Page 40 of Rhymes with Metaphor

“Neologism!” said the woman to Ramsay’s right.

“Neologisms are allowed,” said Ramsay to Joel. “But if you coin a word, you have to drop a coin in the glass.” She picked up an empty beer glass on the table and shook it.

Someone opened a bottle of absinthe and poured out shots for everyone. “The poet’s fuel.”

The people around the table got progressively drunker, though Reg kept himself in check.

He felt responsible for Joel, who’d had three White Claws and two shots of absinthe by the time he was ousted from the circle.

One by one, the participants were winnowed down until only Reg and Ramsay remained.

By this time, the metronome was ticking faster than they could comfortably speak, so a draw was declared.

Reg shook Ramsay’s hand to accompanying applause, then noticed Joel was gone.

Reg found him in the hallway, slow dancing to “Ordinary World” with Raelynne, his hands around her waist, eyes closed.

Raelynne spied Reg and surrendered her hold on Joel.

“I just wanted to take your ride for a spin,” she said.

“See how he handled.” She patted Joel’s belly, the same way she had in the kitchen, and then she walked off with her hands in her pockets and a smile on her face like the cat that stole the cream.

“All right?” said Reg to Joel.

“Sorry,” said Joel. “I went to the bathroom, and she...”

“Waylaid you. No need to apologize. I don’t own you.”

“I wish you would,” said Joel, and he leaned into Reg, putting his arms around him. “Dance with me.”

So, Reg held him, and they danced, but the song reminded him of Martin, and he felt relieved when it ended.

“Come on,” said Reg.

The doorway to the basement was ajar, and Reg, with Joel in tow, went downstairs to a large, finished room full of people lounging in beanbag chairs and crashed on sofas. Instrumental electronic music played.

“Sounds like Flat Mary,” said Joel.

“He knows Flat Mary!” said one of the denizens, who was crouched over a coffee table, rolling a joint. “Come in.”

The joint roller made room for them at the end of a soft, low sofa. It was too short for Reg and Joel to sit side by side, so Reg pulled Joel across his lap where he lay, head propped on the sofa arm, relaxed and content.

“It’s nice to see you loosening up,” said Reg.

The conversation was subdued and sporadic, as though no one wanted to interrupt the music. The man passed a lit joint to Reg, and Reg took a hit of hot, sugary smoke while Joel watched.

“You want to try?” said Reg, blowing out the smoke. “You’re old enough now.”

“All right,” said Joel.

“Inhale when I tell you,” said Reg.

Reg took a huge hit, held the joint away from his face, leaned in, and kissed Joel with a mouth full of smoke, signalling Joel to inhale by squeezing his arm while slowly exhaling the cooled smoke into Joel’s mouth.

Reg pulled back. “Hold it for as long as you can.”

Joel held his breath for a full minute before exhaling in a soft cough, looking like a sleepy dragon. Reg passed the joint on to the person across the coffee table who was reaching for it. Then he leaned down to close his mouth over Joel’s. Joel kissed him, and they made out lazily.

Someone nearby was talking about how they’d almost capsized their boat on Georgian Bay. Someone else reminisced about how they’d gotten so stoned they’d spent five hours trying to remember the word “gazebo.”

A third person found a bottle of wine in a cupboard and poured it into mugs and glasses and handed them out.

“Tastes like drain cleaner,” said someone behind Reg.

“It’s a 1967.”

“Good year for drain cleaner,” said someone else.

“Bad year for plumbers.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

Mugs and glasses clinked.

While Reg and Joel continued to kiss, someone else described, in lurid detail, the best lasagna they’d ever eaten. Joel untucked his T-shirt and slid Reg’s hand underneath. Joel’s skin was tacky and hot. Reg pulled back and looked at Joel, heavy-lidded and smiling, mouth wet and inviting.

It was hot in the basement, the air thick with smoke and lethargy.

Reg was hovering between twin desires to fall sleep and to slide his hand inside Joel’s jeans and make him come right there in front of everyone.

Reg heard a couple not too far away possibly indulging in the same impulse.

Joel was so relaxed he was practically comatose.

“How do you feel, cariad?”

“I want to break things...”

“That’ll be the alcohol.”

Joel blinked slowly. “...but I can’t be bothered.”

“That’ll be the pot. All of the fun, none of the property damage.”

Joel snorted with laughter, then laughed at the sound of his laugh.

Reg looked at him, stroking his forehead, realizing this was the first time in his life he’d had a boyfriend he could publicly acknowledge, and nobody minded, least of all Joel.

After so many years of having to hide his relationship with Flip as though they were doing something illicit, being able to be free and open with his affection loosened a knot that had been pulled tight for far too long in Reg’s chest. He felt older and younger both, in an absolutely heavenly way.

Muffled coughing interrupted his thoughts, followed by the sound of a window being opened.

Cold, refreshing air blew in, bringing little flecks of snow.

Someone removed their socks, climbed onto the coffee table, and recited “Casabianca,” the performance of which was curtailed by a blinding flash of lightning and a catastrophic bang, followed by the lights going out.

“Jinx!”

“Hijinks!”

“Lojinks!”

Two people shouted in unison, “Coin a word, pay a coin!”

Everyone laughed uncontrollably. Lit candles were brought in and passed around.

There followed the perhaps inevitable solicitation and recitation of frightening true stories of ghosts and encounters with the mysterious.

The evening drew on, and Reg drifted off, Joel already fast asleep in Reg’s lap.

Reg woke cramped and cold. He was warm only where his body was in contact with Joel’s. The lights were back on, and the window was still open. Raelynne was curled up asleep beside them on the sofa, her head resting on Joel’s legs, a crocheted afghan pulled to her chin.

Joel blinked awake and sat up.

“All right?” said Reg.

Joel considered the question. “I could eat some of that Christmas cake.”

“I could too,” said Reg.

They extricated themselves from the sofa carefully, to avoid waking Raelynne.

Joel stumbled once on the way to the kitchen, and caught the handrail to keep himself from falling.

Voices murmured in the living room, and floorboards creaked above them.

The kitchen was full of used glasses and cans and wine bottles and dirty dishes, but empty of people.

“It’s gone,” said Joel, searching for the cake among the bottles on the table. “Somebody ate it.”

“‘Tuck your shirt in, boy. You look a mess.’ That’s what my grandmother would say to me, even if I was wearing pyjamas.”

Joel duly tucked in his shirt. “What time is it?”

“One a.m.”

Reg washed one of the glasses, filled it with water, and passed it to Joel.

“Reg?”

“Hmmm?”

“Do people have sex at these parties?”

“Sometimes,” said Reg.

Joel stared at Reg meaningfully. He did look alluringly dishevelled. While Martin’s eyes were hazel and changed colour with the light and what he was wearing, Joel’s eyes were solid and constant, the colour of hot cocoa. Joel smiled at him.

The sound of giggling and footsteps tumbling upstairs interrupted them. A moment later, the basement door flew open and several people toppled into the kitchen.

“Food!”

“There isn’t any,” said Reg. “It’s all been eaten.”

“Pizza!” said someone else.

“Nachos,” said someone else. He mimed pumping a shotgun. “Loaded.”

Several people clamoured approval.

As no one knew a restaurant that delivered nachos, a consensus was reached, fuelled by weed-induced hunger, that everyone must have loaded nachos, and they must all go to the nearby independent cinema/restaurant, called The Green Room, to have them.

Outside, the light from the streetlamps, trapped between snow-covered ground and pearl white cloud, rendered evening as bright as day.

On their way to The Green Room, Raelynne scooped a handful of snow, packed it into a ball, and lobbed it at Joel.

It hit him square in the chest and burst. Joel blinked, then a moment later, he bent to the sidewalk and returned fire.

A snowball fight ensued, with shrieks and shouts.

Reg stood apart, watching. For once, Joel was looking and acting his own age, and it reminded Reg of watching the orphaned foxes at the wildlife centre playing together, learning to socialize with other foxes.

Breathless with laughter and buzzed, they arrived at The Green Room, which felt as hot and humid as the tropics after the outside chill.

Joel slid into the booth beside the wall, and Reg went in beside him.

Raelynne slid in across from Joel. Someone else slid in beside her, and someone else slid in beside Reg so they were all tightly crammed together, and another table was pushed up against their booth.

The room was full of dazzling light and chatter in a thousand directions, and Joel took Reg’s hand under the table and placed it emphatically on the front of his jeans.

Some generous soul ordered a round of eggnog shots, which were duly delivered to the table. Joel downed his in an instant.

“Get hold of yourself,” said Reg.

“No, you,” said Joel, and he covered Reg’s hand with his own and pressed.

The nachos arrived, piled on a platter, and Raelynne snagged the top chip and crammed it all in her mouth.