Heat - 8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

We are jogging down a dirt path, somewhere far from anywhere. We’re talking about something, the subject escapes me but I know that I am enjoying myself. After some time I realize that he is pulling ahead and I call to him to slow down a bit so that I can catch up. He doesn’t seem to hear me and he disappears around a sharp turn, out of sight. Suddenly I realize that we have somehow wandered into a cornfield, and the stalks tower to my left and right. The path seems to narrow the further I travel, to become more winding and treacherous. Still I carry on, shouting Asher’s name. I feel afraid now. Where is he? Has he left me here? The path ends, a solid wall of stalks barring me from running any further. I spin, panicked only to find the way back is blocked too. I am surrounded by tall dark shapes, and the only sound is the calling of distant night animals and hissing cicadas. “Asher!” I’m really panicking now, my voice rising in pitch and my heart hammering in my chest. Then there is a flare of scalding light and a wave of red heat and the entire field is burning around me all at once.

I practically jump out of bed. I suck in air in huge gulps and it takes me too long to realize that for once the smell of smoke has followed me out of the dream. Something is burning. My mind immediately goes to the firebomb I’ve let crash on my couch downstairs and I take the steps two at a time, mentally cataloging the last time dad replaced the fire extinguisher under the sink. Two years? Three? Fuck.

At the bottom of the stairs I find there is, indeed, a non-negligible amount of smoke filling the room, but as far as I can tell from a glance there is no active boy-shaped inferno standing in the middle of my living room. “Yikes! Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” Asher says. He is shirtless, standing over a pan of bacon and attempting in vain to waft the smoke out the window with his bare hands.

I take a moment to catch my breath. “No, no… it’s fine. Sorry I just thought... nevermind. That smells great.”

He smiles at my complement, though there’s a clear undercurrent of embarrassment there still. “Thanks. It might not taste quite as good as it smells though. I don’t really know how cooking works just yet.” He says the word “cooking” like it’s a person and he and it simply don’t get along very well.

Confused, I move in closer. The “bacon” appears to have been ritually immolated, leaving hard black lumps where there once was delicious salted meat. Come to think of it, where did this bacon even come from? I move up next to him and say “Ok, I think I see your problem.” I reach past him and turn the stove down from it’s current full-blast to a more reasonable seventy-five percent. “I’m not much of a cook myself” - yesterday’s bricks stare accusingly from the garbage can - but I can do bacon. Let it cool a bit, scoop out the crispy bits, and try again. This time keep an eye on them and flip them when they start to dance. You’ll know it when you see it.”

He picks the spatula up and begins to follow my instructions, and I realize at that moment that in moving up to explain how food works I have unintentionally moved very close to him, to the point that we are almost touching. At the same moment I realize that I have, in my rush to stop my house from burning down, also neglected to put on any clothing at all. I am wearing only a pair of maroon boxers which would normally be fine but at this moment I feel very exposed. The heat that always radiates off of him tingles across my bare chest and I shiver. The heat is off and the house is chilly, my body craves the warmth that his offers so readily. He turns to dump a spatula full of carbonized pig product into the waiting trash can and softly, so softly his arm brushes against my exposed stomach. I turn, abruptly, tossing a machine-gun “be right back” over my shoulder and almost crab-walking up the stairs in an attempt to keep my back to him.

In my room I flop onto my bed, hard. I look accusingly down at my boxers. “Not cool man.” My obvious erection stands, stoic as ever and immune to my scorn. I don’t think he noticed, thank god. After a few minutes of “cooling off” time (pun intended, I guess) I get dressed and head down to find Asher has done a much more passable job cooking the second time around. He hands me a plate with chocolate chip toaster waffles, two eggs over easy, and three slices of bacon and it’s at this point that my stomach remembers I skipped dinner last night. I am ravenous and I mutter a “thank you” through a full mouth. He smiles, clearly pleased that I am enjoying myself, and settles into the chair next to mine to start on his own breakfast. Once I have finished shoveling everything but the plate into my mouth I lean back and say “Thank you for breakfast. Did you get up early to go buy all this?”

“Not that early.” he says, sheepishly. I note the time on the oven stove - 9:00 AM

“Well, thank you anyway I really appreciate it. No one has made me breakfast in… I guess years.” I am struck at this moment with a mental picture of my mom humming along with an old R&B song while she mixes pancake batter. She would always dip a finger in the batter and brush a little on my nose when I wasn’t paying attention. I can never predict when these waves of missing her will hit. Sometimes it still hurts like it was yesterday. Especially lately.

Asher is looking at me like he just said something and is waiting for a response. “Sorry, what was that?”

He looks shy when he says “I asked if you had anything to do today, what with it being sunday and all. I was thinking if you didn’t - and it’s ok to say no obviously don’t feel pressured or anything - but I was thinking maybe we could hang out? Maybe start over a little bit. If we’re gonna be friends now that is.”

His little hopeful smile at the end sends a shiver down my spine and threatens an encore performance to this morning’s tragicomedy. “Right, of course. Friends. Sure, we can hang out today. I don’t really have much else to do, especially now that you did my shopping for me.”

The candle-flame smile grows to a crackling bonfire of a grin and I can feel the heat coming off him in waves. It takes my breath away, in more ways than one. As he stands and whisks our plates away to the sink I look down at the result of yet another unfortunate and unintended redirection of blood flow and say under my breath “you and I, we’re fucked aren’t we?” I receive no reply.