something.

He was completely caught off guard when Flip walked out to the poolside where Reg and Joel were sunbathing.

Flip set his bags down when he saw Joel. “Who’s that?”

Joel was asleep, lying on his stomach on the patio chair, his face peaceful. Reg adjusted the patio umbrella to shade him. Flip watched Reg with a disapproving expression.

“This is Joel,” Reg said quietly. “He’s my...” Muse? Companion? Buffer against Flip’s presence? “Friend.” Reg didn’t want to wake Joel or involve him, so he said, “Let’s go inside.”

Reg and Flip went upstairs.

“What are you doing here this early?” said Reg.

“I defaulted in the first round. It was televised. Didn’t you watch?”

“I missed it. What happened?”

“My wrist.”

“How is it?”

“Totally crocked,” said Flip. “No Wimbledon this year. I have to take a break.”

“For how long?”

“Three months. And I’m not allowed to jerk off for the next six weeks.”

“You don’t have anyone on the tour who can do that for you? Caroline, for instance?”

“I may retire,” said Flip. “Depending.”

The subject of Flip’s retirement had been bandied between them for years, specifically what it would mean for their relationship. Flip had pointed out that even if he retired, he couldn’t safely come out, as he’d lose any potential job opportunities, particularly coaching young boys.

“You could go back to school,” said Reg.

“That’s your solution to everything, Smithy. How’s that working out for you?”

“Spiffingly, thanks,” said Reg.

Reg showed him to the attic bedroom across from his.

“You’re in here,” said Reg, opening the door.

“Not in front of the kid, huh? Where’s he sleeping?”

“Downstairs,” said Reg.

“How long is he staying?” said Flip.

“For the duration,” said Reg.

Flip’s eyebrows twitched, but that was his only reaction.

They had dinner al fresco courtesy of Bethan, who was so happy to see Flip back again.

Reg, for his part, watched Joel, now he was awake, curious to see how he would react to Flip.

That Joel didn’t impress easily was something that had often gotten under Reg’s skin.

Tonight, it didn’t get under his skin because it was getting under Flip’s instead.

Flip was used to people being impressed with him.

He was successful and confident. At six foot four, he was imposing and athletic and six inches taller than Joel.

He’d made several “Top Ten Sexiest Men” lists at home and abroad.

But if Joel was attracted to Flip, he was hiding it perfectly.

He projected an air of being too polite to divulge how unimpressed he was.

He wasn’t rude, but he wasn’t effusive, which, in Fip’s books, was no different to disrespect.

There had always been an initial uneasiness when Flip and Reg reunited after a long separation.

Where have you been? What or who have you been doing?

But until now, the wondering had mostly been on Reg’s part.

Maybe it was Flip’s way of punishing Reg for this, but he didn’t come to Reg’s bedroom that night. But nor did Reg go to his.

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A t five o’clock in the morning, a knock sounded on Reg’s door, and Reg opened it to find Flip standing there in shorts and a T-shirt.

“Come for a run,” said Flip.

In his teens and early twenties, Reg had been a fitness fanatic, up at five every morning running for a couple of hours and then hitting the tennis court to practice.

When it became clear he wasn’t good enough to play professionally, he’d replaced running with writing and taken up smoking and drinking in a serious way.

This summer in particular, he’d taken loafing to extremes.

Reg retained some natural athleticism, but this morning, it petered out around ten blocks from the house, in a quiet lane where he had to stop to retch against someone’s garden wall. Flip stood and watched.

In the bushes, a mourning dove trilled. Reg wiped his mouth and straightened.

“What are you doing with that kid, Smithy?”

“I’m not doing anything. And he’s not a kid. He’s eighteen.”

“Eighteen-year-olds know nothing. Do you remember being eighteen?”

“I knew what I wanted.”

“He doesn’t want you,” said Flip.

Reg lit a cigarette so he wouldn’t have to reply. They headed back to the house.

“If that kid is gay, I’ll eat my racquet bag,” said Flip.

“If he’s straight, what’s the problem?”

“You. Making an ass of yourself.”

“I could say the same of Caroline. How is your beard, by the way?”

“Pregnant,” said Flip.

Reg stopped walking. “What?”

“Kidding,” said Flip, straight-faced.

“That isn’t funny.”

They walked in silence.

“What’s he doing here anyway?” said Flip.

“Recuperating, like you.”

“Why does he have to do it here?”

“He wants to be here.”

“I’m surprised, Smithy. I thought you’d go for someone more upmarket, like Martin.”

“Joel’s my friend,” said Reg.

“With benefits?”

“I’ve never had one of those,” said Reg. “Unless you qualify.”

The day was tense. Despite spending so much time apart, Flip and Reg were still as close and uncomfortable with each other as two people sharing a secret could be.

The present circumstances didn’t change that.

They went for a swim in the pool while Joel sunbathed nearby.

Flip outswam Reg and continued doing laps while Reg pulled himself out of the water and sat in a chair beside Joel.

Flip lunged out of the pool, and while he was towelling off, he said to Joel. “What grade are you in, kid?”

“He’s just finished his first year of pre-med,” said Reg.

“Then he should be able to answer for himself, shouldn’t he? Let’s play tennis.”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to play,” said Reg.

“I can play with my left hand.”

Reg and Flip went upstairs to put clothes and shoes on and get their rackets and balls. They left Joel behind at the pool, which suited Reg. He didn’t want Joel involved in this.

However, about half an hour later, Joel came down to the tennis court from the house with a pitcher of water and three glasses. Despite playing with his left hand, Flip was mopping the court with Reg. Reg couldn’t help feeling like he was letting Joel down.

“You’ve gone soft, Smithy,” said Flip.

Reg went to the side of the court, and Joel handed him a glass of water.

“Thanks,” said Reg.

While Reg was taking a drink, Flip said, “Why don’t you and the kid play against me? Maybe then you’d stand a chance.”

“He’s not a tennis player, Flip.”

“You couldn’t do any worse than you’re doing now.”

“Do you want to play, Joel?” said Reg.

“I don’t have a racket,” said Joel.

“I’ve got an extra one.” Flip fished it out of his racket bag and held it out, handle first.

Joel took it, and Reg showed him how to grip it properly, while Flip stood by and watched.

Seeing Joel and Flip in such close proximity was disorienting.

Reg was surprised by how small Joel was, in contrast to the space he occupied in Reg’s mind.

Reg wasn’t used to thinking of Flip as big, as he was only an inch taller than Reg, but compared with Joel, Flip was huge.

And Flip was rangy. If Joel had been healthy and taller, he would have been rangy too, but at five foot ten and still recovering from mono, he looked thin and vulnerable.

They began, at Reg’s suggestion, hitting a few practice ground strokes for Joel.

Joel had a natural, fluid motion, particularly on his backhand side, but he wasn’t quick on his feet, and he soon got out of breath trying to chase balls down.

Reg wondered how much of that was due to his recent illness.

When they played properly, Reg had to direct Joel where to stand and shouted, “Mine!” for most of the balls, to spare Joel having to run for them.

But it wasn’t long before Joel was sopping with sweat and shaking his wet bangs out of his eyes.

Reg stopped the play, got a headband out of his racket bag and pulled it over Joel’s head, tucking his damp hair underneath.

Until now, Flip hadn’t been trying, content to tire Reg and Joel out and move them around the court.

Now, Flip started aggressively hitting the ball, cutting angles across the court, playing drop shots and trick shots.

Showing off. As Flip hit what looked like an easy winner, Reg lunged at the ball and put up a weak lob.

Flip casually positioned himself and smashed the ball straight at Joel.

The ball struck him with a loud thump. Joel crumpled and dropped to the court.

Reg ran over and knelt beside him. Joel cradled his arm across his chest. He was gritting his teeth, but he didn’t make a sound.

“Did he hit your spleen?” said Reg.

Joel shook his head.

“Where, then?” said Reg.

Joel pointed below his chest.

“Feels like you can’t breathe?” said Reg.

Joel nodded.