New York Love Story (Guess How Much I Love You!) - Episode 2

1. There are a lot of fires in Manhattan.

　I’ve never actually seen any flames, but seeing fire trucks with sirens blaring driving around all year round makes me think there must be a lot of them.

2. Rent in Manhattan is very expensive.

　This is the truth as I see it. How do these two things connect? First, let me tell you the conclusion. Paul and I decided to live together.

　It all started when the apartment we were living in caught fire.

　Thanks to the efforts of New York City’s competent firefighters, no one was killed or injured, but the material damage was not small. The rooms where the fire started were completely burned down, and the exterior corridors that followed were blackened with soot. The main breakers on each floor were melted, and the broken tiles on the exterior walls showed the ferocity of the fire to the residents of Midtown.

　The fire started in a woman living alone, and the cause of the fire was an oil lamp on her bedside. Thanks to the recent anti-smoking campaign, the number of fires caused by cigarettes has decreased, but firefighters said that there have been a lot of fires caused by candles, lamps, and incense recently. In Manhattan, even the cause of fires seems to be one of the changing trends.

　The damage was not limited to one floor, and the room directly below the source of the fire was also heavily damaged, although the fire did not reach it. There was a hole in the ceiling, and the room was flooded with water from the firefighting. The bed and electrical appliances were unusable – in other words, it was completely unlivable. The room directly below the source of the fire was Paul’s room.

　The insurance company was supposed to provide temporary housing for fire victims, but it was too far from the hair salon where he works.

“Then why don’t you live in my room until the repairs are finished?”

　It didn’t take long for that casual suggestion from me to progress further, and we decided, “If that’s the case, why not just live together?”

　When I told Roman that I was going to live with Paul, this was his first response:

“Oh my! Dean! So you were one of us after all! Well done! Give mommy a good look!”

　Roman had stars in his eyes, and he took my face in his hands, leaning in close enough to kiss me. His hazel eyes sparkled. He was the most handsome of men. Even from this close up, I couldn’t find a single flaw in his face. Except for his face.

　I removed the clingy hands from my cheeks and said.

“I sympathize with you for being the only member of your species in the world, but could you please stop thinking of me as your ‘comrade’?”

“Oh, what does that mean?”

Paul and I aren’t in the relationship that you think we are.”

“It’s platonic love.”

“It’s not platonic love, it’s platonic friendship.”

“But you at least kissed him, right?”

“No.”

“How ridiculous! You’re even behind the elementary school kids of today!” She rolled her eyes and spread her arms out dramatically.

“That’s not what Paul and I are like. We just share a room. That’s it. Our relationship remains the same as it always has been. We’re still friends.”

“Oh, well…” Roman folded his arms over his chest, a thoughtful look on his face. “Hey Paul… what on earth are you thinking? If I were him, I’d be knocking you down in a flash.”

“If Paul were anything like you, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to move in with him.”

“Well, how annoying. Well, you’ll understand by now. Two young men under the same roof… It’s impossible for something not to happen in that situation.”

　Only Roman would predict that something could happen from such a mundane situation of two young men living under one roof. The effect of this communal life would be an economic effect if we think about it normally. The rent in Manhattan is probably the highest in the world. Living with someone is a wise act.

　Getting ready to live together was very easy. With the help of some friends, we moved Paul’s belongings from the eighth floor to my room on the fifteenth floor. After that, we just had to organize the house little by little on each day off.

“Dean, what’s this?”

　I stopped dismantling the cardboard box and headed over to Paul.

“What up?”

“Yeah, what’s this?” He holds up a bottle of brown powder and looks at it.

“Oh, that’s it. Indonesian ground coffee. Should I put a label on it?”

“No, it’s alright. I’ve got it memorized. I was looking for coffee sugar…”

“The sugar is on this shelf. Here you go,” she said, handing me the sugar pot.

　When you live with others, you start to need things that you didn’t need when you were alone.

Besides the coffee label, what other considerations should I make for him living here?

　”Let’s take a coffee break,” Paul suggested as he opened the sugar jar. “What about that one? Is that a good place to stop?”

“I’m always available. I don’t think there’s a perfect stopping point yet. I’ll make some coffee. Can you clear the table while I’m at it?”

“Okay, I get it.”

　Our coffee maker is a great machine that can make espresso and cappuccino. However, it is a little complicated to use. I need to get Paul to learn how to use it.

　I said earlier that it is wise to live with someone, but this is the first time I have introduced this wise decision into my life. I have had girlfriends stay in my room many times, and I even kept toothbrushes and clothes with them, but I have never lived with them seriously. We have talked about living together, but we would say things like, “Let’s move out of here and move to a bigger place,” or, “It would be nice if it had a garden,” and the relationship would end. If you live with a girlfriend, you can’t help but think about marriage. Whenever we make plans to live together, we break up before it happens because I feel pressured by marriage.

　The reason why living with Paul went smoothly this time was because of the fire accident, and because we were not in a relationship where we were thinking about marriage. If it weren’t for those two factors, I’m sure I would have continued to choose to live alone as I had done up until now.

　Paul peeked his head out of the small window in the counter leading to the living room.

“I’ve cleared the table… Ah, it smells nice.” She squints her eyes at the aroma rising from the coffee maker and smiles, “It’s nice to have someone else brew your coffee for you.”

　Living together has more benefits than just economic benefits. Having someone to share the aroma of freshly brewed coffee with is another benefit of living together.

　We were having a coffee break surrounded by garbage bags and cardboard boxes. There were two chaise longues (long, narrow, single-seater lounge chairs) in the center of the room. Paul looked at them intently and said,

“If we were lying next to each other, we’d look like we were getting tans on the beach, that’d be for sure.”

“Oh, with a Mai Tai in my hand, it’s perfect.”

　The black one is Paul’s, and the pony-skin patterned one is mine. We didn’t go shopping together. It was just a coincidence. Le Corbusier is everyone’s favorite designer of furniture.

Do you have this album too?

　Paul listens to the iTunes that is playing as background music. The song playing now is a work by Lou Reed, a record that any New Yorker would surely own.

“Do CDs need labels, too?” I ask.

“Isn’t that necessary? Even if your CD and mine are swapped, the contents will be the same.”

“My CD cases are covered in scratches. I often leave them lying around.”

“Well, then, that will help us determine that.”

　The conversation turned to music, and we decided to compare what albums each of us owns. Because we spend so much time playing around like this, I’m not making much progress on cleaning up my room.

　As a result, several albums overlapped other than Lou Reed. Music tastes were borderline clear. If either of them were a musical maniac or had a hidden hard rock hobby, the cohabitation would surely end in sadness.

　As I was washing the coffee cups, Paul said in a bouncy voice, “Wow! Look, even these match.”

　He called out, and I turned around, foamy sponge and coffee cup in hand.

　Paul points to a wine opener in the shape of a woman wearing a dress on the kitchen counter. The Anna G in the red dress is Paul’s, and the woman in the black dress is mine. Alessi products are very popular, but to be honest, they are far from my taste.

“A girlfriend brought it with some wine a long time ago and left it there. I would never buy something like that.”

“Yes, I was given this as a gift. They look so cute together. They look like they’re dancing.”

“Women dancing together?”

“Maybe they’re a gay couple too.”

　I gave him a vague smile and let the remark go. Paul noticed and said with a wry smile, “Sorry, but we’re not like that.”

　Two men start living under the same roof. One of them is gay. Is it too much of a stretch to think that they are a couple based on all this information? Our relationship is not like that, but when you hear the keyword “two single men of a certain age living together,” it’s not surprising that you would arrive at that answer.

“Dean, your sleeve…”

“Yeah?”

“Your sleeve is falling off. You’re going to get wet.”

　Paul rolled up the sleeves of my shirt. He’s a man who notices these little details. Maybe it’s because he’s a hairdresser.

　Is it too much of an imagination to look at this picture and think that “they are a couple”? Of course, our relationship is not like that. But it may indeed seem that way. Well, anyway, I don’t care what other people think. The issue is what “we” are like. If we understand our relationship properly, there is no problem with living together, and I don’t care if the Anna G Sisters are a happy gay couple. They have very capable arms (or legs?) as wine openers. In the first place, it’s extremely hard to imagine what Roman said would happen. Paul is a sensible man, and I’m completely straight (and quite a womanizer). As he said earlier, “we are different,” and if that weren’t the case, it would be impossible for two men to live together.

　Paul is a great friend. I wouldn’t mind Paul being gay just as much as I wouldn’t mind Dean being straight. Our relationship isn’t like the Sisters. We know that.

　As I was squeezing some oranges in the kitchen, Paul came in with a scarf wrapped around him and called out to me.

“I’m going shopping now. Is there anything you need? Other than clothes?”

　”Other than clothes” is a sarcastic comment about me being completely naked after just taking a shower. (By the way, I have a bath towel wrapped around my waist. At least that’s enough.)

“Where are you going?” I asked, taking a sip of my orange juice.

“Supermarkets and drug stores”

“My aftershave is about to wear off… Also, I need some batteries and cheese… Maybe it’d be quicker if we went together.”

“It’s cold outside. You should put something on.”

“Thanks for the advice. I’ll do that.”

　I also wrapped a scarf around my neck and was ready to go (though, of course, I was wearing everything else as well).

　As he left the apartment entrance, Paul stopped and said, “Huh…” and called out to the skinny young man holding the door. In response, the skinny young man said, “Hello.” His brown curly hair hung in front of his face with a lack of enthusiasm.

“What about Henry?” asked Paul.

　Henry is the name of the doorman of this apartment building. It is Henry who always stands here, and in his thinness, he looks very similar to this young man, but he must be twice his age.

　The young doorman replies.

“Henry’s on vacation for a while.”

“Oh really? Are you on a trip or something?” Paul asked.

“My uncle is back at his parents’ house. I’m just filling in for him.”

“Oh, so you’re Henry’s nephew? His family is in London, right?”

“Yes… Yes, that’s right… the grandma in London… my uncle Enri’s mother, she’s quite mean.”

“Yeah, that’s tough.”

“I’m ninety-five,” the young man said, shrugging his shoulders as if he didn’t care what happened at ninety-five.

　Leaving the doorman with his red nose from the cold behind, we head towards Central Park. The topic of conversation turns to the “Englishman in New York” we were talking about earlier.

“That’s really how you say it, Henry,” I said, and Paul agreed, “That sounds very British.”

“I had no idea Henry was from London.”

“Yeah, he doesn’t have an accent. No one would know unless you told them.”

“You’re amazing.”

“Amazing?” Paul tilts his head.

“He quickly gets along with people. That was the case earlier.”

“That was just small talk. I wouldn’t call it ‘open conversation’.”

“Still, he’s more friendly than I.”

“Being a hairdresser is a job, so I’m interested in other people.”

“It’s not because of the nature of your business, but because it’s part of who you are. You chose that business in the first place.”

“That’s true. But that doesn’t mean I’m nice to everyone. I do try to keep an eye on people.”

“Yeah, that’s important.”

　Getting close to strangers is one of the dangerous things to do in Manhattan. We live on a dangerous island where even if someone talks to you, you have to be cautious first.

“So from your point of view, he’s in the ‘safe’ category.”

“It would be a problem if the doorman were dangerous. Besides, she was kind of cute.”

“Cute? I didn’t know you liked that sort of thing.”

“It’s not that I like it though…”

“Henry will be back eventually. If you want to take a chance, do it sooner rather than later. If you’re the doorman, you’ll see him every day, so you’ll have plenty of opportunities.”

　Paul looked a little embarrassed, then laughed and said, “Don’t talk like Roman.”

“I didn’t know you liked that sort of thing.” In hindsight, I think this was a mistake.

“She was kind of cute,” was also, in a way, Paul’s slip of the tongue.

　Just a slight gap in our conversation, neither of us even realizing it at this point.

　Some things go unnoticed, and things that you wish you’d noticed when they were happening. This one is probably the latter. Distracted by batteries and cheese and aftershave, I don’t notice the subtle warning signs.

　Batteries and cheese and aftershave. The only things I have to worry about are these. And right now, it doesn’t occur to me that this is happiness.

　As I was picking out cheese in the dairy section of the market, Paul came over, tapped me on the shoulder, and told me, “There are lots of different kinds of cheese over there.”

“Over there?”

“It’s not a permanent shelf. This way,” she said, tugging on my hand.

　He says “this way” and leads my hand, something that not many people do except for my girlfriend. I’m a little surprised, but I let him lead me. For me, skinship in situations where it’s not necessary is something that only happens with my girlfriend. But Paul doesn’t seem to mind this at all. As someone who makes a living by touching people, he probably has a much different understanding of skinship than I do. When we were kids, before puberty, this kind of thing happened a lot between “boys,” but now that I’m an adult, I’m not in the habit of touching a man so easily. I don’t know how Paul feels as he innocently takes my hand, but these casual touches make me conscious of the other person. I don’t particularly want to be conscious of it, but I can’t help it.

　When we arrived at the special space, a French cheese fair was being held.

“See? There are more varieties than before.” Paul smiled and let go of my hand. I felt relieved. I don’t know why I needed to feel relieved. In the first place, “feeling relieved” should have nothing to do with “need”. But I felt relieved. It was an automatic emotion, like I was conscious of it even though I didn’t want to.

“You like mildew, don’t you?” says Paul, a safe friend whom I don’t need to worry about or comfort. “What about this? Have you ever tried it?”

“Yeah… yeah, probably. No, I wonder…”

“I’ll pay half, why don’t you buy this?”

　The advantage of living together is the economic effect. If we buy together, we can enjoy a variety of cheeses. Just like she needs to learn how to use the coffee maker, I need to get used to this kind of thing. I’m surprised that she’s just holding my hand. Once I get used to it, it’ll be no big deal.

　Batteries, cheese, and aftershave. After shopping for the essentials, a quick stop at a cafe, and a quick stop at a bookstore, and then the trip back to your apartment took 3.5 hours. It took more than twice as long as if you were shopping alone, but it felt like less than half the time. Albert Einstein had this to say about this phenomenon:

“Hold your hand over a hot stove for a minute. It will feel like an hour. If you’re sitting with a nice girl, the hour will feel like a minute. That’s relativity.”

　The theory of relativity works even when you’re not with a beautiful girl. Before I knew it, it was already dark, which was proof enough.

　As I pressed the button in the elevator at our apartment, Paul noticed my watch peeking out from my sleeve and said in surprise:

“Is it that time already?”

“That caramel macchiato took longer than I expected.”

“Time flies when you’re having fun.”

　He quotes proverbs and succinctly describes the current state of affairs. I’m a physicist, Paul is a linguistics expert. We’re both trying to say the same thing.

　When we got into the elevator, Paul pressed the button for [8]. When I pressed [15], he laughed and said, “I made a mistake.”

“Still not used to it?”

“I know it in my head. It’s a habit, I press it unconsciously.”

　The elevator stops on the eighth floor, and the moment the doors open, the smell of petroleum wafts out, a scent that somehow reminds me of art school.

“The workers have left,” said Paul. “Hey, why don’t you come down?”

“You were attracted by the smell of paint thinner, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, I don’t mind the smell of paint.”

　We stepped onto the dusty, varnished floor. The hallway was dark and under renovation, with everything from the floor to the walls covered in vinyl, like something out of a sci-fi movie set.

　Paul turned his head and muttered.

“Wow… so they’re even repainting the hallway? It seems more like a renovation than a remodel.”

“This place is in a great location, so I’m sure it will fill up quickly once it hits the market.”

“The room will look like new. I guess that’s a blessing in disguise.”

“Do you want to go back to your previous room?”

“You could go back if you wanted to, but…” Paul pauses, then shrugs and says, “Nah, whatever.”

“It’s fine, nothing special,” those words made me feel satisfied.

“Come on, let’s go home now.”

　Let’s go home now, to our home. It’s not as good as new, but it’s comfortable. If it’s true that “time flies when you’re having fun,” then I don’t want to waste even a second. We got on the elevator and said goodbye to the smell of paint thinner.

　I switched my phone to voicemail and put my cell phone on silent mode. I pat the cushion to make it soft and sit comfortably. Tonight’s screening is “Brazil.” I can’t expect a spectacular movie on the big screen, but the advantage of watching a movie at home is that I can drink alcohol without worrying about who is watching.

“That’s a famous title,” Paul said, looking at the DVD packaging. “Is it directed by a member of Monty Python?”

“As expected of my friend. You know me well.”

“Well, you gave me Monty’s special training.”

“You can’t miss this Terry Gilliam masterpiece. It’s way better than 12 Monkeys.”

“This is the continuation of Monty’s gifted education. What should we eat while watching it? Popcorn? Nachos?”

“Both.”

“Wow, that’s the worst and the best.”

　Nachos smothered in melted cheese and buttery, sticky popcorn paired with British films peppered with sarcasm and humour – only a group of guys would be allowed to get away with such outrageous behaviour.

　Spending time with friends of the same s3x is a completely different kind of happiness than spending time with a lover of the opposite s3x. I never thought living with someone else was for me, but as I washed down my oily, carbohydrate-filled meals with beer and watched DVDs until I got sleepy, I gradually began to understand the joys of living together. And yet the ease of life is not that different from when I’m alone. I don’t have to hide the hair growth product in the bathroom, and I can squeeze an orange while completely naked.

　A long time ago, when I was taking a bath as usual with only a bath towel on, the woman I was dating at the time said sarcastically, “Is this the football club’s waiting room?” This made me realize that the only place women in the world are allowed to let men be in their natural state is in bed.

　The end credits rolled, and I headed to the fridge for some alcohol. The theme song, Brazilian Samba, was on my lips. If I were with my girlfriend, I probably wouldn’t sing this song. For someone who values ​​”mood” and “romance,” Brazilian Samba is a fatal choice.

“Do you have any beer left?” Paul asked. I looked in the fridge and replied, “Yes.”

“There is… I shouldn’t have asked.”

“What?” I laugh, not knowing what it means.

“If you had just said ‘no, ‘ I wouldn’t have had to suffer. Oh, what should I do?… I know I’ve had too much to drink today.”

Tomorrow is Sunday. You’re on the late shift too, right?”

“That’s true, but…”

　I understand why Paul hesitates. I’m a little scared to count the number of empty cans. I wonder how many nickels I’ll get back if I take them to the recycling center. Beer, fat, and carbohydrates, a kind of happiness that’s so self-indulgent that it’s a little dangerous.

“Let’s open a glass of wine instead of a beer,” I suggested, further fuelling their decadence.

“Right now? Even Homer Simpson wouldn’t go that far.”

“Yes, he is married. We are of a different status.”

“I might get fat like Homer.”

“Let’s not think about that right now.”

“Yeah. Let’s forget about it until we get our body fat measured at the gym.”

“Okay, let’s open the wine! This is the worst–“

“───The best”

　The wine opener lady appears and pops the cork out. We were enjoying our happiness. ──About that time.

“You’re going to play the organ in that outfit?”

　That was the first thing Paul said when he came into the kitchen.

　At first, I didn’t understand what he was saying, but then I remembered how I was dressed, and it all made sense. Terry Gilliam, the director of “Brazil,” is known for his role as the “Naked Organist.” As the name suggests, it’s a simple comedy character who plays the organ naked.

　I had just gotten out of the bath and was taking out a cold Perrier from the fridge. So I was completely naked again (though I had a bath towel wrapped around my waist. I know I’m being repetitive, but just in case.

“If you’re not playing the organ, can you wear something?” Paul asks, before shrugging and saying, “I’ll look like I’m in the football dressing room.”

　In response, the words that came out of my mouth were: “Eye poison?”

　”Damn,” I thought, not because Paul narrowed his eyes at me, or because he opened his mouth to say something, stopped, and walked out of the kitchen in silence. I felt the temperature in the room drop instantly, and I instantly knew it was because of my own words. You know those jokes you regret as soon as you say them? That was one of them.

“That was bad…”

　I spoke to the Anna G Sisters, who were standing next to Perrier. The sisters smiled and agreed, “That’s right.”

　I didn’t mean to make that joke.

“Oh, was that a joke?” Anna G in the black dress asked, and Anna G in the red dress added, “It was more sarcastic than a joke.”

　Sarcastic? Who the hell is that?

“But the other person didn’t laugh.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t laugh at that joke.”

　Ah, I can’t laugh either. To begin with, I wasn’t trying to make people laugh, the words just came out of my mouth without any real meaning.

“You mean, ‘just because’?”

　There it was. Roman’s hallucination was even more terrifying than the Sisters. If he had been here, I’m sure I would have received a severe scolding. I could picture him with his arms folded, looking down at me coldly.

“Straight men can sometimes be too wary of gay men.”

　This is one of the theories put forward by the great Roman Destiny, who said that gay people are made to feel uncomfortable by straight people just as much as straight people are made to feel uncomfortable by gay people.

　As soon as this theory was uttered, the gay friends in the room all nodded their heads in agreement and began confessing their own “unpleasant experiences with straight men.”

“That’s right! As soon as he found out I was gay, he was like, ‘Hey, why did you sit next to me?'”

“They think that if you’re gay, you want to have s*x with any guy, no matter who it is.”

“You’re scared because you think I’m going to suck on that thing hanging between your legs!”

“And they always have lousy looks.”

“I don’t understand how anyone can think that they deserve to be f**ked by a gay man.”

“You’re so conceited! You’re like an idiot!”

　As I listened to the harsh words hurled at the homophobes, I, the only straight person at the table, asked myself, “Can I say for sure that I have no homophobic traits?”

　Of course, I’m not homophobic. But I’d be lying if I said I’ve never made a joke or said anything about gays in my life. Just as they have had “unpleasant experiences with straight men,” I’ve had more than my share of unpleasant experiences with gay men. But even if the person who’s making unpleasant advances is gay, it’s not “being gay” that makes them unpleasant. A jerk is a jerk, whether straight or gay. Sexual preference shouldn’t have anything to do with it. Even though I know this, when a man strokes my butt, a straight man is filled with fear and can’t help but scream:

“What are you doing, you faggot!!”

　If Paul wasn’t gay, would he have said to me while I was naked, ‘Put something on’?

“It feels like I’m in the football locker room,” my ex-girlfriend once told me. I never expected to hear the same words again here.

　If Paul wasn’t gay, would I have said to him, “Eye poison?”

“You’re so conceited. You’re like an idiot.”

　Am I a vain straight guy? Well maybe. My mom called me “handsome bear,” and girls competed to rest their heads on my chest. I’m not brazen enough to say that this made me insecure.

　Whether you’re vain or not, you’ll be more careful in the future. You won’t walk around naked, and you won’t laugh at Chris Rock’s anti-gay jokes. Whatever the reason, it’s okay to be considerate of others. That’s what living with other people is all about.

　I put the cold Perrier back in the fridge and headed to my room to put something on my completely chilled body. Anything would do. First, I’ll put something on. It’s like I’m in the football team’s waiting room.

　The second ignition occurred fairly quickly afterwards.

　The location was my bathroom at home, the time was 8 am, my chin was covered in lather, and I had a razor in my hand when Paul showed up.

“The bathroom?” I said as few words as possible, being careful not to foam at the mouth.

　Paul replies, “Later. I’m in no hurry.” But even though he says he’s in no hurry, he doesn’t want to leave.

“Did you see the sign?” asked Paul.

“A sign?” I asked, shaving.

“Gas will be unavailable between 1 am and 4 am tonight.”

“I see.”

“Yeah”

　”Between 1:00 and 4:00 a.m.” They probably wouldn’t use gas at that time. It didn’t seem like it was something that needed to be told right now. Paul looked at Dean in the mirror and continued the conversation.

“Hey, could you refill the toilet paper when I run out?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I always change it.”

　I’m telling you I am.

“That’s not always the case, is it?”

“It doesn’t always happen, but sometimes when I come in the house, the paper is gone. There are only two of us living in this house, so if it’s not me, then you have to be the culprit.”

　Paul shrugged his shoulders and laughed mischievously. I understood that he was urging me to give him a bit of advice in a light, joking manner. But I don’t think this topic needs to be discussed now. I have low bl00d pressure, so I’m weak in the mornings. Sleepiness and lethargy make me slow to speak, and I find it difficult to talk.

“…I may have forgotten something. I’ll be more careful from now on.”

　The moment I answered carelessly, a sharp pain ran through my cheek. In the mirror, my face was covered in foam, and my cheeks were starting to turn red. It seemed my words weren’t the only thing that had made me careless. It had been a long time since I’d messed up while shaving.

　Paul looked into the mirror from behind and muttered, “Sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

“Because I spoke to him.”

“I was the one with the razor. I forgot.”

“but……”

“You don’t need to apologize.” I washed the foam off with cold water. When I wiped my face, the white towel got bl00d on it.

“We need to put medicine on it,” said Paul.

“It’s fine, if you just put some toilet paper over it, it will stop right away. Don’t worry about it, OK?”

“…Is it a bother to be worried about that?”

“What do you mean?”

　When I asked him that, Paul was quiet. Maybe saying “What do you mean?” was too harsh. I turned off the tap and asked him again carefully, and he replied, “I can’t help but worry about it.”

“I can’t help but be bothered if my friend has bl00d running down his face, no matter who’s to blame. But if it bothers you, I’ll be careful not to say anything in the future.”

“That’s an exaggeration.”

　I said, laughing a little. Paul didn’t laugh. There was a strange atmosphere. I wondered if I should say something, but Paul nodded slightly as if something had finally clicked, and left the bathroom without saying a word.

　This doesn’t make any sense to me. But I don’t want to rehash this conversation. Rehash it? What? What on earth happened?

　I looked in the mirror at the wound on my cheek, and it seemed deeper than I thought, and my face looked horrifying. I wiped the bl00d off the floor with toilet paper, sat in the bathtub, and pressed a towel against my cheek. Everyone is busy in the morning. I can only take my time shaving while I’m living alone. I think I’d better use an electric razor from now on, so as not to monopolize the bathroom early in the morning.

　The pain in my cheek continued. I knew I should apply some medicine, but I didn’t want to, especially since I had just rejected Paul’s kindness. Whatever had happened, it was easy for me. I was being stubborn.

　For example, like this:

　I was trying to fill the bathtub with hot water when I turned the tap, but the tap wasn’t switched to the “down” position, so I ended up pouring cold water over my head with my clothes on.

“Ahh! Sh*t! I did it!”

　Everyone has had that experience. But what if it wasn’t you who forgot to turn the tap back on, but someone else? After the “Oh no! Damn! I messed up!” comes the next thought: “If only he’d done it properly, this wouldn’t have happened.”

　Such misfortune has not yet come, but this is just one example. When you make a mistake, you just need to reflect on it, but when another person is involved, it is not so easy. If there is another person involved, there is a target for your emotions. Whether it is love or anger, it occurs automatically and is directed toward the other person. What happens if you try to suppress that flow? This is the main cause that all New Yorkers have, and that makes many therapists profitable – we are placed in a state of tension called “stress”.

　On holiday mornings, when I want to find healing, I head not to a psychotherapist wearing a strangely patterned sweater, but to the coffee maker at home. The reliable machine does its job reliably, and the aroma of espresso fills the kitchen.

　In recent years, aroma candles and incense (the items that have caused fires) have become popular because the “healing effect” of their scent has become widely known. I agree with the theory that certain smells can stabilize the mind, and I think the aroma of coffee brewing has a relaxing effect. The smell is relaxing, and drinking it makes you excited. That sounds like a nice girl.

　I made a cup of coffee for one person. By the time I got up from my low bl00d pressure, Paul wasn’t there. He must have gone out somewhere, but I don’t know where. Just because we live together doesn’t mean we know everything the other person does, and I don’t know much about his private life. We’re not each other’s only friends, and there are probably many people who are closer to Paul than I am. I feel that women’s friends are meant to share their private lives, but when it comes to men, I feel like they talk about such things much less than women. I’ve spent a lot of time with Paul, but living with him made me realize that I don’t know much about him. Where did he go today? What kind of friends is he meeting? I can’t even imagine it vaguely. What do we usually talk about? Movies, music, social situations, gossip, things we’ve recently bought, and popular shops. Even though we’ve been talking for hours, I don’t have much information about his private life. Even though I don’t like interfering in other people’s lives, I wonder what kind of friend I am if I can’t even guess at something like, “I wonder where he might have gone?”

　I was leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping my espresso with my messy hair to one side, when I heard the front door unlock.

“Is it cold outside?”

　I called out to Paul as he entered the living room. For some reason, he looked a little surprised as he looked at me, as if he had never expected me to be there.

“Where have you been?”

“At Whole Foods.”

“The supermarket? You’ve been there a long time, haven’t you?”

　He is empty-handed; he has no vegetables or canned food.

“I went to the store in Union Square and had tea in the cafe inside. I like it because you can see the park there.”

　Paul said this as he removed his scarf, then his eyes fell on the coffee cup I was holding.

“Um… Would you like some coffee? Shall I pour you some?”

“No, even at the Whole Foods cafe…”

“Oh, I see.”

　You just said that, which makes you seem like you’re not listening at all.

　There was a brief silence, and then Paul disappeared into his room. The silence continued. The only one left was the man with bedhead.

　What is it? Something feels strange. I don’t think there was anything strange about the exchange. “Where have you been?” “Where are you?” It was a normal conversation. So why did it feel strange? I’ve experienced this kind of atmosphere a few times before. Alyssa, Becky, Jill, Charlotte-Ann. Once I got like this, I didn’t last a month with any of the women—. No, that’s not it. We’re not a couple, so we shouldn’t think that the old rules apply here. Even if we were a couple, it’s not very healthy to apply rules that didn’t work in the past.

　If you are a couple, you can use physical contact to break this atmosphere. That means hugs, kisses, s*x, etc. You can shut down your brain and use your body and instincts to revive love and laughter. This can sometimes be a way to break through even the situations where you do not want to touch each other (although it can also fail).

　But what about male friends? What should I do in this situation? I pride myself on having been through a fair amount of hardships with women, but when it comes to other guys, I’m at a loss as to what to do. I’ve never been good at interacting with people of the same s3x. I’ve been avoiding things I’m not good at, and that’s why I’m at a loss. I still can’t speak French, I haven’t finished reading James Joyce, and I can’t pole vault, all because I’ve been avoiding things I’m not good at.

　Is there any other way than physical contact? When our relationship got stale, I gave Alyssa something she had wanted for a long time (what was it, a handbag?) and made reservations at a restaurant she had wanted to go to. I sent Charlotte-Ann flowers and tickets to the ballet (ballet!), watched it together, and tried to stay awake until the curtain call. Of course, I know that this method is not as effective as physical contact. No one would be stupid enough to give a guy friend flowers or a handbag. But when I look up the words “reconciliation” and “improving a relationship” in my dictionary, all I see are things like “see the chapter on gifts” and “same as skinship”. “Flowers and handbags” made me seem shallow.

“Yeah. You’re a shallow guy.”

　Roman sips his Bloody Mary and dismisses the friend who answered the phone at short notice, but his harsh words are perfectly balanced with the kindness.

“After 28 years of life, is that the label that’s been stuck on me? ‘Dean Kelly, a shallow man who knows the difference? ‘

“That sounds nice. Shall I write it on a card and wear it around my neck?”

　We met at a nice English pub, and two handsome guys sat next to each other at the counter. One was gay, the other straight. It seems like this combination has been around a lot recently.

　It was a little early to drink, but to talk about something complicated, it was better to moisten my tongue with alcohol. I explained to Roman what had happened so far. Something wasn’t going well with Paul. I didn’t know why, but it just happened that way, as politely as possible. Since there wasn’t a specific episode that would cause a problem, I was quite confused about how to talk about it, but Roman patiently listened to me, saying that my confusion was a good indication of the current situation.

Have you spoken to Paul?

“No, nothing in particular. It’s not like we had a fight or anything, and it’s weird to say we had a “discussion.” Nothing had happened between us. All I can say about the current situation is that I realized how shallow I am. My life was happier before I realized that.”

“There’s no need to be so pessimistic. They say awareness is the first step to healing, right? ‘I’ve lived a shallow life, so what should I do?’ And it’s wonderful to be able to pave your way in this way.”

“So, what should I do then? That’s where I stopped.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not stopping. You’re still talking to me, aren’t you?”

　Roman has a beautiful, statuesque face and an angelic smile. Then he says, “We could just do it and make up,” and his smile turns lewd. He’d be a good guy if it weren’t for this.

　I frowned and said to him, “Is that your advice to someone wanting to break away from the ‘shallow life’?”

“Oh, a life with s3x is a ‘deep life’. At least for you, it’s an ‘invitation to a deeper life’. When a straight person becomes gay, that’s just too interesting.”

“Why don’t you try being straight? It’s a whole lot more interesting.”

“Paul is a very good boy.”

“I know.”

“It would be a waste to let him live with a straight person.”

“I guess so.”

“Give her a try. I’m sure she’ll make you happy.”

“I can’t just try dating him out,” I said, finishing my gin and tonic and asking for another. “He told me he liked me at one point, but…”

“She still loves you.”

“…Anyway, there’s no way I could ‘try going out with you’.”

“There are some things you never know until you try. That’s life, you never know until you jump in.”

“Well, me too. Up until now, I’ve always jumped in when it came to women. I date people based on inspiration, and if it doesn’t work out, I stop. It’s that simple. But this time it’s different.”

“Because they’re both guys?”

“Of course, but it’s not just that. I love Paul and I want to cherish my relationship with him. I don’t want to be like, ‘If it doesn’t work out, then goodbye.’ Like, ‘Okay, let’s go out,’ and then after a while it’s like, ‘It didn’t work out after all.’ I don’t want to lose my best friend by making a rash decision.”

“You think we won’t lose it if it continues like this?”

　A gin and tonic was placed in front of me. I wonder if Roman understood that my loss for words was due to the alcohol catching my eye.

“I believe you have the talent.”

“Quality”

“Gay traits.”

“My head’s starting to hurt…” I actually held my head, and Roman gently took my hand and placed it back on the table.

“Well, I’m happy. ‘If it doesn’t work out, I don’t want to say goodbye.’ I didn’t know you thought of Paul like that.”

“Like that?”

“Seriously?”

“Well, we’re friends after all.”

“You didn’t start living together just for the economic benefits, did you?”

“The reason for this is that the pole was burned out.”

“Well, if I were the one who was evicted, would you still let me stay at your house?”

“It is……”

“Because it’s him, right?”

“I thought he was an easy person to live with. I didn’t get tired of being with him, and I thought he was suitable for living together.”

“There are plenty of people who would be suitable to share a room with. Would you rather have someone easy to live with?”

“No way.”

“Because it’s Paul, right?”

“Wait a second… isn’t this a leading question?”

　Roman didn’t answer that question, but instead looked into my face to make sure.

“Because you like Paul, right?”

“Of course! That’s what I said earlier, right?”

　Hearing this, he smiled with satisfaction and reached for his cocktail.

“Did you know that there were quite a few voices opposed to you two living together?”

“Against cohabitation? Who the hell would be against it?”

“A friend of Paul’s or something. Never heard of that?”

“I’ve never heard of that before.”

“She likes you, and you’re straight. ‘It smells like misfortune right from the start. There’s bound to be trouble.’ People were pretty worried.”

“I thought you were in favor of us living together.”

“I’m in favor.”

“Why is that?”

“I told you, I believe you have the talent. Things are already starting to move forward.”

“So there’s been some trouble with the ‘Scent of Misfortune’.”

“Hey, that’s good. You might see this as a negative thing, but that’s what I mean by shallow. When things change in a way that makes them seem different, it can seem like something bad has happened. It can be jarring if you’re not used to new things. It’s like jumping into a swimming pool unprepared. You’re in a new relationship. You haven’t had a chance to learn how to be affectionate with your male friends. A phenomenon is a phenomenon, not a result. Nothing bad has happened yet. It’s up to you to decide what the result will be.”

　The outcome of our relationship depends on us────I didn’t think it was such a deep topic. Maybe I’m just a shallow person after all.

　As if waiting for the silence, Roman’s cell phone buzzed briefly. He checked the display and muttered, “I better get going soon.” “I have a date.”

“Yeah, it’s Friday night.”

“Sorry for interrupting.”

“No, thank you. I’m grateful to you for calling me out suddenly, even though I’m busy. I’m grateful to you for listening to my concerns.”

“Hey, have you noticed that yourself?” he says, standing up. “You’re someone who’s always chosen to ‘go with someone based on inspiration, and quit if it doesn’t work out,’ and now you’re saying, ‘I don’t want to just say goodbye if it doesn’t work out.’ That’s a pretty interesting change. Don’t you think this is the first step towards a ‘deeper life?'”

“Maybe so.”

“Don’t say ‘maybe’. You’ve stepped into a more real life. If you ever change your mind s*xually, please let me know. That’s when I can give you more in-depth and useful advice.” Roman smiles. He’s dressed perfectly in a suit for a date. Even for someone who hasn’t changed his mind sexually, it’s an impressive piece.

“Hey, are you trying to brainwash me?”

“Oh, so you just noticed,” Roman said with a flourish and left the store.

　Apart from the brainwashing and leading questions, what he said was spot on. I was at a new stage in my life, and it was the first step towards a deeper life. As expected of someone who counsels wealthy housewives, he got it right in the end.

　The gin and tonic glass is sweating. Droplets of water draw patterns on the counter, and after a moment of daze, I leave the shop. As I walk down the street, I ruminate on the words I was just told. I’m encouraged by the words that nothing bad has happened yet, but in the end, I still don’t know what to do.

“When things change in a way that is different from how they were before, it may at first glance seem like something bad has happened.”

“It’s wonderful to pave the way like that.”

“The outcome is up to you.”

“A life with s*x is a deep life.”

　…Maybe because so much was said at once, I can’t organize my thoughts. Does this even require “thinking” in the first place?

　I’m starting to get a real headache. Maybe it’s just a headache from overthinking. Or maybe I’ve caught a cold. If that’s the case, maybe I shouldn’t have had another drink. Maybe I should have had a soft drink instead of alcohol in the first place. Maybe, maybe, maybe… Everything is so uncertain.

“She still loves you.”

　I ignored his words. Even though I was upset when he said that, no, it was because I was upset that I didn’t want to touch on the subject. Just ask Roman, “Why are you upset?” and he’ll dig deep and ask me all about it. We might talk for an hour, and before we know it, we’ll have concluded that “Dean is gay.”

　Paul might still like me. Of course, that’s just unconfirmed information.

　Holding my head, which had become very heavy, I somehow made it to the apartment. An unfamiliar man was standing in the familiar entrance. A man in his fifties, thin as a willow tree. His indigo blue uniform, which seemed to fit him poorly, was hanging down around his shoulders, giving him a vague sense of pathos. He was neither Henry nor his nephew. As I frowned at the appearance of the third man, the man gave a slight bow and opened the door.

“Well… you…”

　I tried to emulate Paul’s sociability by calling out to him, but I was soon at a loss for words. It’s rare for me to have a conversation with a doorman, so I had no idea what to say.

　When I kept quiet, he introduced himself with a smile, saying, “I’m Henry’s pinch hitter.” His accent was amazing. I wonder if there is a rule that only British doormen are allowed to work at our apartment building.

“I wonder what happened to that guy who was here a while ago. Henry’s nephew.”

“Yes, he is. He just took over. He’s suddenly taken ill.”

“Yes, I see.”

　So it’s not like some kind of magic has made Henry’s nephew look incredibly old.

　The conversation came to a halt, and the American and British men looked at each other for a moment. The silence reminded me of a Monty Python skit, and I quickly searched for words.

“Well then… It’s cold, so be careful not to catch a cold…”

“Thank you. You, too.”

“It seems it’s too late for me. I’ve had a headache for a while now.”

“Oh, well then…take care of yourself.”

“Thank you.”

　This may have been the longest conversation I’ve ever had with a doorman. Why hadn’t I had this conversation before?

　Answer: Because I have little interest in other people. So why am I trying to start a conversation now?

　A: It must be Paul’s influence. He even chats up the cheese samplers at the supermarket. It may be natural for Paul, but it’s new for me. I’m influenced by him. I guess that’s what happens when you live with someone. Or is it just because he’s Paul?

　When I opened the door to the house, I was unexpectedly greeted by a light-hearted laugh. As I entered the living room, two men turned to face me. One of them was Paul. He was sitting on the sofa, relaxing. To his right, in the single chair where I usually sit, was the young doorman.

　As I stood there without even taking off my coat, Paul said, “Let me introduce you,” and then turned to the doorman instead of me and began to speak.

“He’s Dean, he lives here with us. Dean, he’s the doorman, Pete… you know.”

　Of course, I know him. He’s Henry’s nephew, an Englishman. What I don’t understand is why he’s here and why there’s a gatekeeper standing outside who looks like he’d stepped out of a medieval dungeon instead.

“Hello,” Pete greeted briefly.

“Thanks,” I replied, with a lengthy reply, then went to my room and closed the door. As I took off my jacket, I realized that the coat rack was outside the room. I didn’t feel like going out again, so I hung it up somewhere convenient, collapsed on the bed, and rolled around.

　I see, so while I was giving Roman life advice, Paul was having fun with the gatekeeper. What do you call this? Better to give birth than to worry? I’m starting to think that I’ve wasted a lot of time up until now. I’ve even caught a cold, I feel so stupid.

“Dean, can I come in?”

　There’s a knock and a man’s voice. By process of elimination, it must be either the doorman or my roommate.

“Sure,” I replied, and Paul popped his head in. Seeing me lying face down on the bed without even getting changed, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I feel like I have a cold. My head hurts.”

“Cold?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

　The symptoms are accompanied by chills, and they feel so cold that even someone without a medical license could make a diagnosis.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” maybe.

“Do you have a fever?”

　I don’t know. Maybe there is. I answered in my mind, without saying a word.

“Shall I make you a hot drink?”

“Okay, you have guests coming, right?”

“but”

“No, you don’t have to worry about me.”

“…You seem angry about something, don’t you?”

“I’m not angry. I just have a headache.”

“Yes……”

　Paul nodded, but the look on his face didn’t show any sign of being convinced by my explanation.

“Call me if you ever need anything. If there’s anything you want or anything you want me to do,” he said, and headed out of the room. I didn’t even have a chance to say thank you. Instead, I asked him the one thing I wanted to ask.

“That doorman…”

“Pete?” Paul turned around.

“Oh, the doorman downstairs said that Pete was suddenly ill…?”

“Sudden illness? That’s a bit of an exaggeration.”

　Paul chuckles. This must be a funny story.

“Well, it wasn’t a sudden illness… Pete indeed looked unwell. When I asked him what was wrong, he said he hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday. I felt so sorry for him, so I asked him to eat something.”

　What? Is that the only reason he’s in my… in our room? I did tell him to get friendly with the doorman, but isn’t this a bit out of the ordinary?

“…What a nice guy,” he said, slowly getting up from the bed. “Did you invite him over because he was hungry? There are plenty of hungry people in Manhattan. It was extremely careless to invite a man you don’t even know where he came from.”

“Careless…Henry’s nephew?” Paul looked puzzled.

“You don’t know Henry, do you?”

“I know him. His name is Henry Jones. He was born in London. He moved to America after his parents divorced. His wife’s name is Mary, and he has two children, Michael and Alice. Michael is a batter in junior baseball. His batting average is .291.”

“……I didn’t know.”

“Right?”

“But that doesn’t mean that his nephew is safe…”

“What’s going on?! Are you saying I’m a serial killer and you invited me into your house?!”

“What if that was the case?”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Even if you’re not a serial killer, what you’re doing is way too much. You invited a stranger in just because you felt sorry for them, not because you knew them. Feeling sorry for them? What good is it to bother with something like that?! Go to Africa and you’ll find feelings of pity everywhere!”

　My voice echoed in my head. Then Paul’s next yell also hit me directly on the top of my head.

“Africa?! What are you talking about?! Who is talking about something so far away?! I was just having normal human feelings towards someone close to me! I feel bad for you because you think the doorman’s name is ‘Door Man’!”

“Oh, I’m not interested in him. No matter how cute he is, a doorman is a doorman.”

“Cute?”

“I told you so.”

“So what? Are you saying that I brought home a cute girl?”

　I kept quiet. Silence at this point is the same as saying yes.

　”I suppose it’s fair that gay men seem more promiscuous than straight men,” Paul sighed. “But I never thought you’d think that about me.”

“I never said that! What are you talking about?”

“You’ve said before that naked bodies are a pain in the eyes.”

“That’s…!”

　Just as things were starting to look bad, a knock on the door reverberated through the room like a gong. It was Paul who opened the door, and Pete who appeared.

“Well… if you’re having trouble with me, I’m going home now…”

　As he muttered to himself, Paul and I replied at the same time, but with opposite content.

“Oh, it’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” said Paul.

“Sorry, but please do so. The residents don’t feel safe with a gatekeeper like that.” This is me.

　Pete shrugged, thanked Paul, said “Thanks then,” and left.

“…Are you satisfied?”

　Paul said, looked at me like I was a politician I hated, and left the room. That’s right, not only did he leave my room, he left this apartment. (Where? Who cares!)

　I slept soundly that night, and Paul never came home. I didn’t sleep because he’d left, and I just had a cold. And the cold was what was making my head spin in bed.

　It’s because of a cold.

　It’s just a cold.

　That’s right.

　cold.

　Really?

　noisy.

　A cold? Ah, sure.

　Hey, why are you raising your voice?

　Yes, yes.

　”Yes,” once.

　yes.

　Okay.

　It’s not “okay”, it’s just a cold.

　That’s true.

　I have a cold.

　That’s right.

　The good thing about this weekend was that the day after I got sick was a holiday. I could stay in bed without any worries, and I wouldn’t be blamed by my boss, Sheila, for not managing my health properly when I suddenly took a day off from work.

　As I lay in bed, I wondered absentmindedly if there was anything else good I could say about yesterday and today.

　Well, at least I’m alive and there’s no sign of the apartment being taken over by terrorists. Yeah, that’s good. That’s good. Happily ever after.

　Paul hadn’t come back in the morning. He must have just gone to work. Paul’s gone. I’m alive. The apartment’s safe. Thank goodness. Happily ever after, dammit.

　I woke up in the evening. I was sweating profusely, but I felt better than I’d expected.

　Did the sweating help, or was that headache not just a cold? Was it a brain fever caused by overthinking? Or was it something else, similar to a cold? I don’t have a medical license, so I’ll inevitably make a mistake in diagnosis.

　I look at the alarm clock by my bed. It’s almost time for Paul to come home. I take off my sweat-soaked T-shirt, take a quick shower, get changed into decent clothes, and go outside. I haven’t eaten in nearly ten hours. I’d better get something nutritious in my stomach. I’m going out because I need to feed myself, not because I’m running away. After all, it’s awkward to face Paul after yesterday. What? Sounds like an excuse? Don’t look at people’s opinions like that. If the Anna G Sisters are going to make me chicken soup, I’ll stay home. I haven’t eaten in ten hours. Of course, this is a rational thing to do.

　I ordered split pea soup and rye bread at the soup stand and slowly ate it. I felt like eating something heavier, but soup was the best thing for my sick stomach. The bean potage warmed me from the inside out. I poked at the fruit after the meal and thought about various things. Mostly about the conversation I had yesterday.

“I simply had normal human feelings towards the people close to me—“

　This is the response of my friend, Paul Copeland. “Common sense” is different for each person. When someone violates what you believe to be normal, friction arises. What Paul calls “normal for a human being” is not normal for me.

“I feel sorry for you who think the doorman’s name is ‘Doorman’ and don’t understand—“

　I’m not looking down on doormen, I was just complaining about letting doormen I don’t know into my house, but I guess what I consider normal for Paul probably falls into the “heartless” category.

　People sometimes call me “cold” or “unkind”. I am aware of it myself sometimes, but it is only at the level of “normality as a human being”, and I have never been proud of being unkind. When I ride the subway, I sometimes put a quarter into an empty can offered by a homeless person, and when a disaster occurs in a country, I donate like everyone else. However, I guess that is not enough for “kind people”. The more someone prides themselves on being kind, the angrier they get when others are not kind. For example, someone who uses environmentally unfriendly detergent, eats meat from a poor animal, or tries to kick out a hungry doorman into the cold of Manhattan (they are the ones who are in the public eye!). In that sense, I am just a pseudo-Christian who looks down from a higher place wearing a shiny gold Rolex. But I have never said to others, “You are cold” or “unkind”. Do you think a person who can say such things to others has the right to criticize other people’s cold-heartedness? To hell with good people. I do what I like and don’t let anyone complain. If you can explain what’s wrong with that, please tell me… No, correct that. I don’t want to be told what’s wrong with me at all. Cold-hearted people and kind people shouldn’t teach each other anything; to live apart, on opposite banks of the river.

　Is this the first step towards a deeper life? Is this more real-life?

“Two young men living under the same roof. It’s impossible for anything not to happen in that situation.”

　That’s what Roman had said. Yes, in a way, he was right. This was the first step towards a deeper life, a more real life──if that was the case, I would immediately turn around and dash back to my original life.

　Roman said he was happy that I was serious about Paul, and within half a day of that, I got into a huge fight with him.

　I do take Paul seriously. I wonder what Roman’s face would look like if he knew I was seriously angry and yelled at him.

　If it hadn’t been Paul, but just my roommate, I probably wouldn’t have been so angry. I wouldn’t have complained like that, and I wouldn’t be sitting here brooding over it. I’d just be quietly angry, get through the bad day somehow, and the next day it would be business as usual.

“It’s because he’s Paul, right?” Roman said.

　Yes, this is “Because it’s Paul.” For better or worse, it’s “Because it’s Paul.” He was my best friend, someone I thought understood me. Because it was him, I got angry and even cursed him out. If I didn’t care, I would have just ignored him.

　Exactly when did we start having issues? When we walked around naked? When did we forget to refill the toilet paper? Seriously, every episode is so stupid it’s not even worth talking about.

　As the sun went down, the store gradually started to get more crowded. I came to my senses and looked at my hands, and the cut fruit for dessert was completely mashed. When and who could have done something like this—Well, of course it had to be me. I wonder if my being unconscious would bring about some kind of destruction. I have no desire to eat mashed fruit. So what about the relationship that was mashed? Well, it probably depends on how mashed it is. I put the tray back in the return counter and left the store.

　Before returning to my room, I went down to the eighth floor, which is currently under renovation.

　There was no particular reason for this. However, I would like to honestly admit that I was stubborn and didn’t want to go straight back to my room.

　Unlike the last time, the lights on the floor were brightly lit. A Hispanic worker glared at me. His scary face made me smile back.

“A tour?” the worker asked bluntly. “If you want to tour the room, you have to wear a helmet.”

“Oh, no, you’re wrong. I live here. I just came down to have a look.”

“But you still have to wear a helmet. That’s the rule.”

　The worker had his arms crossed and looked grim, as if to say, “If you’re not here to look, leave now.” A tattoo of a prancing horse danced on his bulging arm muscles. We didn’t want to upset Mr. Ferrari.

“Um… thanks for showing me the floor.”

　I quickly returned to the elevator and pressed the △ button repeatedly. I felt the gaze of the tattooed guy on my back. I’m sorry for interrupting your work. But it’s not my fault that the elevator is taking so long to arrive.

　Finally, someone came to pick me up, and I got into the box. Just before the door closed, two men appeared from the corridor at the back. Neither of them was wearing work clothes, but normal clothes. One was in a business suit, the other in casual clothes. Both were wearing helmets. Wait a minute, what was that just now? I was overcome with the urge to open the door, but my brain said, “There’s no need to do that.” “There’s no need to check again.” The man not wearing a suit was Paul.

　I don’t know why I’m outside again. I saw Paul earlier, and then I pressed the elevator button [1]. I got off at the entrance and started walking outside. I had just had dinner, so I didn’t have anything else to do. Of course, this was not a rational behavior… I guess.

　What was Paul doing there? Was he volunteering to help paint the walls, or was he a kind person? That man in a suit must be a real estate salesman. Paul used to live on that floor. The only people who have priority for tenancy rights are the victims of the fire. If Paul wants to return, he can make a better bid than anyone else. It’s easy to imagine what Paul was doing with his helmet on. He was inspecting the room. It was probably his old room.

　My boiler, which was running at full capacity just a moment ago, has lost pressure, and the locomotive of my emotions has come to a complete halt.

　The cold-hearted and the kind. They didn’t teach each other anything; they lived on opposite sides of the river, and it was better for them to live apart. That’s what I was thinking just now. So it’s no wonder that Paul thought the same thing. We always come up with the same idea at the same moment. It was just the usual synchronicity. Nothing is surprising about this. Isn’t this a development that seems understandable?

　As I continued walking aimlessly, the road ended, and a huge park stood before me. Heading north from Midtown, I hit Central Park. This was also an obvious development. I knew it was not a good idea to go in when the sun was starting to set, but I didn’t want to stop, so I just kept going. People were leaving the park. I was going in the opposite direction. I was going in the direction I wanted to go. Paul was going in the direction he wanted to go. It wasn’t always the same direction. If I were going to write a poem, now was the time. I felt like I could write something good in the lonely park at dusk.

“Uncle Dean!”

　A lively voice breaks the poet’s reverie. He feels a shock on his right leg, and when he looks down, he sees a little girl clinging to him.

“Stella”

　Platinum blonde angel, that’s the name I called.

“Mom! I found Uncle Dean!” She turned around to see a tall woman with black hair standing there.

“Oh, Dean…”

　My niece, Stella, is two years old, and her mother is my sister, Eileen. They both live in Manhattan, but it’s rare that we ever see each other, much less by chance.

“It’s been a while, how have you been?” Irene slapped my arm with her leather-gloved hand. Whether she was wearing heels or not, she was huge. Her eye height was almost the same as mine, at 6.20 feet, and her facial features were so shaped that no matter how you looked at them, we looked like siblings.

“Stella found Dean,” the little girl insists, tugging on her booty pants.

“Yes, Stella, you have good eyes,” Irene complimented her daughter, then turned to me and asked again, “How are you?”

　I nodded and asked, “What are you doing here?”

“What? A mother and daughter in the park? What about you? Are you alone?”

“Yeah”

“You’re alone in the park… Did you get dumped again?”

　Ouch. Is this what you say to your younger brother when you meet him after a long time?

“Even I want to take a walk in the park sometimes… What are you saying?”

“Well, you used to go to the park whenever you had a bad day. You couldn’t stand being home alone, right?”

“I’m not alone right now. I’m living with a friend.”

“Really? That’s great. Are you having fun?”

“Ah”

　I lied. Even though that was what had led me to the park, I lied on impulse.

“Hey, how about going to the cafe for tea?”

“I’m going to have some strawberry yogurt,” Stella says in a lisp, looking up at me.

“It’s strawberry yogurt, right?” Irene gently corrects her.

“Yes, that’s it. Do you want some too, uncle?”

“nice”

　A cute cafe decorated with many teddy bears, it is a space that you would never step into unless you are accompanied by a child. Stella ordered the strawberry yogurt she requested. Irene and I ordered coffee. Surrounded by teddy bears, my sister’s conversation was lively.

“I haven’t had s3x for five years now.”

　I was startled and looked at Stella without thinking. She didn’t seem to react to the word “s*x”. Irene calmly stirred her coffee. I felt relieved and continued the topic.

“Five years?… Then whose child is that sitting there?”

“Of course, Norman.”

“So you’re not s*xless then?”

“Loving s3x went out of fashion long ago. Stella is a miracle child. For some reason, we had s*x that one time. It’s mysterious. I’m sure this child wanted to be born,” Irene said, stroking Stella’s head.

“Just because you’re not having s3x doesn’t mean you’re not in love, right? Especially when you’re older.”

“Who’s old? I’m only 37. I’m still at the age where I need s3x.”

“Make it Norman.”

“I don’t want to.”

“That’s selfish.”

“No, neither of us wants to do it. If either of us wanted to do it, it would be a problem, but since we don’t want to do it, it’s peaceful in a way. I guess you could say we get along,” said my older sister, sipping her coffee and raising her shapely eyebrows. Her harsh tone was somewhat reminiscent of Roman and the other gays.

“Why wouldn’t you want to? He’s a good guy.”

“I think that because he looks good on the outside. He dresses well but is a mess at home. He never shows that in public. It’s so stressful for me. People say, like you just said, ‘Why? Isn’t he great?’ ‘Norman is a good father.’ And then I end up being the bad guy… Can I smoke here?”

“That’s no good.”

“I’ve started smoking more because of my husband.”

“What is this? Are you cheating on me?”

“That’s not surprising, but the things that make me angry are more mundane.”

“For example?”

“Yeah… you know Homer Simpson.”

“Manga”

“My husband is that guy.”

“They don’t look alike at all, though.”

“On the outside, yes. But on the inside, he’s like that. When he’s at home, he stays glued to the couch and doesn’t move. At parties, he acts all pretentious and doesn’t eat anything, but at home, he wants to eat high-calorie foods. I have to walk around picking up the things he drops on the floor…”

“I can’t imagine it.”

“I told you, no one will believe me, but it’s true. Every time he comes out of the bathroom, he walks around in just a towel. It’s like he’s in a football locker room.”

　Oops, I’ve heard this story somewhere before.

“Even when the toilet paper runs out, I have never replaced it.”

　I assumed that the maid would replenish the toilet paper here.

“But you wouldn’t cheat on me or hit your kids, would you?”

“If you do that, I’ll divorce you straight away.”

I remember him taking me to watch a baseball game a long time ago.

“That’s right. He loves children. He dotes on Stella very much. Leroy is a teenager, though, and dislikes his father.”

“Do you hate me?”

“Fathers and sons seem to have a lot of conflicts. I guess it’s a male pride thing. They get angry over what seems to me to be silly things.”

“Something that may seem silly to a woman may be serious to a man.”

“Is that so?”

“That’s right,” I argued to Irene, speaking for all men.

“But I think this conflict between father and son will only last for a short time,” Irene said, playing with her cigarette. “Leroy will probably become an adult first. Norman is still a child. He’s just grown physically. He only wants to do what he wants. Being a president can be dictatorial, but that’s not the case when it comes to life. Leroy, Stella, and I all have our feelings and opinions. Living with someone who doesn’t try to compromise on those things is nothing but painful. He doesn’t understand my tastes at all. He won’t even sit down and watch movies with me or anything like that. It’s like he’s making fun of my choice of movies from the start. It’s the worst when couples have different tastes.”

　Paul and I have different tastes. But Paul is more flexible. Even if he’s not interested in Terry Gilliam, he’ll try it out and make an effort to have fun with me.

“Norman gets angry when I give money to homeless people. He says things like, ‘That doesn’t solve the problem,’ or ‘Once they get a taste of it, it’ll be even harder for them to reintegrate into society.’ He complains as if I’ve lowered New York’s GDP. I’m not contributing to the poverty in this country or anything. I just see people in need, and I can’t pretend not to see that. It’s a more personal thing, and he doesn’t get that. Do you understand? Norman doesn’t understand me as a person. We’ve been together for over ten years. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

　I didn’t want to understand, but I do. It’s more of a personal thing. Paul did it too. He did it purely out of kindness. I knew him, but I ignored all that and just yelled at him.

　This isn’t about New York’s GDP or any other social issue. The root of the fight is “more personal.” I wasn’t upset that they let the doorman in. The issue was that they let the doorman in without asking Dean’s opinion. I felt like they treated me as if my feelings didn’t matter, and that they ignored me. So I fought back. I ignored Paul’s feelings, yelled at him, and didn’t even try to understand what he did, just like I felt they did to me.

“I don’t understand people,” Irene said. I wonder if Paul, like Irene, experienced the sadness of not being understood…

“Oh, I’ve been talking about myself a lot,” Irene said, putting her cigarette back in her handbag. “And what about you? You said you were living with a friend, but is that your girlfriend?”

“No, he’s just a guy friend of mine. His name is Paul and he’s a hairdresser.”

“I didn’t know you were living with a guy friend. I thought you’d share a room with a girl.”

“I have a few guy friends too.”

“That’s true, but haven’t you always said that you don’t get along with men? Being with men is tiring, being with girls is more fun,” or something like that.”

“Paul is different. How should I put it… He’s not like your average guy friend.”

“How is it different?”

“She’s kind… intelligent, has good fashion sense, and is a skilled hairdresser. And her massage skills are great too. She studied in Japan, so she’s a professional. She’s very ambitious when it comes to her work.”

“Is that what makes you say he’s ‘different from normal guys’?” Irene snorted, raising the corners of her outlined lips.

　That’s right, this is an appealing point for my resume. But to me, “he’s different from your average guy friends” can’t be that…

“As for Paul… I never get tired of being with him. That’s because he’s a guy who is naturally considerate of others, but he’s not the type to please everyone. He’s not macho at all, but he’s not a coward either. I think he’s just natural when he’s with me. He’s a lot of fun to talk to… we’re always laughing like high school girls. When I’m with him doing ordinary things like watching TV or going shopping at the supermarket, how should I put it, it just feels so fun.”

“So he’s a precious male friend whom I get along well with.”

“Ah”

“That kind of relationship is hard to come by. I often have long phone conversations with my friend. We each feel better by talking badly about each other’s husbands. She lives in Alaska, so Norman can’t find out.”

“Alaska? The phone bill must be crazy.”

“Oh well. Her husband works over there. Look, you’re lucky to have your best friend so close by. Best friends don’t just happen to be lying around. Take care of yourself.”

“Yeah, I will… That sounds like you, Mom.”

“Yeah, I think we’ve become more alike as we’ve gotten older. Hey… Shall I get another cup of coffee, you know? Something sweet?”

“What should I do?”

“The cakes here are pretty good. I’ll order one.”

　Irene smiles. She’s starting to look like my mom, wanting to give me sugar. I guess all women have a “motherly” quality.

　Perhaps it was the rich chocolate cake, but by the time we left the store, my mood had improved considerably. As I walked, I thought back to what I’d said to Eileen. Explaining it again made my feelings clearer. It wasn’t just because it was easier for two guys. And it certainly wasn’t just for the financial benefits. It was because it was him. After all, it was none other than Paul who had suggested we move in together. I wanted to live with him. It was that simple. I should have known, but it felt like I was only realizing it for the first time.

　I don’t care about deep life or real life anymore. I just want to get back to being with Paul and live happily with him. Am I the only one who thinks that?

　Paul is with his helmet on. I was shocked to see him. I hadn’t expected him to leave until that point. We had a heated exchange. It was certainly a dramatic exchange, but I never imagined he was planning to leave. I was also shocked that I was shocked by that. What on earth was I so upset about? I was shocked as if I’d been dumped (yes, Eileen was right) even though I was only going back to the same environment as before.

“We had just one fight, and now you’re leaving? No way–“

　Maybe I was overconfident about our relationship. What would happen if Paul left? If we had a falling out like this, it would be difficult to go back to the way things were. We would occasionally meet through friends to go out for drinks or get our hair cut. However, our common topics would decrease, and the amount of information we didn’t know would increase. If we were to become lovers, all we could do was exchange Christmas cards. A few years later, I thought back to how we used to get along and wondered why we had become so distant. Then, what came to mind was each other’s egos, the doorman, and the toilet paper refill. Could our relationship end over something so trivial? Maybe. If things continued the way they were, it would go that way. If it were just a bouquet and a handbag, I could send a hundred of them, but of course, that wouldn’t work. Still, I almost wanted to do it. I couldn’t think of anything else I could do. If there was nothing I could do for him now, I would at least do what I could for myself. What can I do for myself right now? I need a rest. I can’t think of anything better to do. I can’t think of anything else I want to do.

　Paul wasn’t in the living room. I didn’t feel like knocking to see if he was in his room or if it was empty.

　Without turning on the lights in the room, I poured mineral water into a glass in the dark. If I lived alone, I would have just put the bottle to my mouth and drunk it. When I opened the refrigerator to put the bottle back, the light made two shadows appear. They were the wine opener ladies on the kitchen counter. If Paul left, these sisters would have to separate.

“Well, that’s pretty selfish,” said Anna G. in a red dress, arms hanging at her sides. “I thought we were finally going to be together.”

　Anna G, in a black dress, was not silent either. “Are we going to have to take the blame for your actions?”

　Sorry. It looks like that.

“I don’t get it, we don’t want to be separated.”

　I’ll see to it that Paul asks you to come with me.

“I don’t agree with that.”

　why?

“I don’t want to leave.”

　So the two together…

“You don’t want to leave Paul.”

　……….

　I put the mineral water in the refrigerator, grab a glass, and head to my room. I hang my coat on a hanger, then change the bedsheets. White, crisp sheets have been my favorite since I was a child. I lie down on my beautifully made bed. I want to think about beautiful things. Before unnecessary noise occurs in my head, I want to fill myself with beautiful things. I reach for the iPod on my bedside table and put on the earphones. I turn up the volume to the maximum and close my eyes. The sounds of the outside world are blocked out, and my consciousness travels to Schubert’s songs. Dieskau’s baritone is like whipped cream. There are many kinds of things in this world. I hope to be like that when I wake up next. All I can do now is sleep. Hopefully, a dream that has nothing to do with the things of this world. Of course, Dieskau listened to the only wish of a helpless man.

　The next day, when I got home from work, I found Paul in the kitchen. It had been almost two days since I last saw him. He was leaning against the counter in front of the coffee maker.

　I said “Hello” (was “Hello” weird?) and he said “I was just wondering if I could borrow your espresso machine.”

“Oh sure. Feel free to use it.”

“Yeah, thanks, but I didn’t know where the coffee pods were, so I ended up getting cocoa instead.”

　In front of Paul’s eyes, a light brown liquid was steaming in a milk pan on the gas stove.

“The coffee pods are in this drawer,” I said, opening a drawer under the counter to show him. Even if I reminded him where the pods are and how to use the coffee maker, that probably won’t be of much use to him in the future.

　With a hiss, the cocoa threatened to boil over as Paul turned off the gas. As I turned to go back into the room, he suddenly said, “Your sister’s in the shop.”

“Irene?”

“Yeah, right. Do you want half a cup of cocoa?”

“no……”

　Paul pours hot chocolate into a mug in silence. I don’t even take my jacket off, just wait for the next line. He fills the cup and then continues.

“Your sister… I’m surprised. She’s just like you.”

“It looked like I was dressed up as a woman, right?”

“For some reason, she gave me a really big tip. I told her I don’t get that much from my friend’s sister, but she said, ‘It’s not my money, so don’t worry about it’… What a nice person.”

“Oh, Irene is always so generous.”

“I know it’s not about the money…” Paul chuckled. “You know, my sister used to talk about you a lot. She was always bragging about what a lovely little brother you were.”

“You think I’m cute? That’s a lie, right?”

“It’s true. You are so loved. I’m an only child, so I’m a little jealous.”

“What did you tell me? Like the time I put a frog in Irene’s bed?”

“Yeah, when you get dumped by a girl, you go to the park and stuff.”

“That’s not true!”

“I heard she met you at the park the other day. She said you looked depressed, so she invited you to a cafe and gave you some cake. She was laughing and said sweet things to cheer up her brother.”

　That’s true. Parks and sugar are what heal me. Indeed, Irene seems to understand her brother very well.

“She said she heard about me then, and that’s why she came to the store. I guess she wanted to see the face of her brother’s roommate.”She looked down at the cocoa, which she hadn’t touched even once since she’d poured it, and after looking at it for a while, she raised her head and faced me.

“I asked you what you thought of me.”

　Blue eyes staring at me.

“I’m sorry.”

　That was an unexpected comment. Before I could respond, he suddenly changed the topic again.

“Do you remember the other doorman who wasn’t Pete?”

“Like a medieval willow tree.”

“He was talking about you, too.”

“Me?”

“‘It’s cold, so be careful not to catch a cold.’ That’s what you told him?”

　I traced the thread of my memory. Ah, that’s right. I’m sure that’s what I said.

“He said it was the first time anyone had ever said that to him. I felt embarrassed when I heard it. I felt I owed you an apology.”

“Why?”

“‘I think the doorman’s name is ‘Door Man’ or something like that…”

“Ah……”

“I know you’re a nice person. I was so mean. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I yelled at you, too.”

“I was not considerate enough. I should have told them when I was inviting them. They might have another plan, or they might be sick. And yet you yelled at me like that.”

“Because I yelled first.”

“That would have been rude of me to you…”

“Stop — If we keep going like this, we’ll just end up arguing again, asking who’s in the wrong?”

　Paul smiled with his eyes shaped like crescent moons, which is my favorite look.

“But Dean, I want you to understand that Pete is not a dangerous guy. I see a lot of customers every day, so I can tell who’s weird and who’s not. I think I can tell who’s dangerous and who’s not.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

　Paul is a very reliable guy, even though he looks like him. I didn’t trust him about that. I should have known, but I’d forgotten about it at the time.

“But… even though it wasn’t dangerous, I think I may have gone a little too far this time,” Paul shrugged embarrassedly. “I can be a bit of a busybody. I’m thoughtful, and my customers like it, but in everyday life, it’s a fine line between that and being too nosy. My boyfriend often told me, ‘Leave me alone’… I’ve had that kind of trauma, so when you cut your cheek in the bathroom, I ended up getting angry.”

“Same for me,” he said, shrugging. “‘You look like you’re in the football locker room.’ A girlfriend once told me the same thing. I guess it triggered some trauma… but since she said it twice, I’ll look into how to improve it. And the toilet paper. I’ll be careful about that too.”

“Yeah,” Paul nodded.

　Holy sh*t. This is so incredibly simple. We should have had this discussion right from the start.

“Hey, if that’s what you want to do, you can keep walking around naked now and then,” Paul said, “but I’ll let you know in advance if I ever invite people over, so long as they’re dressed then,” he added with a chuckle, “But it’s just plain annoying.”

“From now on, too──” “From now on──” So, we are talking about “the future”? But that is…

“But… you’re thinking of leaving, aren’t you?”

“Picture?”

“I saw you wearing a helmet on the eighth floor. Aren’t you planning on moving back to your room once the work is done?”

“Oh, um… You saw that,” Paul said, grimacing. He might have thought he was being followed. I had to correct him on that point. It could lead to another argument.

“I saw it by chance. It’s not like I was sneaking around or anything…”

　Ignoring my excuses, Paul groaned and scratched his head.

“Well, the reason why I was checking out that place… well… it was because I was planning on living with you. Well, in the future.”

“What do you mean?”

“That floor will not only be renovated, but it will also be more high-end, I knew that because I had received notice from the landlord. It will have one more room than this one, and although it’s small, it will have a roof balcony. Because the building itself is old, the rent will be extremely cheap compared to newly built apartments. There will no doubt be competition if it is opened to the public. Since I am a victim of the fire, I have priority for occupancy. Of course, the rent will be higher than where I am now, but even if we split it between the two of us, it won’t be that much… so, you see.”

“…that means you are…”

　Paul wasn’t going to leave. I felt my whole body relax. He was staying here. With me.

“I see… so that’s why you… Is that so… but then why didn’t you talk to me about it?”

“I’m sorry. But I couldn’t decide either. There are many things I want to check, and the rent will be higher. Before consulting you, I wanted to gather enough information to be able to say, ‘This is what it looks like, what do you think?'”

　Ah, I see, that’s what it is. What on earth have I been doing running around aimlessly these past two days?

　Seeing my face suddenly become disheartened, Paul looked puzzled and muttered, “What’s wrong?” He had no idea how I had been feeling these past few days. And that the word “Paul” had been filling my head.

　I chuckled wryly and muttered, “I was almost going to give you a handbag…”

“A handbag? What’s that?”

“No, don’t worry about it… Ah, the cocoa has gone cold.”

“Just reheat it. If you want to drink it too, I’ll make some for both of you.”

“Okay, then I’ll leave it to you.”

　Heat the cooled cocoa and add the powder and milk. Stir gently with a spoon and watch the swirl.

“It’s tasty if you drop marshmallows on this. I used to do that a lot as a kid.”

“Yeah, let’s try that next time.”

　You can reheat your drinks as many times as you like. You can even add marshmallows to your hot chocolate. I’ll try that next time.

　The following week, Paul and I put on our helmets and toured the rooms on the eighth floor. Everything was so well-built that we didn’t even need helmets. They looked new, and the workmanship was amazing.

　We walked around the plastic-protected room, checking various places.

“Can we put a table and chairs on the balcony?” asked Paul.

“That’s enough space. If I can find something the right size, maybe. Look, if the paint in here is sage, it won’t match with our furniture.”

“I think it’s still possible to repaint it now.”

　The real estate agent had faxed me the blueprints, but seeing them in person was a different story. This property was well worth moving into, even taking into account the rent.

“The bathroom is amazing,” Paul said with an excited look on his face. “It even has a steam sauna function,” he said, gazing intently at the blueprint and the bathroom.

“A steam room,” I said, peering at the blueprint from beside Paul. “The gym has one too, but you’re not allowed to bring cold gin in there. And if you have one at home…”

“It’s not just gin. You can even bring in ice cream.”

“You can watch basketball on a small waterproof TV.”

“No one will complain if you wear a bright blue face mask.”

“It’s the best.”

“It’s awesome.”

　We smiled and looked at each other. A moment of silence fell upon us.

　What is it? Something feels strange. I don’t think there was anything strange about our exchange. So why does it feel strange? I’ve experienced this kind of atmosphere a few times before. Alyssa, Becky, Jill, Charlotte-Ann. I started a relationship with each of these women, but… No, that’s not the case. We’re not lovers, so I shouldn’t think that the old rules apply here. If we were lovers, it would be appropriate to use physical contact in a situation like this. That means… well, it’s something like that.

　I put my arm around Paul’s shoulder. Was this an infringement on the realm of Platonic friendship? No, even soccer players who score goals hug each other. This is a common occurrence for French people. Okay, so for this moment, I’ll be French. Then this won’t seem unnatural at all.

“Merci mon ami (Thank you, my friend)”

“French?”

“For now, I’m French.”

“What’s that?” Paul chuckles. “Sava?” (How are you?)

　I see, so you’re French too?

　I replied, “Sava biyan (I’m fine).”

“I’m in love with you.”

“Huh? What do you mean? Pardon?”

　He spoke so fast that I couldn’t catch what he was saying…or rather, even if I had caught it, I don’t know if I would have understood what he meant. The only French I know is merci (thank you), bonjour (hello), and croissant s’il vête (can I have a croissant please).

　Paul speaks in short sentences, ignoring beginners.

“Je ponce à toi (I’m thinking of you)”

　───That doesn’t make sense. Meld! I shouldn’t have said French!

“Dean, I’m crazy about you.”

“Aton! Aton! Monsieur! (Wait, wait! Mister!)”

　I tried to compete with Serge Gainsbourg with words taken from the title of the play, but I’ve run out of vocabulary. Here is the English:

“That’s not fair, Jean-Paul! Don’t be so mean! It doesn’t make any sense!”

“I won’t be mean. Let’s start with the simplest thing.”

　After listing off a string of mysterious words, Paul spoke in a very simple way.

“… Je t’aime (I love you).”

　I know this word. Finally, are you speaking something I can understand?

　As I let out a sigh of relief, French food came out of my mouth quite naturally.

“Merci, Paul… mon amour (Thank you, Paul… my love)”

“I was wrong. You’re my friend, aren’t you?”

　Paul rested his head on my shoulder and chuckled. What a rude guy. There’s no way even I could make a mistake with such simple vocabulary.

　I hugged Paul tightly and said again clearly so he could hear me.

“Mon amour, je t’aime (My love. I love you)”

“Dean…”

“Je t’aime.”

　I’ve been thinking about one person for so long. It was the same last Christmas. If Paul were a woman, I would have immediately acknowledged my feelings and naturally moved in the direction they were directed. “I’m not gay.” That identity was preventing me from realizing my “true feelings.” I have to acknowledge these feelings. I don’t want Paul to leave. I don’t want him to live with another man. In this room, with him — I want to be with Paul.

　Paul gently unwrapped me, his eyes shining brightly beneath his helmet.

“Ju tambras…”

“Pardon? (What?)”

　Before I could understand his French, Paul demonstrated what he meant by his actions.

　”Tumblr.” Right, that’s the word “kiss.” Kiss, kiss, kiss… I’m kissing Paul. It’s weird, even though I’m not gay. And I don’t mind it at all. What on earth is that all about? Whether I’m Roman or not, this kiss isn’t bad. I wonder if this has caught up with the level of today’s elementary school kids…

“…Then, turn the knob here, place the milk pitcher over the nozzle… and froth it like this.”

　On a Sunday afternoon in a brand new kitchen, barista Dean Kelly shows us how to use the coffee machine and make a delicious cappuccino.

“When pouring the milk foam, start with a strong pour, then gradually bring the pitcher closer to the cup… pour slowly like this. This way, the milk foam mixes nicely with the espresso.”

“Wow, he sounds like a pro,” exclaims Paul Copeland. He’s a very honest and good student.

“If you were at home, I would stop going to the cafe.”

“The steam sauna has put me off going to the gym.”

　Since moving to a bigger apartment, I’ve been going out less on weekends and coming home earlier. Good coffee and a little alcohol. Watching DVDs and using the steam sauna. When the weather gets nice, I can sunbathe on the balcony. I have friends I get along with and a lover I love; everything is in this room. I’m like the couple in Bob Marley’s song, living happily together in a shelter. It’s a bit of a dangerous kind of happiness.

　Paul laughs and murmurs, “Maybe this is how we become isolated from the rest of the world.”

　”If you miss the cafe, why don’t you buy a green apron?” I suggested. “That way, you can have a Starbucks vibe at home.”

“A Starbucks apron at home? Wow, that’s just the worst–“

“The best?”

　Paul didn’t reply, just gave me a quick kiss on the lips and disappeared into the living room with a cappuccino in hand. Was that a yes? Or was he just dodging the question?

　The wine opener ladies are on the kitchen counter, the Anna G sisters are standing upright, side by side, their big skirts preventing them from snuggling up, but they seem content with it.

　Just the right distance for each other. Ours was a cappuccino and a kiss. Somehow, we settled into the position of lovers. This is where I return to. At the end of the story, the protagonist realizes, “The Blue Bird is Right Next to Me.” Of course, this is not the end of the story. Cappuccino and kiss—we start here.