Page 16 of Rhymes with Metaphor

Reg squeezed his shoulder and looked into Joel’s frightened eyes. “You’re not dying. You’re just winded. You’ll get your breath back soon. It’ll be all right.”

Reg stayed with him until Joel began breathing again and gingerly pulled himself up. Reg helped him to the chair beside the court. Joel shot a hard look at Flip, who was standing on the other side of the net, hands on hips, looking impatient.

Reg bore down on Flip like a hawk on a hare. “That was deliberate.”

“I was trying to jam him,” said Flip.

“You drilled him in the solar plexus, you vindictive fuck.”

“Come on, Smithy. It’s a legit shot. If he can’t hit a volley, he’s got no business being that close to the net.”

“Pack your things and go.”

“What?” said Flip.

“You want me to call the paparazzi?” said Reg quietly. “Send them pictures of us together?”

“You wouldn’t,” said Flip.

“I will if you don’t go.”

Flip looked at him, looked at the ground.

Then he went to the side of the court and packed his racket bag.

Without saying a word to Joel, he slung the bag over his shoulder and walked away.

Reg followed him into the house and stood in the open bedroom doorway as Flip packed the rest of his things, then stepped aside to let him pass.

“Keys,” said Reg, holding out his hand.

Flip fished them out of his pocket and dropped them into Reg’s hand.

“Have fun playing with your kid,” said Flip.

Reg watched him drive off. He didn’t feel sad. Only empty. And that was sad in itself.

Reg returned to Joel, who was still sitting beside the court.

“I’ve sent him away,” said Reg.

“For how long?”

“Forever.”

Joel blinked. “But he’s your boyfriend.”

“He was my boyfriend.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I promised your sister I’d look after you.” Reg sat in the chair beside him. “Look, I should have said this a long time ago...I was an ass to you when we first met. I’m sorry.”

“For taking my drink away?”

“For thinking of you as an annoying kid. I’m sorry I was so unkind to you.”

Joel stared at the ground and said nothing.

To break the silence, Reg said, “Would you like me to cut your hair?”

Joel looked up. “What?”

“It’s getting long, and you can’t wear a headband all the time, can you? I know what I’m doing. I used to cut Martin’s.”

“All right,” said Joel.

Reg went into the house and got his mother’s grooming kit from the room where her things were still kept, along with a towel from the linen cupboard, which he flipped over his shoulder. In the kitchen, he filled an empty milk bottle with tepid water.

Joel watched Reg as he crossed the lawn. Reg draped the towel over Joel’s shoulders.

“Lean back,” said Reg.

Joel did, and Reg stripped his headband off and tipped the milk bottle slowly over his head until water was dripping onto the grass.

Reg buried his hand in Joel’s hair, releasing the smell of cut hay and sweat.

Joel closed his eyes, and that small gesture of trust encouraged Reg to look at his face.

By conventional standards, Flip was handsome. He’d done a photoshoot for Vogue once. Reg still had a copy of that issue tucked away, for discretion’s sake.

Joel wasn’t handsome, but Reg couldn’t get enough of looking at his face.

Reg opened the grooming kit. Inside were a pair of gold scissors, a gold comb, and a gold-handled mirror. He teased Joel’s hair between his fingers, struck by how soft it was.

It was one of those mild, languorous summer days demanding a leisurely pace, quiet, apart from the chirping of crickets in the grass, the snick of Reg’s scissors, the constant motion of the trees, heavy and green, and Joel’s soft breathing.

Nothing to feel but Joel’s hair and the cool breeze and the tautness of Joel’s forehead under his fingertips.

Joel kept his eyes shut and held perfectly still.

Reg felt that in the act of cutting, he was making a gesture of reparation for what Flip had done.

Reg only cut enough of Joel’s hair to keep it clear of his eyes, as cutting it shorter wouldn’t suit him. When he was finished, he ran both hands through Joel’s hair to free the loose hairs onto the towel, and then he pulled the towel away and shook it out.

“There,” said Reg.

Joel opened his eyes, blinked, and Reg handed him the mirror.

“Good?” said Reg.

Joel ran his hand over his hair, a hint of a smile on his face. He handed the mirror back. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

That evening, Reg and Joel sat on the lawn. They had finished a meal of Bethan’s braised short ribs, and Reg could still taste the wine sauce. It made him want an actual drink.

He went into the house and made up a pitcher of Pimm’s.

With Bethan’s sharpest knife, he cut lemon and lime and orange and cucumber into diaphanous, translucent slices, adding a handful of fresh mint and lime leaves as a final touch.

He put the pitcher and two pint mugs on a silver serving tray and brought them to the patio table.

“This calls for a drink,” said Reg. “An alcoholic drink.”

“I can’t.”

“The legal drinking age in England is eighteen,” said Reg. “And I don’t feel like drinking alone.”

“Have you considered not drinking?”

“Yes. I rejected it as a silly idea.” Reg filled the pint mugs from the pitcher. “Try this. If you don’t like it, I won’t insist.”

Joel took a sip and winced. “It’s bitter.”

“That’s the gin.”

Reg placed his chair beside Joel’s so that they were both facing west and could watch the sunset.

Reg drank his Pimm’s and smoked, feeling mellow.

They sat together in companionable silence, the ugly events of the afternoon smoothed over, like the orange and white of the sunset sky.

Despite his objection to the flavour, Joel continued to sip his drink.

“Why did he call you Smithy?” said Joel.

“My last name is Smith.”

“I thought it was Fieldfare,” said Joel.

“Fieldfare was my mother’s maiden name. Reginald Fieldfare is my nom de plume.”

“Your real name is Reginald Smith?”

“Reginald isn’t my real name. Two other boys in my year at school had the same first name as I do, so people started calling me Reginald, and it stuck.”

“What’s your real first name?” said Joel.

“John.”

Joel looked at him appraisingly. “You don’t look like a John Smith.”

“No, I never thought so.”

Joel finished his pint mug, and Reg refilled it for him. Joel drained the next mug considerably faster.

“How do you feel?” said Reg.

“Light-headed,” said Joel. “And I want to club a gnome.”

“That’s the alcohol. I’ll get you some coffee.”

“I think,” said Joel slowly, “that polypharmacy is contraindicated.”

“Who’s she?” said Reg.

Joel snorted a laugh. He settled back in his chair and closed his eyes.

His right arm lay beside Reg’s along the arm of the lawn chair, relaxed.

He had a pale and graceful hand, like an orchestra conductor’s.

Reg touched Joel’s hand briefly, and when Joel didn’t react, other than to partially open his eyes, Reg gently turned his palm to face the pale orange sky.

He traced soft circles on Joel’s palm with his index finger while Joel watched, eyelids heavy.

Flip’s hands and fingers were calloused and hard and often blistered and taped.

Joel’s hand was smooth and supple. Reg gently tugged each of Joel’s fingertips, then he placed his palm over Joel’s and left it there.

Joel stirred, slipped his fingers between Reg’s, and clasped his hand.

They neither spoke nor looked at one another.

Reg lay back and listened to Joel breathing softly, Joel’s hand in his, feeling exultant.

Later, after Reg had seen Joel to bed, wobbly, but otherwise fine, Reg looked out through the dormer window of his own bedroom, enclosed in thick, green foliage.

He felt both sad and guilty. How many summer days had he and Flip spent playing tennis and nights in Reg’s bed?

He recalled the sound of Flip’s ball striking Joel’s body.

Flip had always been cutthroat competitive, but when he had turned his killer instinct on Joel, he had killed something in Reg instead.

That aspect of Flip that had helped him excel at tennis was an inextricable part of him, and until today, Reg had always felt proud of being with Flip. Now, he felt ashamed.