Bryan Washington - Memorial: A Novel

Lot

Mikes taking off for Osaka, but his mothers flying into Houston.

Just for a few weeks, he says.

Or maybe a couple of months, he says. But I need to go.

The first thing I think is: fuck.

The seconds that we dont have the money for this.

Then it occurs to me that we dont have any savings at all. But Mikes always been good about finances, always cool about separating his checks. Its something Id always taken for granted about him.

Now hes saying that he wants to find his father. The mans gotten sick. Mike wants to catch him before he goes. And Im on the sofa, half listening, half charging my phone.

You havent seen your mom in years, I say. Shes coming for you. Ive never met her.

I say, You dont even fucking like your dad.

True, says Mike. But I already bought the ticket.

And Ma will be here when Im back, says Mike. Youre great company. Shell live.

Hes cracking eggs by the stove, slipping yolks into a pair of pans. After theyve settled, he salts them, drizzling mayonnaise with a few sprigs of oregano. Mike used to have this thing about sriracha, hed pull a hernia whenever I reached for it, but now he squeezes a faded bottle over my omelette, rubbing it in with the spatula.

I dont ask where hell stay in Japan. I dont ask who hell stay with. I dont ask where his mother will sleep here, in our one-bedroom apartment, or exactly what that arrangement will look like. The thing about a moving train is that, sometimes, you can catch it. Some of the kids I work with, thats how their families make it into this country. If you fall, youre dead. If youre too slow, youre dead. But if you get a running start, its never entirely gone.

So I dont flip the coffee table. Or one of our chairs. I dont key his car or ram it straight through the living room. After the black eye, we stopped putting our hands on each otherwed both figured, silently, it was the least we could do.

Today, what I do is smile.

I thank Mike for letting me know.

I ask him when hes leaving, and I know thats my mistake. Im already reaching to toss my charger before he says it, tomorrow.

Weve been fine. Thank you for asking.

Our relationship is, what, four years old? But that depends on how you count. We havent been to a party in months, and when we did go to parties, at first, no one knew we were fucking. Mike just stood to the side while whatever whitegirl talked her way into my space, then hed reach up over my shoulder to slip a finger into my beer.

Or hed sneeze, stretch, and wipe his nose with my shirtsleeve.

Or hed fondle my wallet, slowly, patting it back into place.

Once, at a dinner, right under the table, he held court with a hand in my lap. Running his thumb over the crotch. Every now and again, someone would look, and you could tell when they finally saw. Theyd straighten their backs. Smile a little too wide. Then Mike would ask what was wrong, and theyd promise it was nothing, and hed go right back to cheesing, never once nodding my way.

We knew how we looked. And how we didnt look. But one night, a few weeks back, at a bar crawl for Mikes job, all it took was a glance at us. He works at a coffee shop in Montrose. Its this fusion thing where they butcher rice bowls and egg rollsalthough, really, its Mexican food, since unless your name is Mike, thats whos cooking.

Theyd been open for a year. This was their anniversary celebration. Mike volunteered us to help for an hour, flipping tortillas on a burner by the DJ.

I felt miserable. Mike felt miserable. Everyone who passed us wore this look that said, Mm. They touched our shoulders. Asked how long wed been together. Wondered where wed met, how wed managed during Harvey, and the music was too fucking loud, so Mike and I just sort of shrugged.

I dont say shit on our way to the airport to pick up his mother, and I dont say shit when Mike parks the car. IAH sits outside of Houstons beltways, but theres always steady traffic lining the highway. When Mike pulls up to Arrivals, he takes out the keys, and a line shimmers behind us, this tiny constellation of travelers.

Mikes got this mustache now. It wavers over his face. He usually clips all of that off, and now I think he looks like a caricature of himself. We sit beside the terminal, and we cant have the most fucked-up situation here, but still. You have to wonder.

I wonder.

I wonder if he wonders.

We havent been good at apologizing lately. Now would be a nice time.

The airport sees about 111,500 visitors a day, and here we are, two of its most ridiculous.

Hey, says Mike.

He sighs. Hands me the keys. Says hell be right back with his mother.

If you leave us stranded in the parking lot, says Mike, well probably find you.

It took all of two dates for him to bring up Race. Wed gone to an Irish bar tucked behind Hyde Park. Everyone else on the patio was white. Id gotten a little drunk, and when I told Mike he was slightly shorter than optimal, he clicked his tongue, like, What took you so long.

What if I told you youre too polite, said Mike.