The Rest of the Story - 1. Chapter 1

It is Wednesday, 6:14pm. Paul comes in from a long day of work and collapses gratefully into the chair at his computer desk. It is 6:16pm when he opens his eyes and sees the dirty bowl and spoon next to his keyboard, with the empty corpse of a plastic yogurt container laying by the mouse. The milk has dried in the bowl, forming a sticky bond to the spoon which Paul is forced to separate with a disgusted sigh before placing them both in the dishwasher. The yogurt is sent to a waste basket grave without ceremony. It is all taken care of by 6:19pm.

It is the dishes that start it. It isn’t the annoyance of the menial task itself. It isn’t even the distant frustration of knowing that he has asked Brian time and time again to clean up after eating and particularly to keep the computer area tidy. The annoyance and the frustration are old friends of his, and he knows they will have their way and then pass.

No, what really starts it is the sudden realization that the dishes are a symbol, a discouraging omen. This is his life now -- picking up dishes and putting them in the dishwasher. Putting them away when clean. Using them. Finding them where Brian left them. Putting them in the dishwasher again. Going to work, going home from work. Everything in its predictable cycle and no end in sight.

Paul usually keeps himself from thinking such things. He is a master of self-distraction. But he is finding it difficult not to brood this evening, Wednesday at 6:31pm. None of his usual methods of thought control hold any appeal for him. He doesn’t want to watch TV, he doesn’t want to check his e-mail, or read a book, or even look at porn. He just sits in front of the computer and stares at the ceiling, wondering at the sequence of events and choices that have brought him to this particular place and time. He finds himself marveling, as he occasionally does at existential moments such as this, at how unrecognizable his life might be had one or two minor choices at some previous unforgotten moment been handled differently.

It is Wednesday, 7:33PM. Brian comes home. Paul kisses him, a quick and familiar hello, and they exchange the expected pleasantries. They go through the usual motions of discussing how they should spend the evening, entertaining the notion of going out to eat or calling up old friends to get a drink but, as usual, eventually decide they are both too tired. They eat a quiet meal of microwaveable dinners, and Brian slinks off to the work room. He spends a lot of time in there alone, working on a novel that Paul has never been allowed to read. Paul doesn’t mind this, generally. It gives him time to himself and tonight he’s not particularly interested in keeping Brian company anyway.

Paul says nothing about the dishes. He watches Brian’s back as he slips away. Brian is part of it, part of the stagnation, and neither of them can pretend differently. After almost three years, their relationship for all its extremes is relatively stable. It is a generally smooth ride only occasionally jostled by spectacular fights, and then sometimes by spectacular sex. But the arguing and the love-making are only another part of the cycle, a blip in the repetitive pattern that is now Paul’s life. There is pleasure and there is pain. There is happy Brian, and there is brooding distant Brian, just as there is playful fun Paul and stubborn angry Paul, and the roles come and go as routinely as actors on a stage. Paul knows the whole pattern by heart now.

They are in the downhill part of the cycle at the moment. Two months ago there had been a terrible fight, a slammed door, Brian staying out all night and refusing to come home. Last month there had been a renaissance of romance, mind blowing sex of all descriptions followed by passionate kissing and lazy naps in each other’s arms. The honeymoon is ending now, and, if history is to repeat itself, another fight lies somewhere soon on the horizon.

Brian comes out of the work room at 8:49PM, stretching his arms. He gets a glass of water, rubbing a hand against Paul affectionately, if somewhat absently, on his way back. At 9:03PM, Paul peaks into the work room out of boredom to find Brian typing away on his laptop, his back toward the door. Paul tiptoes away without disturbing him.

Later, at 9:27PM, Paul finally checks his e-mail. It's the usual assortment of rubbish. He begins a killing spree of mass deleting. In the midst of this massacre, his eyes catch on an e-mail from a familiar online dating site where he had once been a frequent visitor during his single days. After coming out. Before Brian.

Paul begins to laugh despite himself, remembering suddenly the late night internet conversations, the restless searching through profile pictures, the nervous flirtations, and the occasional guilt-ridden hook-up which had all resulted from his membership to the site. It had been a time of great desire for companionship, he recalls, but also of great fear. The internet had provided an easy if not always positive outlet. He has moved on from such things now, of course. No reason to go back there.

Despite himself, Paul clicks on the link. He is suddenly curious to see his old profile, to walk for a few minutes in his memories of a thrilling, terrifying, simpler time. What he sees shocks him. The boy in the picture is posing awkwardly, trying his best to seem attractive and alluring. Paul can’t believe how young he looks, how naïve and yes, even desperate. Has it really only been three years? And his screen name! HomoRobot? He had thought that hilarious back then and now it seems forced and silly.

He is marveling at the image of his younger, less complicated self when the screen flashes and a new message pops up from one of the website’s other users.

SxyTop4U: Hey there hottie how r u 2night?

Paul sighs. What is it about online conversation that makes complete sentences and proper spelling so impossible? He closes the window without another thought. So much for that.

They get into bed at 11:03PM. Paul tries to get sexy with Brian, but Brian is too sleepy and distracted.

They wake up at 7:00AM. Brian tries to get sexy with Paul, but Paul is too grumpy and hungry.

They eat breakfast together in silence, and Paul is out the door by 7:45AM.

Later that day (at 12:13PM), while eating a small lunch of a turkey sandwich, Paul attempts to explain to his co-worker Susan his theory about his life, something he has been cooking up in his long minutes of brooding on lonely evenings while Brian writes.

The problem with being gay, Paul says mostly to himself, is that we don't have a clear path set out for us for our lives. We have no substantial examples past coming out and dating. So when we finally have come to terms with ourselves, and finally do have somebody... what then? Now what? Marriage? Kids? There’s no precedent, exactly. What do we do with the rest of our lives together? I think some gay men have problems staying in relationships for the long-term because the beginning part -- the crush, the cruising, the adrenaline of the first kiss -- is all they know and understand. There aren't role-models for anything else.

Paul finishes his rant by 12:24PM, and feels satisfied that it was well-spoken and both logical and passionate. Susan, however, is a middle-aged mother of three with an alcoholic husband. She finds it difficult to extend much sympathy for the plight of aging homosexuals. Being gay doesn't make you special, she says. So you're disappointed because the magic care-free days of your youth are over and all the romance is gone and now you don't know what to do with the rest of your life? Join the club! She says.

Paul is properly chastened. He finishes his lunch in silence.

When he returns home at 6:17pm that day, he finds himself confronted with yet another bowl on the desk, this one containing the remnants of oatmeal that have now dried into a hardened mass almost impossible to scrape off. Paul slams it into the sink rather forcefully, telling himself that he would have to say something to Brian yet again, but knowing that to do so was to invite another fight. He doesn’t know if he has the energy to argue about something so trivial.

So he says nothing. The frustration gets locked away inside where it is building up slowly, waiting until the next big fight for it all to be released. By the time they finish dinner and the dishes at 8:02PM, Paul has reached a boiling point of annoyance. He is relieved to see Brian disappear into the work room again for the evening.

Alone again at 8:09PM on a Thursday, Paul finds himself drawn towards the dating site once again without understanding why. He’s perusing the ads with an attitude of wry amusement when another message pops up on his screen.

Prometheus81: Hey you! I haven’t seen you on here in forever! Where have you been?

Uh-oh, Paul thinks. He’s surprised somebody recognizes him after so long. He feels a little guilty as he realizes he has no idea who this person could be. Hoping for some insight, he looks at the mysterious messenger’s profile, but none of the pictures show his face clearly. However, they are all very tasteful and the Greek mythology implied in the screen name suggests an intelligence and quirkiness that Paul cannot help but find interesting.

Paul writes him back.

HomoRobot: Hi! Yeah, long time no chat. How are you?

He pretends that he remembers this stranger, though he does not. They could have chatted once or twice, or even met up for drinks, or had sex for all Paul can remember! It seems like so long ago for him now, but for fun he plays a part, pretending nothing has changed and that he’s the young single guy with nothing to lose.

The next night, at around 8:45PM, Paul finds himself chatting once again with Prometheus81. He’s enjoying himself, and the conversation has been entirely friendly, so he assures himself he’s doing nothing wrong. In fact, the online stranger reminds him strongly of Brian, making similar jokes in places, seeming to have similar interests. The similarity is so striking, Paul can’t shake the feeling that he’s actually talking to his boyfriend, that somehow they’d both traveled back in time and were chatting online for the first time.

By they time they chat again on Saturday afternoon, 3:16PM, Paul has started to become suspicious of this stranger. He checks his profile pictures again and again. Could it possible? Is Prometheus81 really Brian? The pictures aren’t clear, but they look somewhat like him. After all, can Paul really be sure what he does in there on his laptop for so many hours? Certainly Brian has to know who he is talking to - Paul’s pictures, while slightly dated, show his face very clearly. So Brian must be playing some kind of joke, and, smiling to himself, Paul plays along. He starts to flirt with Prometheus81, changing the tone of their conversation almost at once. The stranger flirts back with skill and charm, and Paul looks towards the work room door and grins.

When they eat dinner that evening at 7:21PM, Paul smiles knowingly at Brian but says nothing. That night they have sex, and it is wonderful. They climax in unison at 10:56PM and are asleep by 11:04.

When Paul comes home from work on Monday at 6:24, he sighs to see another empty yogurt cup next to the computer. But then he smiles affectionately and places the cup in the garbage without regret. Brian goes into the work room after dinner as usual, and HomoRobot and Prometheus81 begin their fun and flirtation.

It continues all week. Each day, Paul is happier and happier to see Brian when he gets home. He smiles when Brian leaves him for the work room. He laughs when Prometheus81 compliments him and makes him feel special. He beams when he falls asleep with Brian in his arms.

On Friday night, 9:03PM, Paul decides he’s played this little game long enough. It’s time to force Brian’s hand.

HomoRobot: So I was thinking we should meet up.

Prometheus81: Oh, no whip cream, please. I’m counting calories.

Paul laughs and gives the address of the brunch place near their house - it’s a favorite of Brian’s, and another hint to him that Paul knows who he is. But Prometheus81 plays his cards close to his chest, and promises to meet Paul there the next day at around 10:00AM.

And, predictably enough, when they wake up the next morning around 9:14AM, Brian suggests they go get some brunch. I had a feeling you were going to say that, Paul says smiling. They are seated in a booth by 9:49AM, and Paul is feeling happier than he has in a long time. He looks at Brian, thinking how strange and wonderful their new courtship routine has been. It’s just like the Pina Colada song from the 70s!

There’s something I need to tell you, Brian says. I know you have been waiting for me to bring it up, but I think its time.

Paul nods, but says nothing. This is the moment. Here they will confess their mutual subterfuge, and they'll laugh, and it will be a new beginning to their entire relationship, a fresh flowering of love. Paul smiles to himself. It is fate, perhaps. He wants it to be. Because that would mean his choice to fuse his life with Brian's was the right one, undeniably and unmistakably, and he can stop second guessing forever.

He smiles and waits for Brian to speak the words - he can already hear them in his head.

I was wondering, Brian says, if you would read my novel. I finished it. He says.

Wait. What?

Paul stares at him, furrows his brow in confusion. Is this another twist in the game? But Brian seems sincere, and there’s no trace of amusement on his face. Despite his best efforts, Paul’s breath quickens and his heart begins to race. His face turns red, as though he were a little boy who had been caught redhanded in some childish act of disobedience. He checks his watch: 10:02AM. He turns his head slowly, fearfully, and looks around the restaurant -- and then he sees him, walking through the door. Prometheus81.

He is very cute, Paul thinks. Gorgeous even. Tall and mysterious and rugged. He has the face of a Greek god, and from where he is sitting Paul can’t see a single flaw in that face. He turns to Brian - a handsome guy, certainly, but Paul knows him so well now he can pick out every imperfection. He knows Brian. He has been there, done that. Turning back to the stranger in the doorway, Paul sees mystery and uncertainty. He feels he can see every spinning pathway of possibility, every could-have-been from choices made differently long ago, each maybe or might-be or what-if that had ever crossed his mind.

I could be happy with him, maybe, Paul thinks. Happier than with Brian. I could be wildly and intensely happy. It’s possible. Or I could be miserable. Or the same. Or any place in between. He’s cute, he’s smart, he’s fun, and he likes me. I could start over from the beginning and this time I could get it right.

His heart is pounding - he can feel each surge of blood through his trembling fingers.

Brian, he says quickly as he grabs his boyfriends hands, I can’t do this.

His boyfriend’s face turns pale and he raises his eyebrows. What do you mean? He asks.

I can’t keep tormenting myself with what-ifs until I go crazy. The minutes of our lives are ticking away slowly and they are never coming back, not one of them… and I know now what I want to do with mine. Paul says.

Brian doesn’t speak, but squeezes Paul’s hand tightly. Paul takes a deep breath.

You are my life now, Paul says. I don't know if that was the best choice or some kind of fated choice - but its the choice I made. And it's pointless to wonder about what might have been when what is is already pretty damn good. If we work a little harder, we can make every minute we have left together be even better. I don’t know what the hell our future is supposed to be, but I want to find out. Together.

Paul doesn’t realizes he is crying until a tear splashes onto the table in front of him. He thinks: I didn’t fall in love with Prometheus81, I fell in love with you, Brian. And as he thinks it, he realizes it is true.

So you’ll read my novel? Brian asks, confused.

Yes! Paul laughs loudly. Yes, I’ll read your damn novel! I can’t wait to.

They eat and laugh and hold hands. At 10:43AM, Prometheus81 gets tired of waiting for HomoRobot and leaves the restaurant without once glancing Paul's way. After all, he was looking for somebody single, carefree, unattached -- the person Paul used to be, but just isn't anymore.

Paul feels bad and wishes him luck, watching his back as the handsome stranger disappears. The door closes behind him, and in his mind Paul can feel another door closing too. But its not sad, like he once thought it would be. He smiles so wide it hurts and turns back to the man he loves.

Now for the love of God, Brian, (Paul says) will you please stop leaving your fucking dishes out??