The Lost Language of Cranes Read Online Free PDF Page B

quickly, his hands in his pockets, his toes numb, watching his breath form larger and more frequent clouds. He thought of his book, the cake in the refrigerator, and smiled. That man in the theatre with the brown hair and bright eyes, Alex Melchor, had left his number. He wanted to see Owen again. He wanted Owen. And thinking of the man, Owen walked faster, the beat in his veins quickening. Then he swore he felt his heart burst inside his chest. And it was as if some sweet ambrosial liquid were pouring from that broken vessel, flowing in his veins, filling him and warming him, from the center of his chest to the cold, faraway extremities.
     

     
    P HILIP WAS IN love. He lay pinned under Eliot's body, and he couldn't move. His left arm felt like part of Eliot—alien and heavy—but he did not dare reposition it. He must have woken Eliot up ten times during the night with his thrashing (love made him thrash), and he wasn't about to risk doing it again. Instead he lay still, trying to flex his fingers to get his blood running, and watched a sliver of gray cloud pass between the curtain rod and the frame of his one window. Eliot's breath tickled the hairs under his arm. The radiator wheezed, the super's Dobermans barked, rain clicked against the roof. He tried to identify the room's generally unpleasant smells—dirty dishes, sweat, old socks—and wondered what time it was. Probably around noon, he guessed, but could not bend around to look at the clock.
    Then Eliot snorted and turned over, freeing Philip, who slipped out from under him as quickly and quietly as an animal escaping a trap. He rubbed his shoulder, waiting for feeling to return. From behind, Eliot threw an arm over Philip—a pleasant arm, pale and sinewy, downed with dark brown hairs. With his eyes closed, Eliot stretched languorously, then pulled Philip closer to him, wrapping his arms more tightly around Philip's waist, his legs around Philip's hips. He lay still. His hand began moving on Philip, in a circle that widened, then moved gradually downward. Eliot's eyes did not open. He was playing a game, pretending he was still asleep, and as he pulled himself onto his forearms, Philip turned obligingly onto his back. Eliot's body settled on top of Philip's. His head fell behind Philip's shoulder, then lifted again. He opened his eyes, smiled, and kissed him.
    "Good morning," he said.
    Philip's arm throbbed and buzzed with life. "Eliot," he said. "Listen."
    "What?"
    "I have to go to the bathroom."
    Eliot stopped what he was doing. "Oh, that," he said. Laughing, he rolled over to the other side of the mattress.
    "I'm sorry," Philip said. "I'll be right back." He disentangled himself from the sheets and blankets and pulled himself onto his feet. All at once he was dizzy. He trembled as he urinated, and tried to calm his erection, which was sending the urine off at wrong angles, making it hit the rim of the toilet bowl and splash onto the floor. Finished, he flushed, wiped up what he had spilled, and went back out the door. The stench seemed to have intensified during his brief absence. "Christ," he said, "what is that smell?" It was coming from the sink, where three days worth of dishes lay piled, all encrusted with bits of rotten food and crawling with roaches.
    Then he noticed the clock. "Oh God," he said, and put his hand on his forehead to steady himself. "It's four o'clock. Did we sleep all day? I've got to do these dishes." Standing before the sink, he ran water, squirted pink detergent onto a sponge, and started to scrub.
    "Come back to bed," Eliot said.
    "I think I have to do these dishes."
    "Philip, come back to bed."
    Philip turned, surprised to hear his own name, and looked at Eliot. He was sitting up on the mattress, his dark hair rumpled, a few days' worth of beard darkening his cheeks. Even in half-sleep, his eyes amazed Philip, and weakened him.
    "Okay," he said. He stood there, naked, and Eliot stared at him.
    Then—in a voice he had never heard