Travelling Home - 2. Chapter 2: London

The first time I try to call David, about two weeks after the conference, my call is forwarded to his voicemail. It's a standard recorded message, not his voice, and even at the best of times I sound like a moron when I leave a message, so I hang up.

It takes me three days to make a second attempt. I should be reviewing the monthly figures and preparing management reports. Instead I'm drafting speeches on sticky notes, so that I'll be prepared for either him or his voicemail. The task is made more difficult because I have no idea what I want to say. I have no idea what I want, period.

It's his voicemail.

"Uhmmm, David. Hi. It's Jordan. You know . . . from Stockholm. Uh, almost three weeks ago . . . Anyway, I just thought I'd call, you know, see what's up. Uhm. Well. Anyway. Call me, if you get a chance."

I hang up and bang the receiver against my forehead. Moron. Moron, moron, moron. Why didn't I just stick to the goddamned script? What's so difficult about “Hi David, it's Jordan. Just thought I'd call. Here's my number, in case you want to call me back.” Not award-winning stuff, but oh, so much better than what I actually did say. Plus, I didn't leave my number, which means that the fucking ball is still in my fucking court, because I called him from the office phone, which blocks caller ID.

The third time, I call him from home, from my own mobile, so that, if I go off-script again, he'll at least have my number. The sticky note is on the kitchen counter in front of me, and there's not much that can go wrong, if I just stay on track. I've even rehearsed to achieve the right tone, casual, but not indifferent. I'm forty-six years old, and throughout the span of my career, I've calmly and confidently faced regulators, auditors, even a truly scary Ukrainian border officer, who was convinced my extra hard drive was some sort of bomb. I came out to my parents in a face-to-face discussion right after I graduated from college, as opposed to Benny, who got drunk on his twentieth birthday and left his parents a long and rambling message on their answering machine, from which his mother gathered that he liked a guy named Dick and asked to meet him.

I can do this.

"David Hamvas."

I nearly drop the phone at the sound of his voice. Fuck. I was expecting voicemail again.

"Uh, hi."

"Hi." His tone is cautious, a little questioning.

I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose.

"It's Jordan. You know, from—"

"Jordan!" he interrupts me in the middle of making a fool of myself yet again, his tone warm. "How are you?"

"Good. Good. And you?" I nearly bark at him.

"Fine. Just got home a while ago."

"From where? And where's home?" Yep, just your average interrogation, posing as small talk.

“From Sydney. And Frankfurt, these days, at least."

The advances in telecommunications are a wonderful thing. David sounds like he's in the next room. I remember calling my parents from Dartmouth and the tinny echo on the line that made normal conversation almost impossible; you knew you were calling long distance back then and you respected it, saved it for special occasions, like births or deaths or to beg your parents for extra money. I suddenly long fervently for those good old days.

"What were you doing in Sydney?" I think my voice sounds a little more natural now.

"I'm glad you called again," he says, ignoring my question. "I thought you might not, and I didn't have your number. I don't even know your last name, so I have no way of finding you."

"It's Petersen. Jordan Petersen." I lean my elbows on the counter and press the phone harder against my ear. He really does sound glad to hear from me, and something that had a tight grip inside my chest loosens a little.

"Jordan Petersen?" he repeats after a pause, and his voice sounds a little strange. "Is that a common name in America?"

"Well, I'm sure there are a bunch of us kicking around, male and female. So yeah, I guess. Maybe."

"I knew a Jordan in grade school, and I'm pretty sure his last name was Petersen. Or maybe Peterson."

No. Fucking. Way.

"It would have been the early 70's," David blithely continues. "My father worked for First National City Bank, that's Citibank now, in Athens."

"David Ives," I say, pronouncing David the English way.

His laugh is a little choked. "Yeah. Wow. Small world, huh?"

"I thought you'd be bigger," I say inanely, because his different last name would have been the obvious thing to question.

He laughs again, more freely now.

"I guess I peaked early. By seventh grade everybody caught up with me, and by eighth about a third of the guys were taller than me."

"That must have been difficult for you," I say, the waspish tone of my voice surprising me.

"Difficult? Not really, why?"

"Losing the size advantage?"

"Huh?"

My encounters with David were among the defining events of my childhood, and he doesn't even remember them. Jesus, get a grip, Petersen. It's almost forty years later, for Chrissake. What the hell does it matter?

He laughs again, filling the silence. "Jordie Petersen," he says, in that fond, sickly sweet tone people use when they reminisce about their childhood. "What a little oddball you were."

"No, I wasn't," I spit out, unable to help myself. "I was shy, and I was more Greek than American, so I didn't fit in like the rest of you. That's all."

He says nothing for a while, then his voice is gentle. "I'm sorry," he says, but I don't know if he's apologizing for now or then, and I'm embarrassed at my outburst.

"No, I'm sorry. It was a long time ago, and you're right, I probably was an oddball. All kids are, one way or another."

He grunts noncommittally.

"Why did you change your name?" I need to shift the focus from eight-year old Jordie.

"I didn't really. Hamvas is my middle name, my mother's maiden name. When my dad passed away, my mom moved to Hungary and having a Hungarian name was easier. I didn't stand out as much."

"But . . . we heard your dad passed away when you were in Athens. That's why you left."

"That's right."

"But that was in 1974. Who moved to any Eastern Bloc country in 1974?"

"Evidently, my mother and I."

"Did you speak Hungarian?"

"No. Neither did my mother, or at least not that well. Her parents were Hungarian, but they left before World War Two, when she was only about three years old or so. To this day, I don't know what she was thinking of."

Sounds like there are some things from his childhood that he hasn't left behind either.

"People sometimes get homesick, especially if they've just lost somebody" I say slowly, aware that I don't know him well enough—I don't know him at all—to be able to say something that might make him feel better, but wanting to do so nevertheless. "I imagine it must have been even harder back then than it is now. It's a lot easier to go home these days, to stay in touch."

"Is it?" he asks, sounding unconvinced.

I think of myself, who meticulously avoids any ties, and I think of David, whose son doesn't speak to him. Can you even have a home, if somebody else doesn't call it that, as well, if you don't share it?

"I don't know," I finally admit.

I hear him take a deep breath and exhale slowly.

"I'll be in London next Friday," he tells me.

"That's nice."

"Is it?" he asks again, but this time I'm surer of my answer.

"Of course. London's fun. Even the museums are fun. And at night you can go to the West End."

"Wanna come see Mamma Mia with me?" he asks, a teasing note to his voice.

"Hell, no. Abba? Christ! No, thanks."

He laughs.

"How about We Will Rock You?"

"I had a crush on Freddy Mercury," I admit.

"Didn't every gay boy?"

"And on Roger Daltrey. That chest."

I love his laughter.

"And on David Bowie."

"Yeah? Which period?"

"Ziggy Stardust," I lie, embarrassed to admit that I first listened to Bowie in the 80's and didn't even know he'd been around long before that.

"What about actors?" he asks me.

"You first."

"Hmmm. Alain Delon."

"God, yeah."

"And Gary Cooper."

"Gregory Peck."

"Jimmy Stewart?"

I make a gagging sound.

"Admit it. Secretly, you like It's a Wonderful Life," he teases, and I laugh.

"I really, really, don't. But if it's on TV, I have to watch it. It's like slowing down when you drive by an accident."

"So how about it?"

"How about what?"

"London, next weekend. You and me."

"David . . . "

One of the things I like to tell myself is that I live this way, without roots or attachments, so that I can do whatever I want, so that I'm accountable to nobody. There's nothing to stop me from booking a spur of the moment ticket to London. And I want to see David again. Underneath it all, though, I know that this thing, this whatever-it-is, has the potential to upset my entire equilibrium, everything I've achieved over the years.

"I want to see you again, Jordie," he murmurs, and for some reason I break out in goose bumps.

"Okay. I'll try."

"Don't just try."

"O-kay," I repeat testily, my irritation fading a split second when he repeats the word with a sigh of satisfaction, maybe even of relief.

---o-O-o---

We've arranged to meet at Paddington station, at the top of the escalators leading to the Underground. As I get off the Heathrow Express and walk along the platform, hitching my duffel bag more firmly onto my shoulder, I have an absurd moment of fear that he won't be there, or worse, that I suddenly won't recognize him. It's been over a month now since I last saw him. Maybe I don't remember his face correctly, his blue-gray eyes, the way his hair hangs over his forehead.

But he's there, smiling broadly, and looking handsome in a T-shirt that lies flat against the lean muscles of his chest, loose-fitting button-fly jeans and sneakers.

"Hi," he says, and he gives me a brief hug and kisses my cheek.

I barely suppress the instinct to look around and check that nobody sees us. It's not that I'm in the closet; it's just that meeting a lover for the weekend makes me feel young and nervous. I've only done this a handful of times before, and even then it was more along the lines of a weekend in the Hamptons with a bunch of other friends, as well, or never making it back to my own apartment until Sunday afternoon after a Friday night date went especially well. Pre-planned, just two of us? Never.

"Let's drop off your stuff at the hotel, and then we can figure out what we want to do. I got tickets for the Queen show tomorrow night, but that's the only firm plan so far."

I sit next to him on the tube, our shoulders and thighs pressed together, my duffel bag in my lap and half across his. I inhale deeply, almost giddy with a sudden sense of happiness, and I lean my weight against him. A quick sideways glance tells me he's smiling.

"I wasn't sure if you have a favorite neighborhood or hotel, so I just extended the stay in the hotel the company booked me into. It's right across from Regent's Park. But we can move, if you want to," he assures me.

"No, that's fine. We can go running in the Park. That'll be nice."

"I didn't know you ran," he says, sounding pleased. "It's the only exercise I get, and I'm sort of obsessive about it. I've got a streak going."

"A streak?"

"Mmm. Unless I have an early flight, I try to run every morning, even if it's only for twenty minutes. Today was day 742."

"That's more than two years."

"Yep."

"Don't you ever get sick?"

"Not that sick."

"What would happen if you missed a day? Would you start over?"

"I have started over. Twice. Last time I got to 483, then I was in Milan during a heat wave, and I knew running would be a crazy idea."

I don't remember my SAT or GMAT scores. I don't exactly remember my best times when I was running track, or what my cholesterol level is. For an accountant, I have a remarkably bad memory for numbers. I don't know whether to be impressed or a little scared of this facet of David.

"I'd cheat," I tell him.

"You'd only be lying to yourself," he says with amusement.

I shrug. I don't have a problem lying to myself occasionally. Like that I'm optimistic that David and I have complimentary personalities that can mesh, even when the sexual attraction burns out. It's better than admitting that right now I doubt we'll even make it through the weekend once we fuck each other's brains out.

After the door closes behind us, we start to do the slamming against the walls, strewing our clothes on the way to bed thing. I know I said sex doesn't really happen that way, and I'm just as surprised as anybody to discover that it does. I've barely dropped my duffel onto the floor and looked around the room, when David cannons into me, his mouth ramming against mine, shoving me against the wall. I taste blood; either he or I, maybe both of us, will have a fat lip tomorrow.

"Oh, hey," I say, trying to slow things down, if unbuttoning his fly can be considered that. I shove his jeans down his hips, and he toes his sneakers off and then steps out of his jeans, grinding against me all the while.

"Jordie," he says breathlessly into my mouth, his fingers clenching painfully at my hair. He licks my gums, the roof of my mouth, my tongue, and he gasps harshly when I shove my hand into his briefs and find his cock, hard and already dripping.

I push him across the narrow entrance way, so that now his back is against the wall, and I drop to my knees, holding his hips in place. His fingers are still tangled in my hair, and he tries to pull my head forward onto him.

"Let go of my head, David," I tell him, and he looks down at me, his eyes dazed.

"What?"

"Let go of my head," I repeat, and he lets go instantly, his fingertips trembling as they trace my ears and temples and jaw, then drop away completely.

I reward him by pulling down his underwear and nuzzling into the crease of his hip, inhaling his musky scent.

"Please," he says harshly. His hands hover around my head again, but he doesn't touch me. "Please, please."

I take him in my mouth, moaning at his taste. For a second I wonder how long it's been, a couple of years at least, since I've sucked someone off, but it doesn't matter, because even if my last time had been yesterday, it wouldn't have been David in my mouth, and now it is. His hips try to jerk forward, and I hold him in place, moving slowly up and down his cock, taking him in as deep as I can and swallowing. I feel his fingers flutter against the top of my head and I freeze momentarily, and he says "please" again, and I let him hold my head, even though it scares me, but he doesn't push or try to force me in any way, and after a while I almost forget, and just concentrate on him, my mouth full of him and of his taste.

"Jordie, I'm—" he says, and his hands are tightening on my hair again, but he's trying to pull me away, not push me down, so it's okay and I ignore his warning. Just like last time, he barely makes a sound when he comes; his seed spurts into my mouth, salty and bitter, and I moan again.

He bends over me and cradles my head, kissing the top of it, as I press my lips into his belly and run my fingers through his pubic hair and trace his balls.

"I want you to fuck me," he whispers, clawing at my polo shirt, trying to free it from my waistband and pull it over my head. I raise my arms to help him, and then he pulls me up and pushes me towards the bed, shoving me until I'm flat on my back and he's crawling over me, his tongue licking up from the waistband of my jeans, dipping into my belly button, then further up, to circle one nipple. He bites it lightly and I cry out, and he looks at me, his eyes blazing.

"Do you like that?" he whispers hotly, and instead of answering, I arch into his mouth, and catch hold of his hand and bring it up to my other nipple. Still looking at me, he pinches carefully, and I cry out again.

"Oh, Jordie," he says huskily, then he rests his weight against me and kisses me, his hands continuing to pay attention to my nipples. I run my palms down his bare back, cupping his ass, feeling along the crease and he does that little stutter inhalation I thought was so sexy the first time we were together.

"I need to get my jeans off," I tell him, speaking into his mouth, the curve of his shoulder, his ear, as he constantly moves against me. "I need to get a condom on, and I need to get inside you."

He sits up, his ass on my thighs, his cock once again stiff and swollen between us, his chest moving like he's just finished a hard run. He unbuttons my jeans, then knee-walks backward, pulling them off. He slips both hands under the legs of my boxers, and I feel his fingers on my testicles and I shudder.

"These are so old-fashioned," he smiles, and I hope he means the underwear and not my balls.

"So am I."

His thumbs move back, rubbing against the perineum, and it's starting to drive me crazy.

"I need more," I tell him, and after giving me just barely enough and ignoring my whimpering and begging for what seems like forever, he finally nods, stands up and goes to the bathroom. God, his ass is sweet, not a bubble butt, which I've never really liked, but not flat either, just lean and muscular and . . . sweet. He returns with condoms and lube and tosses them next to me.

"How do you want it?" I ask him, as he stretches out onto the bed next to me.

"I like riding," he says, almost shyly, and I nod. When you're bottoming, being on top gives you more control than any other position.

I shove off my old-fashioned boxers, and then sit up, pulling at his leg so that he straddles me again, wrapping my arms around his waist and kissing his collarbone. He shoves the lube into my hands, and bends down to kiss me, gasping a little as he feels my slick fingers move down his crease and towards his hole. At first he clenches and raises himself a little, flinching away from me, then he relaxes and pushes himself down onto my hand, exhaling as he goes.

"Okay?" I ask him, loving the way he arches his body, his eyes at half-mast and his teeth gnawing at his lower lip, the way his muscles clench on my finger.

"Oh, yeah," he whispers, and then gasps when I press a second finger into him and find his prostate. "Yes." He hunches over and buries his face into my neck. "Yes."

I have to leave him for a while, so that I can put the condom on, and then he starts to sink down onto me, surrounding me, his fingers gripping my shoulders so tightly I'm sure there'll be bruises there tomorrow.

"Yes," he whispers again, when his butt is resting against my open thighs.

I jerk my hips a little into his tight heat, but I can't really move like this, sitting up and with his full weight on my thighs, so I lie back pulling him with me, until he's lying on top of me, and I can brace my feet and rock up into him. He grunts every time I slam my hips up, and pushes back against me in the same rhythm, and I start trying to concentrate on something else, anything beyond him and this bed and this room, like general ledger account numbers, because I'm going to cum, and it's way, way too soon.

He lifts himself a little, so that he can see my face, and he traces my lips and my jaw with his fingers.

"So good," he whispers. "Jordie, so good."

Jesus, the way he says my name. I grip his hips and push him down as I strain up against him, into him.

----o-O-o---

"I'm hungry," I declare, as he lies spooned against my back. We never made it out of our room for dinner last night or breakfast this morning. Our hands are laced together and I hold them up in a bar of bright sunlight, studying the blue veins under his skin, the dusting of dark hairs on his wrist and forearm, the square nails tipping his long fingers. "We have to get up and find food, or I'm going to expire right here."

"Not getting up," he mutters. "Thanks to you and your selfish needs I'm on Day 1 again, so I might as well just stay in bed."

"We can go running now," I tell him.

"It won't count. I go running in the morning. It's now three in afternoon."

I peel my back off his chest and get up.

"Come on. It'll be fun."

"I'm too weak. And it'll still be Day 1."

I grab one of his ankles and start pulling him off the bed, then catch the other, as well, when he tries to kick me in the ribs.

"So cheat, you obstinate, obsessive bastard. It's morning somewhere in the world. We run and you're back to Day 723."

"743," he corrects me instantly and I grin, knowing I've got him.

“That's right. 743. My mistake."

We run the Regents Park loop. It's only a little over four kilometers, so we add the Primrose Hill loop onto it. At first I can tell that Mr. Day 743 thinks he needs to hold back for me, and for about a mile I let him labor under that illusion, then I pull ahead as we head into the hillier terrain. For a while he keeps up, and then he drops back, so I slow down for him.

"You're muttering something in a language I don't understand."

"Fuck off," he says, glaring at me balefully.

"Maybe you should stop smoking."

"My ass is sore," he mutters and I almost trip. I try to keep on running, but it's hopeless, and I bend over, bracing my hands on my knees, and laugh and laugh. When I'm done, he's a good four hundred meters ahead of me, so I have to sprint to catch up with him.

The hotel room has one of those old fashioned big bathtubs with the separate cold and hot water faucets, and, after running, David talks me into taking a bath with him. He lies quietly between my legs, his back against my chest, leaning his head back against my shoulder, so that his cheek is pressed against mine, and smoking a cigarette. I slip my arms under his, and caress his belly and chest.

"What are you thinking about?" I ask him and he shakes his head.

"Nothing. Just stuff."

I kiss his temple, and rub my unshaven cheek against his, liking the rasping sound.

"Do you remember any of our teachers' names?" I ask him.

He takes a while to answer. "No. Maybe the one in fourth grade was Mrs. Lowe, but I'm not really sure."

The name sounds familiar. "Yeah, maybe."

"It's strange, you know, the things we remember and what we forget. When we got to Hungary, I didn't go to school immediately. I had to learn Hungarian first. I missed everything and everybody from my past life so goddamn much, the school, playing baseball, my dad. Then school started, and it was okay. The living standard was a bit different, but I expected that from moving before for my dad's job. The other kids were fine once I got to know them. By winter I'd forgotten a lot of my past life. Not really forgotten, but I remembered stuff like I'd read about it, not like it had happened to me."

He draws on his cigarette, and I watch him blow the smoke out in little rings.

"You wear contacts now?" he asks me suddenly.

"Nah, I had surgery years ago. Except that now I need to get glasses again. My arms are getting too short."

"Yeah, mine too. In dark restaurants I've given up on the menus, I just ask the waiters what they recommend."

"You remember I wore glasses?"

"I remember almost everything about you, Jordan. That's what I mean by strange. Years later, my dad and you, I could shut my eyes and hear your voices and see your faces, and I knew I was remembering them right. Nobody else, really, just you two. If you'd still been nine or ten years old when we met in Stockholm, I would have recognized you immediately."

One of the faucets is dripping, the sound of the drops hitting the bathwater echoing in the tiled bathroom.

"Why did you hate me so much?"

I shake my head, because I no longer know.

"Yeah, you did," he insists, mistaking the movement of my head for denial.

"No, I don't think I did, not really. Maybe I just wanted the attention, or to show you that I was brave and a good fighter and that I didn't deserve to be left out of things."

He laughs. "You might have been brave, but you were a terrible fighter."

"I asked my dad and mom to send me to boxing lessons. They never did. Plus I got grounded when I went home with a fat lip or a black eye, because they didn't want me fighting, and the teachers all told them that most of the fights were started by me, not you."

He laughs again. "Aww, poor little Jordie," he murmurs, reaching his free hand up to wrap around the back of my neck and squeeze it consolingly.

"You could have hurt me a lot worse than you did. How come you always pulled your punches?"

He shrugs. "Maybe something told me that one day we'd meet again, and you'd be taller and stronger than me."

"Taller and faster," I correct him and he squeezes my neck again, only this time it hurts a little. "Such a better runner than you," I gloat into his ear, and he could probably still easily kick my ass, so I distract him by wrapping one of my hands around his dick and cupping his balls in the other.

---o-O-o---

We finally make it to dinner, finding a pub with tables outside that looks like it has enough locals to allow the assumption that the food will be good.

"I'll go in and order for us," David offers. "What do you want?"

"Whatever. A burger. It's too hot for real food."

"Any preferences in beer?"

"Nah, I'll just have a Coke."

He nods, and after a while returns with a Coke for me and a pint of ale for himself, and sits opposite me.

"You don't drink?"

I shake my head.

"Just beer or any alcohol?"

"Any alcohol."

"Is there a specific reason?"

Yeah, there is, but I'm not about to tell him. "Not really. I've just never liked the taste."

He nods and takes out his cigarettes, offering me one.

"Maybe after dinner," I refuse, and he puts the pack down on the table, then reaches over and twines his fingers through mine and smiles at me.

"You're so serious," he says. "Why are you always so serious?"

"I'm not," I protest. "I'm just not naturally smiley, like you." I give him a stupid grin, showing a lot of tooth, and he grins back.

"Jordie, are you happy?"

I don't know if he means generally or right now, so I turn the question back at him. "Are you?"

He sits back and thinks about it, his eyes drifting towards his cigarettes, then up to mine again.

"Yeah, I think so, most of the time. I have a job I like, I have money, and I have a plan."

"A plan?"

"Yeah. In four years I'm retiring and I'm going to travel and see all the places I've been to and never really seen. Just wander around, be a tourist. When I get sick of one place, I'll move on. I'm going to see the whole world."

"That sounds nice," I tell him. "I dream of something like that, as well."

"It's not a dream," he corrects me. "It's a plan."

"Something like that takes a lot of money, even if you're roughing it."

He shrugs. "I've got money."

"A lot of money."

"Oh, I've got shitloads of money," he tells me seriously.

A waiter brings us our food, and for a while we concentrate on it. It's over 24 hours since we last ate, and I try not to inhale my burger. His hand sneaks out to steal one of my fries, and I swat it away.

"Hey, you're so rich, get your own fries, Mr. Healthy Salad Man"

He folds his arms on the table and looks at me.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

"Nope."

He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out his BlackBerry.

"Here. Google me."

I do so, and then show him the results. "Yeah, so?"

He shakes his head and sighs impatiently.

"I haven't used Ives since 1974."

I google David Hamvas and I stare at the small screen. I don't know a hell of a lot about IT, but I know accounting platforms, and there are only a handful of companies that multinational corporations turn to for solutions. And the guy sitting across from me founded and owns one of those. I can't imagine how I didn't make the connection immediately, when I saw his last name, except for the fact that was more preoccupied with who David wasn't, and, once that had been proven (or so I thought), with fucking him.

"You've got shitloads of money," I assure him numbly, giving back the BlackBerry, and he laughs.

I finish my burger and fries, and he goes into the pub for another beer and Coke, and to pay the tab. When he comes back, he offers me his cigarettes again, and this time I pull one out of the pack.

"You never answered the question."

"Huh? What question?" I ask absent-mindedly, wondering whether I should start smoking again. Most of my life, even when I was running track in college, I smoked two to three cigarettes a day; then I figured it was so little that I might as well stop. Now I'm thinking, if that's the one generally acknowledged addiction I can actually control so successfully that it only gives me pleasure, why give it up?

"Are you happy?"

I try to make smoke rings and fail miserably, until he reaches over, plucks the cigarette out of my fingers, takes a drag and shows me how to do it. He hands the cigarette back, and I practice.

"Now that you've learned a new skill, will you answer me?"

"I'm in one of my favorite cities, and I'm going to get laid in less than hour. What's not to be happy about?"

He frowns at me and glances at his watch.

"You're avoiding the question. And in less than an hour we'll be taking our seats at the Dominion."

I stub out my cigarette and get up, then yank him to his feet, as well.

"No, we're not."

"But I've already paid for the tickets," he protests. "They'll go to waste."

"You're rich, you can afford it."

"Money sure makes you horny," he smirks, trailing after me like an eager puppy.

"What can I say? I'm an accountant."

When we reach the hotel, we do the slamming against the walls thing again.

---o-O-o---

At 8:00 a.m. the next morning, I join him for Day 744, and even though this time it's my ass that's sore, he still can't keep up with me. To his credit, he tries not to show that it pisses him off. I find his effort cute and I tell him so. That really pisses him off and when we get back to the room, he has to prove his manhood by drilling me into the mattress again. I have to think of more ways to annoy him.

"Let's ride a Hop-On Hop-Off," he suggests afterwards, during breakfast. "I've always wanted to do one of those tours."

We buy tickets, and sit on the upper deck, despite the fact that it's turned cool and blustery. It feels like autumn, even though it's July. He puts on his sunglasses and smiles at me, and he looks ten years younger and I wonder what my life would have been like if I'd met David at a conference ten years ago instead of a month ago. Probably no different than it is today. Ten years ago David was still married.

"Why did you get married?" I ask him as we get off the bus in front of St. Paul's cathedral. It seems like the right place to ask that type of a question.

"I was in love," he tells me simply.

"So you're bi?"

He shakes his head. "No, not really. I mean I've had sex with both men and women, but I really only ever fall in love with men. Except for Nora. And it lasted long enough for me to marry her, and for Sandor to be born."

And to stay married for sixteen years, but he doesn't mention that.

"Have you loved a lot of men?" I regret the question the moment it pops out of my mouth. I don't really want to know, and it's not the kind of question one asks anyway.

"I'm forty-six," he answers flatly, and I'm guessing that's a yes, though I don't see what age has to do with it. I've only ever loved one. So far.

---o-O-o---

In the evening, we ride the Heathrow Express to the airport together. We're both flying out of Terminal 5, although his departure is forty minutes earlier than mine. Despite the cloudiness of the day, his face got a little sunburned from sitting on the upper deck of the tour buses, so he looks flushed, just like he looked when he bent over me just an hour ago, my legs hitched over his shoulders. I turn away from him to stare out of the window at the scenery sweeping by.

"Do you want to go to the lounge?" he asks me after we check in and go through security.

"Nah. I prefer to wander around, look at the stores and stuff."

He nods, but I know the look. Back when I was traveling as much as him, I hated the shops and duty free, and all I wanted to do was go to a quiet lounge, where I could get some work done. I'm tempted to follow him now, but I don't want to sit for the next forty minutes just waiting to say goodbye.

"You go, though."

He looks torn.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah," I laugh. "I hate long goodbyes. It's better this way."

He hugs me, and for a second I drop my head onto his shoulder, nuzzling at his neck.

"I had fun," I whisper, kissing him in one of my favorite spots, right at the curve of his jaw under his ear, where his soft skin turns rough with stubble. "Thanks."

He steps back from me, his eyes bright.

"We didn't see much of London."

"Maybe next time."

He smiles. "Next time," he agrees.

He doesn't look back as he heads for the escalator that will take him up to the lounge.

I wander around aimlessly, trying on sunglasses and leafing though a few books, then buy a cup of coffee at Starbucks, because standing in line gives me something to do that feels semi-productive. I try not to think of David, not to feel empty or depressed. I scan one the departures boards and see that my flight has been delayed by an hour and I groan; then I see that David's flight is delayed as well, and I can't believe what a stupid idiot I was, to be wasting all this time apart, when we could be spending it together.

I take out my phone to call him, when I feel arms wrap around me from behind and soft lips on the back of my neck.

"When's your summer vacation?" he asks me.

"Mid-August." I lean back against him, not caring who might be watching us, oblivious to everything but how good he feels against me, how good I feel with his arms around me.

"Do you have plans?"

"Go visit my mom in Athens for a few days, see some friends."

He breathes against my neck.

"Do you want to come visit for a few days?" I ask him, my voice nervous.

He's busy. He'll probably be in Beijing, or Astana, or Quito.

"Yeah. I do. I'd love to."

We spend the next hour in the lounge, at first making plans for August, and then just sitting next to each other, our fingers laced together, his palm warm against mine, watching CNN and not speaking. Finally he needs to leave, and I walk with him to his gate.