Page 35 of Rhymes with Metaphor

J oel started narrating Vic’s novel in the recording studio in the basement of M.

House. Reg would drive him there in the mornings, then go upstairs to work on his poetry.

Joel finished work by the early afternoon.

They’d have a leisurely lunch, after which, Joel would work with Reg on poetry submissions, as Reg was producing new work daily, and it all needed to be bundled and submitted to markets.

Joel would then go over the manuscript for the next days’ recording and make notes.

They generally spent their evening having sex, which they had done on nearly every available surface in the loft.

Reg still refused to fuck Joel properly, though Joel continually asked him.

One day, Reg was working on a poem in the loft, for a change of scene from M. House, when he heard a knock at the door. It was unlike Joel to forget the passcode.

Reg opened the door to find Juliet standing there, looking strained, her hair up, wearing a nice raincoat.

“I want to speak to Joel,” said Juliet.

“He’s at work. I won’t tell you where. If he wanted you to know, he would have told you himself.”

Juliet looked sceptical. She peered over Reg’s shoulder, looking for Joel, presumably.

“Would you like to come in?” said Reg.

Juliet examined the loft with forensic interest.

“He isn’t hiding in any of the cupboards,” said Reg.

Joel kept the loft tidier than Reg tended to between visits from his cleaner, so the place looked respectable. And thankfully, Reg had bothered to shower and dress that morning as he’d had to drop Joel off at M. House, so he looked practically respectable as well.

Juliet sat on the settee facing the windows. Reg noticed she wasn’t wearing an engagement ring yet and felt a faint glimmer of hope.

“Would you like some coffee?” said Reg.

“No, thank you,” said Juliet stiffly.

Reg sat on the settee facing her.

“Whatever hold you have over Joel,” said Juliet, “whatever kick you’re getting from taking advantage of him, needs to stop. For Joel’s sake, you need to let him go.”

“You’re here for Joel’s sake, are you?” said Reg sceptically.

“You do realize how young he is?”

“And how much younger was he when you and your mother decided his future for him?”

“He’s lost his scholarship because of you.”

“That was entirely his idea.”

“He’s being childish.”

“He wasn’t allowed to be childish when he was a child,” said Reg. “So let him make up for it now. He’s not the main character in your family’s drama. He’s been told all his life what he was supposed to do, and he had the misfortune of being good at it. But what he’s good at makes him unhappy.”

“He was doing well before he met you,” said Juliet.

“He wasn’t. He was sick—and not just physically—with the amount of pressure you put on him. I was the first person who ever asked him what he wanted to be and then listened. You can blame me for that if you like, but I don’t regret it.”

Juliet stared at the wall over Reg’s shoulder with heightened interest. He glanced back and saw the sketch of Joel he’d made, smiling at him with pure affection and happiness.

“I can’t ‘let him go’ as you put it,” said Reg, “because I’m not keeping him here. He’s free to leave whenever he likes.”

“There are other holds to have over someone than physical ones,” said Juliet.

“He stays because he’s happy here. And I do care about him, which is why I’m giving him the opportunity to discover who he is—something you and your mother should have done a long time ago.”

He would have pitied Juliet if he hadn’t had to spend months helping Joel heal from the damage his family’s expectations had done.

But then Reg, unlike Joel, was in the privileged position of not having to give a fuck about Juliet or her mother’s opinion. If he’d still been friends with Martin, he might care a little, but he wasn’t friends with Martin anymore.

Juliet was still looking at the sketch of Joel.

“If you love him, listen to him,” said Reg.

Juliet’s expression softened. She reached into her bag and pulled out a hand-knitted blue scarf. “He left this behind when he moved out. Can you give it to him?”

“Yes.”

Juliet went to the door. “Give him my love,” she said and let herself out.

When Reg collected Joel for lunch, he told him what had happened and gave Joel the scarf Juliet had left. Joel accepted it without comment, but he put the scarf on.

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J oel spent six days recording the novel.

Vic was so pleased with his work, he asked Joel to do his short story collection next and recommended him to one of his author friends, who in turn recommended him to another friend who’d self-published a three-volume epic fantasy series and needed a narrator.

So, one job followed quickly on the next, and Joel was either sprawled on the settee in Reg’s loft making notes on a manuscript or off at the studio making another recording.

Joel accepted all of the work he was offered, and he spent long days recording and evenings sacked out on the settee beside Reg, exhausted.

“You’re overextending yourself again,” said Reg, stroking the hair off his forehead. “Like you did when I first met you.”

“I don’t want to talk. I’ve been talking all day.”

Reg pulled Joel down so his head rested in his lap.

He cupped the back of Joel’s head and undid his trousers.

Joel had put on a gratifying amount of weight since he’d gotten involved with Reg.

His belly, once so hollow Reg could slide his hand into Joel’s trousers easily, had filled in enough that Reg had to unbuckle, unbutton, and unzip him to get access.

“Too tired to come,” Joel whispered.

“You don’t have to come. Just enjoy it. Does that feel good?”

Joel nodded.

“Don’t make any noise on my account,” said Reg. “I wouldn’t want you to ruin that lovely voice.”

Reg moved from fondling him to stroking him slowly and deliberately as Joel made soft sounds of approval, and Reg had to set his notebook on Joel’s belly while he wrote nonsensical approximations of the sounds Joel made.

“Hold on, cariad,” said Reg.

Despite himself, Joel came in Reg’s hand, and almost immediately after, succumbed to sleep.

An hour later, Joel blinked and sat up, and Reg, who had been writing a sonnet with his notebook now on Joel’s chest, laughed.

“You see?” said Reg. “You make it harder than it needs to be, sometimes.”

Joel started to speak, but Reg put a finger gently to his lips. “You’re still convalescing.” And Reg went to the kitchen and made Joel a hot toddy with lemon to sip.

“Don’t overwork yourself. I won’t charge you rent, so don’t feel you need to earn your keep on my account.”

“I could earn a living doing this.” Joel sipped from his mug.

“But?”

“I’m alone all day. The only person who speaks to me is the producer, and he’s on the other side of a wall telling me what to do.”

“You don’t like being told what to do?”

“I do. It gives me focus. But I feel alone. I want to talk to people—I want to work with people, in the same room as me.”

“Let me see what I can do, cariad.”

“What can you do?”

“We’ll see.”

And so, Reg put out feelers to his contacts in the MFA program and found someone looking for a voice actor for an audio play.

One of the actors had dropped out at the last minute and, as they had booked the studio time already, they were desperate to fill the spot or they would have to double one of the parts.

Reg returned to the loft to give Joel the good news, but Joel wasn’t back. He was normally done at M. House by one o’clock, but Reg had encouraged him to stay and socialize or do something he enjoyed afterwards and not rush home. He was probably taking Reg’s advice.

At 5:30 p.m., Reg got a phone call from Joel.

“Can you come and get me?” said Joel. “I’m at the corner of Oxford and King Street.”

“What’s wrong?” said Reg.

“Just come and get me.”

Joel was waiting on the corner, and Reg opened the car door. Joel hopped in. His right boot was off, and his foot was wrapped in something white.

“What happened?”

“Tell you after,” said Joel, shutting the car door.

“Do you need me to take you to hospital?”

Joel laughed. “No.” He didn’t speak while Reg drove, but he was quivering with excitement. When they arrived at the underground garage, Joel said, “You’ll have to help me. I can’t walk on this foot.”

So Reg opened the passenger door, picked Joel up, hipped the door closed, and carried him to the elevator.

Although Joel was smaller than Reg, it wasn’t easy for Reg to carry him over a significant distance.

Once Reg was inside the elevator, he had to set Joel down.

Joel stood balanced on his left foot until they arrived at their floor, at which point, Reg picked him up again.

When they got to the loft, Reg put Joel down on the settee. Joel rummaged in his backpack and opened a cardboard folder on the coffee table. “I hope you don’t mind—I borrowed it.”

The folder contained one of the photos from “Elements”—specifically, of the drawing Reg had made of a blackbird’s head on the sole of Joel’s foot.

“I had to give the artist something to work from,” said Joel.

“What do you mean ‘artist’? You had someone draw this?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Joel. He bent his knee and carefully removed the white bandage.

On the sole of Joel’s right foot, on his red and swollen skin, was a tattoo of a blackbird’s head.

“Did that hurt?” said Reg.

“Yes,” said Joel. “That was half the reason I did it.”

Reg felt a trace of apprehension. “And the other half?”

“It’s my body,” said Joel. “It’s my life.”

“It is.”

“Could you clean it for me?” said Joel. He pulled a bottle of cleanser from his backpack and handed it to Reg, then he lay back on the settee.

“I wrote all over you that night,” said Reg. “Why did you choose to get a tattoo of that? Why there?”

“It’s me,” said Joel. “A blackbird. Good voice, nothing special to look at. And you drew it on the sole of my foot. So no one can see it, unless I show them.”

“You are special to look at, Joel.”

Reg cleaned the tattoo carefully, moving his thumb in tiny circles over his skin, as though if he rubbed it enough, it would disappear. Joel winced.

“All right?” said Reg.

“Yes,” said Joel. “Keep doing that.”

Joel was becoming aroused, Reg noticed. He continued stroking Joel’s foot.

Then he carefully rinsed away the cleanser.

He dried his hands on a towel. Joel sat up and kissed him, open-mouthed, and his tongue tasted bitter and sharp.

Joel grasped Reg’s hand and guided it across his body to rest on his buttock.

“No,” said Reg.

Joel sighed.

“I’ve done enough to you already.”

“No, you haven’t,” said Joel. “Not yet.”

Reg pulled away. “I have good news. I got you a job voicing a character in an audio play. You won’t be reading by yourself.” He fished in his coat for the card he’d been given. “They’ll need you to start soon.”

Joel read the card, then put it on the coffee table.

“Have you eaten?” said Reg.

“No.”

“There’s last night’s curry in the fridge. I’ll warm it up.”

The subject had been successfully changed, but Reg felt guilty about Joel’s tattoo. Permanent, visible evidence of Reg’s impact on Joel was the last thing he’d wanted.