Excerpt: Love Song to the City

Paul didn’t leave the apartment until two days later, when he decided he should probably go home and find clean clothes before he had to return to work. By then, he and Foster had christened every room in the apartment. They’d talked some, too. Foster was surprised to discover that the more he learned about Paul, the more he liked Paul; he’d been expecting for it all to be an illusion, for Paul to be too good to be true, for him to be handsome but dumb as a brick, for example. But, no, Paul was gorgeous and also smart and articulate and funny and everything Foster had ever wanted in a man. More than that, he was so clearly attracted to Foster, and he’d been enthusiastic about all of the art Foster had shown him, and there’d even been a brief interlude with paint sometime late Saturday night that had left them both laughing until they took a shower together and things stopped being quite so funny.

Thus it was odd to Foster that he, a man who loved his solitude, said the words, “I wish you didn’t have to go,” when Paul finally stumbled outside in the wee hours of Monday morning.

Paul kissed him and said, “I’m going to see you again, right?”

Foster thanked the gods of real estate for this apartment magic; he’d been optimistic about a one-night stand, then he’d been content with two days of really good sex, but Paul still wanted to see him? “Of course,” said Foster.

After Paul left, Foster went back to his studio. He unrolled some newsprint across the floor, letting the roll go until he hit the wall. He walked over to his supplies and pulled out the box of charcoal. Then he swiftly got to work, sketching everything he remembered from the last two days. Most of it was impressions. He drew the things he most liked about Paul. The line of his nose, the arch of his eyebrow, the curve of his neck. Foster drew the crook of Paul’s elbow, the bottom of his hairline, the long muscles on his arms. He drew Paul’s chest as he remembered it, the perfect way his muscles fit together, the long thin line of it, the way it tapered into Paul’s hips. He drew fingers and toes and eyes and lashes, he drew ankles and collarbones and just anything that popped into his head. It was like a purge, catharsis, so many drawings on a page, and it was an intense, almost sexual experience. When he was done, he’d covered the long piece of newsprint in dozens of sketches of disembodied parts, all of them making up Paul, all of them a reminder, a memento.

Spent, he sat on the floor and gazed at his work, happy with the way he’d captured Paul in pieces. He wondered if he could turn those sketches into a painting, into something really worthwhile. He wondered if he’d tell Paul, if he’d even have the opportunity to show Paul. He wasn’t completely convinced he hadn’t just dreamed the last two days.

Sometime during the afternoon, it occurred to him to go downstairs to check his mail, so he went down the stairs, humming as he did so. He decided to drop in on Harvey while he was down there. He was in such a good mood that not even the dour Harvey could undo it.

He knocked on the door and was greeted by the round gray face in the crack the security chain allowed. “What?” Harvey asked.

“How are you?” asked Foster.

“I’m old, how do you think I am?”

Rolling his eyes, Foster said, “You could try you know. Rod claims you as a friend, so you can’t be a completely unpleasant person.”

“Try me.”

“Can I do anything for you? I’m probably going to the store this afternoon, I could pick something up for you.”

“Don’t you work, kid?” Harvey asked.

“I’m an artist.”

Harvey rolled his eyes. “Of course you’re a fucking artist. They’re all fucking artists.”

“I don’t even know what that means. I’m a working artist. I sell my work. That’s how I can afford to check in on you on a weekday afternoon.”

Harvey didn’t look pleased, but he stepped away from the door. He closed it, then Foster heard the chain click, and Harvey opened the door again. “You were awfully loud this weekend.”

Foster’s first reaction was that there was some physical evidence, or a witness, to the fantasy weekend, so it couldn’t have all been in his head. Then he realized that Harvey was complaining. “I’m sorry.”

“Is this going to be a recurring thing?” Harvey asked, walking into his living room. “You bringing home your gentlemen callers and pounding on my ceiling? Because I will rat you out to the landlord.” He said the word “gentlemen” with such disdain that Foster forgot for a moment that Harvey was also gay.

“I’m sorry if we bothered you,” Foster said. “We’ll try to be quieter next time.”

“Bah,” said Harvey. “I guess if you’re going anyway, you could buy me some Cheerios.”

“I’d love to, Harvey.” Then, feeling like he had an in, he said, “Maybe you’d like to tell me about him sometime.”

“Who?”

“Your partner. The man you lived with here.”

Harvey closed his eyes. Then he said, “Bah.”

“Or don’t, that’s fine. I’ll still go get you some Cheerios.”

“In order for me to tell you about him, I have to tell you about everything that went before. Do you like baseball?”

“I don’t really know anything about baseball.”

“That’s not an answer. You love it or you don’t.”

Foster, feeling a little arrogant, sat on the couch. “I never watch baseball. I don’t really have an opinion about it.”

“Sacrilege,” said Harvey. “You know, I went to the last game at Ebbets Field, and I went to one of the first games at Shea.”

Foster had no idea what this had to do with Harvey’s former partner, but he sat patiently and waited for him to get around to telling it.

“I can’t believe you don’t like baseball. What kind of New Yorker are you?”