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  Cole drummed his fingers into the table, his narrow blue eyes fixed on his watch. It was twenty-four minutes past seven and Malachi had still not arrived. They had agreed to meet for dinner at six-thirty. Cole had telephoned Malachi twice but each time the phone rang and rang and cut away to the voice mail. It was clear to him now that Malachi was not going to show, that giddy hopefulness at its bleakest ebb, and Cole surrendered himself to fate and to the wretched misfortune that seemed to plague his life.

  A thin-faced brunette approached his table and in her high-pitched voice said, “Would you like another?”

  Cole waved her off and said, with an edge, “Just the bill,” and reached for his wallet in his back pocket and set it on the table. He looked around the restaurant — couples, friends, lovers, colleagues — seated around him, laughing and talking animatedly about their lives. He thought about how foolish he must look to be sitting alone, and the judgments he often made of others he saw in similar situations. Were they, like he was now, waiting for someone? Were they being stood up? Were they wrapped up in a malaise that left them prostrate, outside themselves? Was it any wonder that he had “accepted” as his condition this perpetual state of unhappiness composed of missed opportunities and, undoubtedly, a lack of understanding of his own wants? He liked to think that he had been conditioned into believing that when something did not work out or unfold as expected — like his date with Malachi — that it simply wasn’t meant to be. Cole so willingly resigned himself to fate’s fury, as if it were all beyond him, beyond his control. Yet Cole scoffed at writers like Sartre, and what some would call an “excess of individualism” because Cole needed to be able to grasp onto something real, tangible, to somehow shake that prostration.

  “Am I unhappy?” Cole wondered as he took his bill from the server. He pulled three five-dollar bills from his wallet and placed them underneath the bill. “Perhaps I am disillusioned,” he thought. Some would say deluded. While Cole had read Sartre he had studied Camus, and the idea that humans craved something enduring obsessed Cole, to the point of taking possession of him — the great motivating guidance for his life. What Cole craved was love, that in love he would anchor himself, live out the totality of his own creativity and power. But that would still mean doing something, and Cole was not known for rebellion, nor was he ready, it seemed, to promote something of himself that was of value.

  “Was Hannah Arendt right, too?” he asked himself as he pushed his chair back from the table and stood, shoving his wallet into this back pocket. He made his way towards the exit, holding his gaze to the ceramic tile floor as if he had been publicly shamed. Cole had imagined numerous scenarios as to why Malachi had not shown up, and then it suddenly occurred to Cole that perhaps there had been an accident. That would be a different blow, and utterly unbearable.

  Outside, Cole stood motionless for a moment beside his car, the warm June evening air hot and sticky, the bright sky tainted an orange hue rapidly darkening as the thick grey storm clouds rushed across Claredon. At the first drop of rain Cole scrambled to unlock his car and climbed in. The rain fell in hard pounding sheets, and Cole stared blankly at the windshield but the heaviness of the rain obscured his view. He thought about what to do, his stomach growling, anguished over the situation. When the rain let up, he inserted the key into the ignition and flipped the engine. He sat there for a time with the car running, still uncertain as to what he should do, slowly becoming convinced that there was nothing he could do without appearing desperate. Cole backed the car out of the parking spot and drove towards the exit where turning right would mean heading to Malachi’s and turning left heading towards the 401 and making for home. The sky was still dark and ominous, and hope, like the setting sun, concealed behind a murky wall of clouds as Cole turned the steering wheel to the left.

  ****

  As Cole Malcolm asked the server for his bill, Malachi Bishop was across town, alone in his condo, pouring himself a stiff drink. Malachi picked up the crystal tumbler and moved into the living room, standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows and watching as the dark storm clouds edged their way eastward, dulling the bright sky. His unit, located just below the penthouse level, offered a view of the west side of Claredon, including the college. And Malachi was right, as he had explained to Shane Martin, that on a clear day he could see to Chemong Lake.

  Malachi sat down on the worn brown leather sofa and stared blankly at the TV. Am I unreal? Malachi lifted his glass to his mouth and held it there. Tuesdays, when he taught three of his four classes, left him drained. Today he was exhausted. Malachi’s day started off with the advanced writing workshop, and Zach Brennan had not shown up again. Malachi had taught the ninety-minute English literature course that started right after the lunch break pausing often, as if he were unable to weave together, and hold, a train of thought. One of his students asked if he was okay, to which he replied, “I’m fine,” with great defence, and then dismissed the class — forty minutes early. When all of the students had left the classroom, Malachi sat down at his desk and wrote out a notice cancelling the creative writing class he was to teach later that afternoon. He posted the notice to his classroom door and then made for home.

  Beyond the usually long day of teaching, beyond the ordinariness of his life, Malachi was caught up in the paralyzing, awful, blackly saddening events of the day. In the aftermath of the day’s events, his perception of his life in Claredon had shifted, seen now as imaginary and formless, indeed a fabrication. There remained a contradiction because he knew that there was an inescapable realness to Claredon where he had, over the past five years, carved out a home. And in that realness there was Zach Brennan.

  Despite their newfound intimacy, despite having succumbed to desire, Zach was still very much a question mark in Malachi’s life, a dark shade of grey that settled heavily over Malachi’s heart. Malachi felt both joy and sadness as he thought about the day he had gone over to Zach’s apartment — how happy he had felt to finally hold Zach in his arms. And then relief when Zach led him into the bedroom, closing the door immediately as if to lock out the rest of the world. They stood next to the bed, the duvet and sheets scrunched up near the footboard, smiling sheepishly, until Zach lunged at Malachi. They kissed, tongues darting — a great collision that could not be put off any longer, like the sudden ascent to heaven. Zach, with his eyes wide open, wrapped his arms loosely around Malachi’s waist. As the kiss progressed, Zach ran his hands over Malachi’s round firm buttocks, and then Zach pulled Malachi closer to him. It was hard to say who had let out the little moan without releasing the kiss as Malachi grabbed at Zach’s hard penis encased in his sweat pants.

  Malachi, with his other hand, stroked Zach’s thick hair, at times clutching at it with a roughness that Zach seemed to enjoy. Malachi then placed his hands on Zach’s shoulders and shoved him down onto the bed.

  Zach looked with submission up at Malachi, and Malachi smiled mischievously at Zach. Zach, fumbling to unbuckle Malachi’s belt, kept his gaze on Malachi and, with similar difficulty, Zach unbuttoned Malachi’s jeans. Zach violently pulled down on Malachi’s jeans and underwear. Zach smiled and mumbled, “Oh, fuck, yeah.” Zach then opened his mouth wide and swallowed Malachi’s hard and rigid erection.

  Malachi closed his eyes as Zach worked on him steadily.

  Zach, held in his own erotic trance, reached inside his sweat pants to stroke his own cock and could feel the precome seeping out and wetting his underwear. Zach’s head slid back and forth along Malachi’s slender manhood in time to the almost inaudible ticking of the clock on the nightstand, gradually picking up speed each time Malachi grunted, “Oh, yeah…”

  As Malachi pulled out, Zach looked up to see that Malachi was still smiling insouciantly at him, with compassion, but it also seemed like pity.

  Malachi stepped out of his jeans and underwear bunched at his feet, lowered himself to his knees, and stroked the head of Zach’s beautiful cock that was poking out the top of Zach’s sweat pants. M
alachi kissed the pink mushroom head before pushing Zack onto his back, which made it easier for Malachi to pull the sweat pants past Zach’s hips. They took off the rest of their clothes, eyeing each other all the while to take in the completeness of their nakedness. Zach stretched out completely on the bed and Malachi lay down on top of Zach, and they kissed again, deep and long. Suddenly, the whole world was before them, draped in the majesty of possibility, and them wrapped up in it, unstoppable.

  Afterwards they lay there, tangled up in each other, unwilling to let go fearing they would somehow be disentangled, cut off from each other — recognize the horror of what they had done. Malachi pushed back the hair from Zach’s low brow and kissed Zach’s forehead. Malachi looked intently at Zach and said pertly, “This is very real to me.”

  “But how long can it last?” Zach said askance, and rolled onto his back. Zach turned his head towards Malachi and said, “Not being with you will be insufferable if tomorrow I have to go back to calling you Mr. Bishop.” Zach dragged the back of his hand across Malachi’s soft cheek. “I love you so much,” Zach said as a tear rolled down his face.

  Malachi slid his body closer to Zach’s and pulled Zach into a clumsy embrace and, after several unsuccessful attempts, Malachi managed to roll Zach on top of him. Malachi ran his hands up and down Zach’s back. Zach wept. Malachi offered soft, reassuring kisses to the side of Zach’s head. Malachi’s own eyes swelled with tears as he held his new lover. Malachi had silently loved Zach for so long. Now, Malachi wanted to remove the black unhappiness that was constantly torturing the handsome twenty-five-year-old he had just made love to.

  The numbing events of the day, replaying over and over again in Malachi’s mind as he gulped the rest of his drink, were like a splinter just under the skin — painful and difficult to remove. He set his glass down on the coffee table and leaned back into the sofa, his body tense and stiff, as he thought about the scream, somewhat muffled, that had pierced the calm of his lunch hour. He was in his classroom, eating a grilled chicken and avocado sandwich and reading the Economist, and got up from his desk at discerning a sort of cackling cry a short time later, making his way towards the open windows. The scene below was of several female students, whom he recognized from his advanced writing workshop, huddled together, hugging, crying. Then came the knock on his classroom door, which he always left slightly ajar in case one of his students needed to speak to him. Malachi spun around as the door swung open, and Shane Martin entered the room, closing the door behind him.

  “What’s that all about?” Malachi said, nodding his head at the windows.

  Shane made his way over to Malachi and they glanced out the windows at the women huddled together, rocking gently back and forth. Malachi raised his eyebrows and looked at Shane. Malachi, tapping his foot, waited for Shane to share whatever he knew. Shane was one of the popular teachers at the college who students tended to confide in.

  “Sit down,” Shane said firmly, as if he were disciplining one of his students.

  Malachi did not sit down but turned around and leaned against the windowsill and, staring at Shane, Malachi immediately saw that Shane’s face was different, agitated, pained.

  “There’s been an accident,” Shane said in a dark tone and looked away, and moved to in front of Malachi. At first Shane leaned against the desk but then balanced himself on the square desktop.

  “Involving a student?” Malachi asked, and swung his head to the left to see if his students were still consoling each other. They were.

  Shane shook his head but avoided eye contact with Malachi. “Yes, a student,” he said, and cleared his throat. Then he looked at Malachi and said, stoically, “Not just any student.”

  Malachi shrugged, and scrunched his eyebrows in frustration. He was not in any mood to play twenty questions. “Who?” There was no response as he took in Shane’s impervious look and roving eyes, and repeated, much testier, “Who?”

  “Zach Brennan.”

  “Zach?” Malachi’s voice was filled with concern as he lifted himself off the windowsill, trembling. “Is he all right?”

  Shane drew in a deep breath and blew it out forcefully through his mouth. Shane, pushing his pursed lips from side to side, gazed at his best friend and finally, in a barely audible voice, said, “He’s dead.”

  Malachi’s eyes widened. “He’s… what?”

  “Zach’s dead,” Shane said, matter-of-fact, and dropped his gaze.

  In the silence that followed the muffled sobs from the parking lot below seeped into the room, and Malachi, visibly shaken, stood and stared at Shane. It couldn’t possibly be true. Malachi and Zach had just been together, had finally surrendered to their love for each other. It had to be a mistake, some silly, callous, practical joke. Shane, his eyes skirting and his lips spreading into a caustic smile that he could not hide, looked at Malachi again. Malachi swallowed hard as his heart raced and his dark brown eyes flooded with tears.

  Shane stood and cupped his hands to Malachi’s shoulders, and wanted to say something, anything, to comfort his friend’s grieving heart. Words failed Shane. All Shane could think to do was to pull Malachi into a loose embrace and they stayed like that for a long time.

  Malachi lifted himself off the sofa and went into the kitchen and poured himself an even stiffer drink. He stood with both hands flat against the countertop, leaning forward slightly, his head bowed, and staring absentmindedly into his drink. Zach Brennan was dead. It seized hold of Malachi, felt real, and filled him with a deep local pain that he knew would haunt him. A tear rolled down his cheek, and he picked up his glass and took a small sip, and in that moment his throat constricted, his chest tightened and his head started to spin. He set the glass down forcefully on the counter, some of its contents spilling onto the counter, and bolted for the bathroom. In the bathroom, he flicked on the light switch and dropped to his knees, and held his head over the toilet. His breathing was shallow, and tears came into his eyes and dripped off his face into the toilet bowl water. He could see his reflection, the redness of his eyes, the look of exhaustion on his dry, drawn face. Had Malachi cried that much? When Malachi thought he was okay, he leaned back — and suddenly Malachi was sick with the image of Zach’s body, which Malachi had not seen, alone somewhere, immobile, Malachi vomited partially into the toilet and down its front and onto the tile floor. When that was done (it seemed to go on forever), he cleaned up the mess and took a shower.

  After Malachi had changed into some clean clothes, he returned to the kitchen, poured the remainder of his drink down the sink and wiped down the countertop. He poured himself a tall glass of water and made his way into the den. He sat down at his desk, his heart heavy, and his eyes moist again. “Dearest Zach,” Malachi thought, glaring blankly at the computer monitor for a long time. After a while of just staring at the monitor, he opened his e-mail application, and under the heading, “Today,” was Dinner with Cole. Malachi closed his eyes, drew in a long deep breath and pushed it out very slowly through his nose, and then opened his eyes. “Fuck!”

  Four

  The interior decorator had arrived an hour early, as Cole Malcolm was towelling himself dry, having just stepped out of the shower. Cole rushed to pull on his jeans and light-blue T-shirt and hurried to answer the door, his bare feet wet and slippery against the hardwood staircase and he struggled at times to keep his balance. His hair was damp, water dripping onto his shoulders and darkening his T-shirt. He opened the front door and offered a thin smile and said, “Come in,” to the young man carrying a black leather portfolio. “Take a look around,” he said, his voice somewhat gruff. And after closing the door, “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” and sprinted back up the stairs.

  In the bedroom, Cole stood in front of the mirror on the dresser and patted his hair dry. There was a sort of aimlessness in his eyes, and he wondered what he was doing. He felt as though his life lacked meaning, that he hadn’t really done much of anything. His father was a doctor, his mother a lawyer, both of wh
om had made significant contributions during their lifetimes. What had he done? Would he possibly leave any sort of mark on the world or would he simply slip away unnoticed? His work as a management consultant bored him, but he did not know what he wanted to do — he did not feel compelled to do anything. He sat down on the bed long enough to pull on his socks, and then went into the bathroom to put on a light dosing of Joop before returning downstairs.

  Cole came into the living room and found the young man standing next to the fireplace scribbling notes on a pad of paper. They exchanged a quick look that acknowledged the other’s presence. Scrawling on the notepad, the young man said, “I realize I’m early. Sorry about that.” He did not sound remorseful.

  “I was going to put on a pot of coffee,” Cole said, watching the young man move into the dining room.

  “That would be heavenly.” The young man smiled and ran his tongue back and forth along his upper lip as he watched Cole leave the room. The young man was suddenly on his hands and knees. Cole was guiding his thick manhood towards the young man’s sphincter. Cole pushed himself all the way in. The young man moaned with pleasure. That was the image that came to the young man as he held his gaze to Cole’s backside, and when Cole was out of sight the young man swallowed hard. “Colour.” The tall figure closed his portfolio and went into the kitchen, and then he said, timidly, as if Cole had been privy to his vision, “This place just needs some colour.”

  Cole, who did not have a sense of décor, hoped that an interior decorator could help him remove the static feel of his life that was scored into the stark white walls. He was still settling in to the older Tudor-style home with a large turret in the living room on Kendale Avenue in Toronto’s Annex. When Cole had first viewed the house with his real estate agent, the whiteness of the walls had made the house appear much larger. It was as though the house had been stripped of any sense of being inhabited. Now it felt cluttered with all of his furniture — large antique pieces that he had inherited from his grandmother — and boring.