Page 22 of Rhymes with Metaphor

T he next day, they packed and set off for Wales. While driving over the Severn Bridge, a poem popped into Reg’s head, but he couldn’t pull over and had nothing to write it on.

“Tell me, and I’ll remember,” said Joel. “I have a good memory.”

Reg, with no alternative, recited the words to Joel in fits and starts, feeling slightly naked and exposed as he did, but Joel seemed non-judgmental, almost clinical, in accepting his words.

Joel was surprised they didn’t have to show their passports when they crossed the border into Wales.

“I thought it would be a bigger deal,” said Joel. “Traveling to another country.”

“It is a big deal. And it’s not just another country. It’s another world.”

They pulled in at a rest stop. Reg bought a cup of revolting coffee and, at Joel’s request, some donuts, which were delivered in a red plastic basket accompanied by a small pot of chocolate pudding to dip in. The donuts were small, holeless, and covered in crystallized sugar.

“Those aren’t donuts,” said Joel.

“I know, but people here like to pretend they are, so please humour them.”

Joel got a handful of napkins from the dispenser and borrowed a pen from someone at a neighbouring table.

“What are you doing?” said Reg.

“Writing your poem.”

“Recite it to me.”

“I’m writing it down.”

“You don’t know where the line breaks are, so tell me what I said, and I’ll write it down.”

Joel began reciting. Maybe it was Reg’s imagination or some alchemical reaction that had occurred between Reg’s words entering Joel’s mind, and Joel speaking them back to him, or maybe it was Joel’s rich tenor voice, but it sounded even better than he remembered.

“Thank you,” said Reg.

“I like the way your words taste,” said Joel.

“And how does it feel to have me inside you?”

“Satisfying,” said Joel.

“You didn’t have to answer,” said Reg, tucking the napkins into his pocket. “I was only curious.”

“You could write on your phone.”

“I need to write by hand.”

“On my scrub top.”

“I didn’t have my notebook with me,” said Reg. “And anyway, I filled it a while back. Which is a point: I need to buy a new notebook and some pens. I’m always losing them. We’ll stop and get some on the way.”

Reg took Joel to a stationary shop in Cardiff, full of brightly lit display cases and notebooks with covers in muted, metallic tones and reproductions of classic art and leather bindings and tastefully drawn illustrations.

Reg chose three full-sized notebooks and several pocket-sized ones, knowing he was bound to mislay some of them. Then, he chose from an array of pens.

“Do you have a proper pen?” said Reg.

“I’ve got pens.”

“A grown-up pen,” said Reg. “Like these.” He indicated the display case.

“No. Just regular pens.”

Reg asked the sales assistant to unlock one of the cases. He chose a beautiful gold pen and asked to have it engraved For JP from RF . A subtle disdain wafted from the sales assistant as he wrapped the items.

When they emerged from the store, Reg handed the wrapped pen to Joel. He remembered commissioning the platinum snake bracelet for Flip. He felt the same sense of claiming now, gifting Joel with a tangible token of his devotion.

“That cost more than I spent on textbooks last semester,” said Joel.

“Don’t worry about money. I’ll take care of you now, if you’ll let me.”

“I’ll try. But it’s too expensive—I can’t accept.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t do anything to deserve it.”

“Joel, I derive more pleasure from giving you things than you ever could by accepting them. Take it, with my blessing.”

Joel still looked uncertain.

Reg handed Joel the journal with the Argyle cover. “That’s for keeping your thoughts in. Have you ever tried writing anything aside from schoolwork?”

“No.”

“Try. Maybe you have a hidden talent.”

“That man knew we were together,” said Joel.

“And?”

“It bothered him.”

“You can’t live your life waiting for everyone to approve of you, or you won’t have any fun at all. When I was your age, I hadn’t had a good day until at least eight people had disapproved of me by bedtime. Let’s go and get some food.”

Reg took him to the market and bought laverbread and bacon and prawns in the shell and fresh pastries, then they drove for half an hour to the house. When they arrived, they carried their luggage inside, and Reg showed Joel upstairs to the small front bedroom with its twin bed.

“This is for you,” said Reg, pulling the curtains open. “It’s got a view of the channel. You can sit up in bed every morning drinking your coffee and watching the boats and the fairground on the island.”

“Whose house is this?”

“Mine,” said Reg. “I inherited it from my grandmother.”

“Then whose is this?” said Joel, picking up a small teddy bear from the bureau.

“That was my mother’s when she was little,” said Reg. “She died when I was three.”

“I’m sorry,” said Joel, looking at the bear, and he seemed genuinely upset.

“I don’t remember her. Feel sorry for my father. He loved her. He never came back here after she died, but I’d come in the holidays and stay with my grandmother. This was my mother’s old room. My grandmother kept everything just as it was when she was alive.”

Joel set the bear back exactly where it had been, then he became fascinated with the other objects ranged along the top of the bureau.

Reg said, “You can touch them if you like. They were mine when I was a boy.”

Joel examined each one with curiosity and delight: The little wooden goat that would collapse if you pressed the bottom of the stump it stood on, the tiny wooden figures of a mother cat and her kitten and their bowl of milk, and the little acrobat who flipped around the parallel bar when you squeezed the upright bars.

Alongside them was the Mason jar full of seashells and sea glass, blue and green and amber, that Reg and Martin had gathered on the beach when they were children, added to the ones his mother had gathered as a child. Last was the wooden toy soldier.

Joel peered at its leg.

“It broke when Martin chucked it off the balcony attached to a parachute made of a plastic bag and string,” said Reg. “I glued it back on, but you can still see the crack.”

Joel replaced everything carefully, as though they were his toys and his childhood memories.

Joel looked at the twin bed. “Where are you sleeping?”

“Next door.” Reg opened the connecting door between their bedrooms. His room had a king-size bed with a bay window overlooking the channel.

“Why aren’t I with you?”

“I thought you’d want your own space, cariad.”

“You don’t want me to sleep with you?”

“Of course, you can sleep with me. But this is your room so you can have some privacy if you want. Come along. Let’s have dinner, and we’ll have a quiet night in. Or a boisterous one—your choice.”

That night, Reg had barely settled into his bed before Joel knocked on his door and came in, and, after asking Reg if it was all right in such a sweet, tentative manner, climbed into bed with him.

They lay awake for a time—Reg revising the poem he’d written on the journey and Joel writing in his new journal with his gold pen.

Periodically, he stopped writing to hold it up to the light admiringly.

The next morning, Reg drove them to the local train station and parked the car.

“You can’t visit here and not ride the train,” said Reg.

On the train, Joel sat by the window and looked, with endearing fascination and delight, at the foliage, green-green-green, the wildflowers, the fields, the hedgerows, the terraced houses, the warehouses and the office buildings sweeping past.

In Cardiff, Reg took Joel to the castle, and as they climbed the stairs in the castle keep, Reg let his hand steal to Joel’s waist, and in the cool shadows they exchanged clandestine touches, and in the sun at the top, they exchanged meaningful looks, and by the end of their visit, Joel was eager to be home.

However, Reg insisted they stop in at the little gift shop, where he bought Joel a silver bottle opener with a handle shaped like a sheep, and Joel bought Reg a lump of coal on a novelty keychain as a joke, and Reg put it in his pocket.

Then, on Reg’s insistence, they had lunch at a pub.

Joel bumped his knee against Reg’s leg as they ate.

“Remember your elements, boy,” said Reg.

Reg was tempted to touch Joel’s face, but anyone could see them here, and he and Joel didn’t have a public relationship. After dating Flip for so many years, Reg was practiced at containing himself.

On the way back, as the train neared their destination, Joel spent less time looking through the window and more time gazing at Reg. Their glances became prolonged and intense.

“How much longer?” said Joel.

“Nearly there.”

Joel was leaning against him in his seat, his knee bumping Reg’s thigh.

“How much longer can you wait?” said Reg as the train stopped at the station.

“Not much.”

As they got off the train, Reg took Joel’s elbow and steered him to the men’s toilets.

“Oh,” said Joel, looking at the sign. “I didn’t mean—”

Reg led him in the door. The place was deserted, whitewashed walls and a translucent skylight mottled with pigeon shit.

A window near the ceiling was cantilevered open and let in the saltwater breeze.

Before Joel could protest, Reg pushed him into a stall and shut and locked the door.

There was a smell of damp limestone and a shiver of pigeon feathers overhead.

Reg pressed Joel against the wall of the stall and held him there. He grasped the tab of Joel’s fly, tugged it down, and put his hand inside. Joel made a surprised sound, curling in on himself. He was already very hard.

“Here?” said Joe, uncertain.

“Unless you want to wait till we get home?” said Reg, clasping Joel. Joel’s cock jumped in his hand. “Didn’t think so.”