Page 39 of Rhymes with Metaphor

T he next evening as they were getting ready, Joel asked Reg, “What should I wear?”

“Did Silas give you a dress code?”

“No,” said Joel. “But I have a feeling it’s formal.”

“Whatever you wear is liable to get rumpled at Ramsay’s. Keep that in mind.”

Reg wore a crumpled linen suit with a cerulean blue shirt and the grey tie that Martin had returned. Before they left, Reg painstakingly trimmed his nose hairs with his gold nail scissors.

“You shouldn’t do that,” said Joel. “Nose hairs trap airborne particles so they don’t reach your lungs.”

“Are you going to get dressed?”

Joel contritely went to his room and returned twenty minutes later, wearing black jeans and a white T-shirt—the same clothes he’d worn when he’d come to the loft to check his MCAT results.

“That makes a statement,” said Reg.

“Am I underdressed?” said Joel.

“Not for Ramsay’s party.”

“Would Silas throw me out for wearing this?”

“Of his bed or his party?”

Joel looked flustered.

“If that’s all you’re wearing, you’ll need a warm coat,” said Reg.

He dressed Joel in the blue wool coat he’d given him, and Joel didn’t protest.

“You look lovely,” Reg murmured, kissing Joel’s forehead.

Joel was keyed up as they crossed the garage to Reg’s car, walking far ahead of him and bouncing on his toes.

“Slow down,” said Reg. “We don’t want to be on time.”

Silas lived in a converted warehouse by the river, all silver and glass and thin, black shadows.

Silas greeted them at the door and took their coats. When he saw what Joel was wearing underneath, he said, “Sporting the urchin chic, are we?” His hands lingered on Joel’s shoulders.

“Same scriptwriter, I see,” said Joel.

Silas laughed, narrow-eyed. He swept them into his loft, and they were met by chamber music so light and tasteful, it was almost offensive.

The place was full of people sipping champagne and chatting in little groups.

The entire wall of the living room was a window overlooking the river.

The centrepiece of the room was a sculpture of a puma in chrome and raw obsidian, back arched, mouth open in a silent scream.

“If you put your hand in its mouth, young man,” said Silas to Joel, “you’ll bleed.”

Joel did not put his hand in its mouth.

“I see your compatriot’s had a piece published in The New Yorker ,” said Silas to Reg.

“Who?” said Reg.

“Martin,” said Silas. “Do you have so many co-conspirators published there that you can’t keep them straight?” Silas lingered on that last word. “Or are you no longer in each other’s pockets these days?”

Reg knew he was being needled. Although he didn’t dignify the remark with a response, he still felt it; if Martin hadn’t lowered the drawbridge to announce an accomplishment of that magnitude, a truce clearly wasn’t imminent.

Joel kept close to Reg for most of the evening, but at one point, Reg was waylaid by a mutual friend of Flip’s from their undergraduate days.

By the time Reg managed to tactfully extricate himself from the conversation, Joel had left, perhaps not wanting to hear about Flip.

Reg eventually found Joel in the kitchen.

The lights were dim, and Silas had Joel backed into a corner by the stove, not touching him, but obviously encroaching into his space.

“...my little lamb,” Silas murmured.

For a queasy moment, Reg sensed he was interrupting.

Then Joel made eye contact with him and said, “Reg.” and his voice was so full of relief, it bled the tension out of the room.

Silas reluctantly stepped back, releasing Joel. He cast a sharp and appraising stare at his back.

“We have to go,” said Reg.

“So soon?” said Silas.

“We have another engagement,” said Reg, setting his glass on the counter. Joel followed suit.

“The offer still stands, Joel,” said Silas.

Joel didn’t say anything, but Reg felt him trembling as he put an arm around his shoulders and led him away. Joel was in a hurry and walked out the front door the moment he’d put his coat on. Reg caught up to him at the elevator. Joel was breathing hard.

“He’s married,” said Joel, sounding outraged. “He has a wife .”

“He does wear a ring.”

“It doesn’t look like a wedding ring,” said Joel.

“I expect he designed it himself.”

“He background checked me,” said Joel.

“Was that what he was doing?”

“I’m serious, Reg. He knows things about me I’ve never told him. He knows my dad’s dead. He knows who my mother is and what Juliet’s doing her thesis on. And he knows all about you.”

“Oh?” Reg started to worry. Because while Reg was glad he’d ended his relationship with Flip, he didn’t wish him any harm and would never have followed through on his threat to expose him.

“And he asked about us.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing,” said Joel. “Except that we’re together.”

Reg slid his arms inside Joel’s coat, put his arms around him, and held him. “I’m sorry I left you alone.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” said Joel. “I’m angry.”

“Was he baiting you?” Reg stroked Joel’s back.

“I don’t know,” said Joel. He kissed Reg until the elevator reached the ground floor and pinged, and Reg eased him away.

“Let’s go home,” said Joel.

“We’ve got Ramsay’s party to go to. You’ll enjoy it more than Silas’s. I promise.”

When they pulled into the parking garage, Joel said, “Aren’t we going to Ramsay’s party?”

“We are. But I won’t be in a fit state to drive us home afterwards, so I’m calling an Uber.” Reg took out his phone.

“Is it far?”

“Not too.”

“I’d rather walk, then,” said Joel.

“All right.”

When the cold air hit them, Reg patted his pockets for his cigarettes, only to remember yet again that he’d given up smoking.

Joel slipped his gloved hand into Reg’s, as if to remind him why he had.

“What’s Ramsay like?” said Joel.

“Profoundly eccentric. Scattered. An occasionally brilliant poet, when the spirit moves her. And...oh dash.”

“What?” said Joel.

“I forgot to bring something for the party.”

They were in a residential neighbourhood, and the only retail establishment nearby was a convenience store.

Dirt-encrusted Christmas bulbs framed the door.

The place was so cramped, Reg had to tuck his elbows in so he wouldn’t knock things off the shelves.

On a high shelf at the back, he found a box of Christmas cake and brought it to the counter where a grungy-looking man was reading a magazine.

“It’s got dust on it,” said Joel.

“Doesn’t matter. This stuff keeps.”

As they left the shop, Joel examined the box.

“What are you doing?” said Reg.

“Looking for the expiry date.”

“Well, don’t. It’s British. It’s fine .” Reg tucked the box under his arm.

In contrast to Silas’s party, the atmosphere at Ramsay’s party was relaxed and friendly. The place was much warmer than Silas’s too, the music more eclectic, changing from room to room. In the downstairs bathroom shower stall, someone was strumming a guitar.

Reg deposited the Christmas cake on the kitchen table amidst a forest of opened wine bottles.

One of Ramsay’s housemates, with hair the colour of butterscotch and a perfect Cupid’s bow mouth painted in royal blue lipstick, pulled a handful of wild cherry White Claws out of the fridge. She offered one to Reg.

“Raelynne, isn’t it?” said Reg, taking the can.

“You’re Reginald Fieldfare,” said Raelynne. “You’re the guy who beat out Ramsay for best thesis.”

“She’s forgiven me, I hope,” said Reg.

Raelynne regarded Joel appraisingly.

“You’re not going to card my plus-one, are you?” said Reg.

Raelynne smiled. “Nope. He looks legal to me.” She handed Joel a can, then gave his belly a familiar rub and a pat and left the kitchen down the basement stairs. Joel tugged his T-shirt down self-consciously.

“She fancies you,” said Reg casually.

“She does?”

“Why are you surprised?” said Reg.

“I’m not used to people looking at me that way. They never did before you.”

“You’ve changed, cariad. You’re more at ease with yourself, and it suits you.”

Joel drained his White Claw and put it in the recycle bin by the door, then he got another one out of the fridge.

“Pace yourself,” said Reg. “We’ve got all night. Come on. I’ll introduce you round.”

Joel was considerably more at ease here than at Silas’s, and people were curious, asking him about himself and what program he was in.

When Joel took Reg’s hand, it was a gesture of affinity rather than an appeal for support.

In the hallway, they ran into someone Joel had narrated a book for, who sang his praises to three other guests, one of whom was also looking for someone to narrate their poetry chapbook.

In the dining room, a group of poets were playing the Clock Game.

Ramsay brought two more chairs in for them. “The more, the merrier.”

“I don’t know how to play,” said Joel.

“You’ll pick it up as we go,” said Reg to Joel, seating Joel to his left. “Joel’s an actor,” Reg explained to the group.

“This should hone your improvisational skills, then,” said Ramsay.

Ramsay set a metronome in the centre of the table.

“Now, we go round the circle clockwise,” said Ramsay.

“And each of us takes a turn to say a word that’s a riff off the word the person before you said.

When we get back to the top of the table, it becomes two words, round the table again, then three words.

We keep going round with three words until someone gets stuck.

Anyone who can’t get their words out before the next tick of the metronome, is eliminated.

Then we start over and set the metronome going faster.

And we record it. Last year, we sold our composition to the Kingsland Review . Ready? Three, two, one, go!”

Ramsay released the metronome, which began ticking slowly, and they went round the circle, each contributing one word.

“Procreation,” said Ramsay.

“Recreation,” said the man to Reg’s right.

“Inebriation,” said Reg.

“Deviation,” said Joel.

And so it went round the circle, and no one was eliminated.

During the second round, someone made up a word.