THURSDAY
12 JUNE, 1997
ISAIAH

               Kissing Dorian is what God created me for. The moment I'm out of the car, his mouth is on mine. Hands on my waist, he presses me against the driver's window until I push him toward the house without breaking the kiss once.

Only at the stone doorstep do we part for risk of injury. His hands remain planted on my hips even then, still when I unlock the door. And when he has to let go to touch the mezuzah on the doorframe, he pulls me firmly against him with his other arm so my laughter stumbles over the threshold along with me.

I kick off my shoes with much less care than normal and shut the door. 'Welcome home.'

Dorian is silent and anxiety flares in my stomach. The entrance expands, stretching on in the seemingly infinite way I've experienced only in hospital corridors. The warm light bleaches to leave behind insatiable white.

'I know it's... quite barren but I don't own nuttin and I ain't wanna cram it full of stuff just to fill space. Suppose that's a happy accident cause now there's room for your tings.'

'I don't own any furniture either.' It's an offhanded comment that would be so easy to interpret as rude, but he scans the space with an expression of total calm and I know he doesn't mean it as anything more than a statement.

With a deep exhale, I force my shoulders down from my ears.

'So, living room, kitchen, really narrow and steep staircase,' I list, indicating to each in turn. 'Bedroom and bathroom are upstairs. There's also a spare room I've done nuttin with cause... I don't know what to do with it. I ain't never had this much space in my life. So... if you got any ideas...'

When Dorian is unresponsive, I turn to him to find him enchanted by the iridescent dots scattered over the wallpaper. He hasn't heard a word. It's a blessing to see him like this, to look into his eyes when they look elsewhere — it means: I feel safe, I know your caress won't turn to a knife when I blink. So I don't snap him out of it.

Rather, I hug him and his arms wrap around me though it takes nearly a minute for his conscious mind to catch up.

When he does, he blinks slowly like he's woken from a nap and looks back to the Star of David sun catcher. 'Is this your mum's?'

'I can take it down–'

'No.' His attention shifts to the gold dangling from my ears. 'And you've pierced your ears.' I don't understand the connection until he makes it for me: 'Are these your mum's earrings?'

Staring at my socks, I hum.

'I'm proud of you.'

'For piercing my ears?' Though I intended comedic scepticism, my voice drenches with derision. I only double down and coerce it into my expression too. I'm pretty sure it's a sin anyway.

Dorian's grace doesn't divert. 'For wearing your mum's earrings. You've always wanted to.'

He sees me so effortlessly that I'd be angry if I wasn't so touched — I've rehearsed this performance for twenty years, how dare you see right through it? Which means: you might not love me when I stop acting, which really means: in order to let you love me — fully, and as you see fit — I must first let go of control and that terrifies me, which is all just a complicated way to say: I'm not sure if I'm ready yet to find out who I am.

Today, I add: nonetheless, I'll try my best.

I fall into him and let him kiss me, first my forehead, then my mouth.

I guide him through the arch into the living room. He smiles at the bookshelves opposite the window. A local carpenter built them into the wall for what I'm sure was too low a price but she wouldn't let me pay more. I recounted this story to Dorian on the phone which must be the reason for his smile. Unless it's June Jordan's Selected Love Poems, which is the only book on its shelf.

In addition to it and the books Mrs Carter bought me, the room has a sofa and a rug. I feel the need to defend the emptiness somehow.

'I've slept on this sofa a few times when the stairs've been too much. Now, you ask me, why didn't I just put the bed in the living room and make this the bedroom? Well, I thought if the bed was upstairs, it would motivate me to get there. Didn't work. Apparently invisible disabilities aren't just a lack of willpower.'

Without replying to any of my ramblings, Dorian sits and takes me with him to straddle his lap.

I haven't been touched this way in seven months and my skin becomes hypersensitive the way it does when I have a fever, except rather than pain, it's craving that follows even the lightest caress. Or maybe it's not because of my low tolerance and simply because it's his fingers grazing my neck. Either way, I enter the contradictory reality of being simultaneously tense and relaxed that only Dorian has ever invited me into.

I realise that I don't need oxygen; I want you to kill me so that it'll be you who gives me CPR. This time, I will be born into arms that don't shove me away.

When he leans away, pressing a palm to my stomach to keep me from following, strings of saliva connect our lips for several centimetres before they thin out. Whatever he intends to say flickers behind his eyes before they fill with need and his mouth returns to mine.

Unfortunately, he manages to pull back before he gets lost in it.

'Am I kissing you too much?' I go to respond that no such thing is possible but he cuts me off. 'It's only so nice now that you don't taste of cigarettes.'

'Oh, you got jokes?' I suck my teeth and Dorian giggles.

I twist off him. The bulges in both our jeans are obvious but I rest my head on his shoulder and they lose significance. He plays with the friendship bracelet around my wrist.

'When we start making money, we can put a piano there.' I point to the empty space under the window that spills afternoon sunlight. 'Then I can sit here and watch you play.'

Dorian examines the spot, visualising the scene with a smile. But when his gaze stutters to mine, anxiety vignettes the affection in them. 'Have you been going to synagogue?'

'Um...' Sitting up, I wring my hands in my lap. 'I've gone to see my muma once or twice. Sometimes, I go to shacharit cause ain't nobody else going so it's me and like five other people. And I went for Purim and Passover but everybody was staring so I haven't really gone for Sabbath or anything. And I know like, what's more important, HaShem or my temporary comfort? But it's just hella uncomfortable...' My voice fades out.

He shifts back; wrong answer.

'So you've seen my parents?'

My head snaps to him. That's not what I expected. Why do I still dismember every sentence until I can reassemble it as criticism? Hasn't he proven by now that he cares much less about my observance than I fear he does?

I'm sorry for thinking the worst of you.

'I've seen em...'

Dorian stares at his own hands with the intensity of someone trying to count fingers after a concussion. 'Have they said something to you?'

'They don't gotta speak to make it clear I ain't welcome.'

He hangs his head and my chest seizes. Now he's upset because of me.

Dorian steals the apology before I can say it. 'I'm sorry.'

'What for?'

'It's my family... I feel responsible.'

'Well, don't.' I hug him with my free arm, climbing halfway on top of him to do so. Despite the awkward tangle of our limbs, we stay like this for several breaths. I think I'd be comfortable in any position with you. 'Don't.'

'Let me show you the kitchen.' I whisper it into his ear, somehow simultaneously dirty talk and words of affirmation.

Still holding his hand, I stand up. Each creak of the floorboards is a billet-doux. This house has life in it; it will be our home. We'll memorize all its sounds out of fondness rather than terror.

The air of melancholy clings to him until I tow him through the doorway and he sees the kitchen: oak countertops and cabinet doors, bathed in natural sunlight from the windows facing three directions. The kitchen, too, is glaringly empty; there's much more space than I know what to do with, but at least the dutchie pot fits onto a shelf now.

Dorian lets go of my hand and strides to the small kitchen island to feel the unpolished butcher's block exactly as I knew he would. He leans over it so his cheek is flat against the wood, arms spread on either side, and runs his palms over the surface, pausing at each imperfection.

I know he'll learn every nick as intimately as the scars on my body. Maybe love is nothing more than the promise to notice and to remember.

'It's wood,' he declares and when I clearly don't express enough enthusiasm, repeats, 'It's wood, Shay. Food tastes so much better when it's made in a wooden kitchen. I never want to see marble in my life.'

'You done-done with your parents, huh?'

He doesn't even hear my joke as he looks through the cabinets. 'There's so much space. We can actually have separate sets of crockery and utensils for meat and dairy and it won't feel cluttered.' He says this like it's the absolute best thing in the universe and somehow my adoration of him still finds room to grow.

He rounds the island to get to the dining table which is made with the same oak. Because it was built for this house, the previous owners didn't take it with them. It's large enough to seat six people comfortably and eight if you're willing to sacrifice elbow room, though there are only five chairs.

Dorian runs his palm over it as he did with the worktops only to come to an abrupt halt when he spots the ceramic ashtray.

'I thought you quit.'

'I did.' I dart to his side and pick up the remaining half of a spliff that waits inside. I hold it up to his face so he can smell it. 'This is ganja.'

Dorian's expression remains blank.

I drop the zoot back into the ashtray. 'It's just when I have flares. It helps with the pain and it helps me sleep. And it also helps me eat and you know I ain't eat enough–'

His catches my hands and I realise I've been waving them around as I defend myself. 'I wasn't going to phone the police.'

I stare at him.

'If it helps you, I'm happy.'

Panic melts into a sticky warmth. 'It could help with your anxiety too. If you ever want some, just let me know. But I need to show you suttin.'

He's willing to be pulled through the back door into the June heat until I step off the small deck and onto the grass.

If the garden was unkempt in November, now it's beyond taming. The downpours from May still sustain the soil after fifteen days of sun and I haven't mowed the lawn once — I prefer it when it grows wild. I don't have to fear bear traps here. The three apple trees are in full bloom, seasoning the grass with their pale petals. A pair of hedgehogs live under the guelder-rose.

I come here to eat fruits and read my books exactly as I envisioned. Now, I'll get to do it with you. I'll get to do it with you.

Dorian treads the edge of the deck the way dogs do when they're afraid of the stairs. He's not wearing shoes and I know he's apprehensive of the sensation on his bare feet.

'It's okay. There's a lot of moss so it's really soft.' I squeeze his hand. 'Or you can go put on your shoes. I'll wait.'

After some consideration, he drags off his left sock and drops it on the deck where I discarded mine moments ago. 'I'll try it.' He lowers the foot into the grass, scrunching and extending his toes to feel it out. Then he takes off the other sock and steps off the deck.

'Irie?'

'Yeah.'

Smiling, I peck his jaw and his nose. Not once letting go of his hand, I caress his thumb with mine as I guide him through the garden, which soon grows so wild, I could do with a machete to clear our path.

I await the day we've walked to and from the river so many times, we form a trail in the ground. Earth will remember our love fondly.

I taste Dorian's question like the sweat that coats my lips and answer before he asks. 'This ain't actually our property anymore but ain't no one else is using it either so it might as well be.'

His unease is as audible as the crickets. But the moment we emerge from buckthorn, he falls silent.

The river opens wide in front of us. The current is weak in this bend and the surface is undisturbed, save for a few apple flowers and nibbles of bulrush fluff idling along. With the wilderness flaunting its summer health, we'll be safe from any potentially onlooking neighbours.

I turn to him, beaming. 'It's our own little bit of river.'

'It's our own little bit of river,' he echoes.

Entranced, Dorian walks forward and his hand slips out of mine. I expect him to simply test the water with his toes but he strides right in. When it reaches mid-calf, I call after him that he's fully clothed but he doesn't acknowledge me. His jeans soak and he doesn't care. He keeps going until he's able to turn onto his back and float.

I, on the other hand, do not want to deal with the struggle of getting out of wet jeans, so I undress to my boxers before I follow him.

I'm out of breath by the time I reach his side. 'Why you going swimming with your jeans on? You possessed or suttin?' The mockery is undermined by the gasps for air that severe each word from the next.

Dorian stands, which he's tall enough to do with ease while I have to swim to keep afloat. He pulls me to him in one sweep.

'That was hot.' I cling to him as the world becomes a blur of colour. 'I've gone a little light-headed.'

'Are you sure it's not anaemia?'

'It's not anaemia.'

In the water, he can easily hold me up with one hand, and he brushes wet locs behind my ear with the other. 'Will you let me wash your hair? It's Thursday.'

'Only if you let me wash yours.'

He kisses me again to confirm and, without wasting time, turns around. I expect him to put me down when we reach the shore but instead, he picks up my clothes and bundles them between our torsos so they're easy to carry.

His clothes pour water into the dry earth under the buckthorn. The wet t-shirt adheres to his skin, carving out his muscles, and I lean back to admire the view for a moment. Then lever my stare up, though Dorian has to focus on navigating the path and doesn't look at me. How I adore the way he lets me look into his eyes when he's looking away.

'What are you doing?'

'Carrying you home,' he says. 'And then I'm carrying you up the stairs.'

I drop my forehead against his shoulder, hiding my smile. 'Careful. Or I'll get used to this.'

'Good.' Thank God he's carrying me or I'd be seeping through the moss into the ground right now. My knees would certainly give in. 'What's the point of working out if I can't carry my best friend around?'

Best friend.

Smiling, I kiss his jaw, a precursor Dorian deciphers effortlessly and he stops in the middle of the garden to meet my eyes.

'I love you, Doron. So much.'

'I love you, Shay.'

Shay, Doron — our shared name: you're my gift.

I nuzzle into him. We'll make it. I have faith that we'll make it. Life in an orchard will always be suspended by winter, but with strong roots, death is not permanent. Our roots run deep enough to touch God.

Notes

Mezuzah: A scroll with verses of scripture attached to doorframes. Observant Jews will touch it upon entering any room to remind them about their obligation to God.

Shacharit: Morning prayer.

Billet-doux: (French) Love letter.