Mark watches as the gravity of Paul’s misfortune crests over him. Finally, he cries—softly at first, but then he sobs. Yet, while Paul mourns the destruction of something communal, something vital and shared, Mark’s experience is more akin to explaining the death of a pet to a child. Logically, he understands the source of Paul’s unhappiness, but that’s where their common ground stops. Paul’s pain has grown too foreign to elicit Mark’s empathy.
“Are you in love with Alcott?” Paul asks. His blond hair is matted against his forehead, and Mark realizes that he’s sweating.
“Stop it.”
“Tell me.”
“Of course not. I just—I’ve come to the conclusion that we conceive of relationships in different ways.” He searches for the explanation he crafted earlier. “It wouldn’t be fair to manipulate you into some version of a coupling that you weren’t comfortable with.”
Paul refuses to listen. “Is that why you’re leaving? Because of him? Answer me that.”
“Paul, please don’t cause a scene. You’re better than that.”
“Isn’t this what I said would happen?” His voice isn’t accusatory: it’s defeated. “Didn’t I say that we’d do this thing, and that it would end in tears? That you wouldn’t be able to resist the—what the fuck did you call it?—the newness of it?”
“I’m not going to answer that question,” Mark says. “I’m not going to dignify it. I care about you; I’m going to save you the embarrassment.”
“I can’t believe this is happening.” Panic creeps into Paul’s voice. “Could I have been better? On Friday, I mean? Is this all because I wasn’t that great at … at getting fucked by Alcott, or something? Because I can be better, Mark. It was my first time with all that stuff, and the drugs certainly weren’t helping anything, and I—”
“Paul.” Mark sighs. People have started to watch them. Not ostensibly—a crowd hasn’t gathered—but still, he’s caught the discreet turning of a few heads. Some raised eyebrows. He was really, really, really trying to avoid this. “This is just what I want.”
“But what about what I want? Since we moved to Philadelphia it’s been entirely about what you want. Why, for once, can’t it be about what I want?” He’s close to shouting now, and tears soak his face. His distress tugs at Mark’s prick—seeing Paul upset has always been a turn-on—and Mark does his best to resist the very real urge to have sex with Paul; to find somewhere discreet and fuck him one last time.
Calmly, he asks, “And what is it that you want, Paul?”
“To be with you! To keep living our lives together! To keep watching you cook, and listening to your stories about your students, and going to Maryann’s with Preston and Crosby. To just … to just keep loving you.”
“You hate Preston and Crosby.”
“That’s not the fucking point!” he screams.
Mark buries his face in his hands and shakes his head. He says, “This isn’t how this was supposed to work out.”
Paul’s quiet for a moment. He sniffles once, and then asks, “What did you say?”
Mark takes his hands away from his face. “I said, this isn’t how this was supposed to work out.”
“Oh, it wasn’t?” Paul wipes his nose with his shirtsleeve. “Geez, I’m sorry to hear that. Would you like to start over then?”
“That’s not what I meant, Paul.”
“Then why don’t you tell me what the fuck you did mean, Mark?” He’s still crying, but his devastation seems to be giving way to a heated anger. Mark had anticipated that this might happen, but now, seeing the rage in Paul’s eyes, he’s not sure if he’s entirely comfortable with the shift. At least a few minutes ago he could still fantasize about the possibility of breakup sex.
He says, “I just … I just mean that this is starting to get uncomfortable. That’s all.”
“For you?” Paul says—shouts—incredulously. “Because the last time I checked, you weren’t the one getting dumped in front of an audience on the London Bridge four days shy of your sister’s wedding, just because you weren’t quite willing enough to have a stranger’s dick in your mouth.”
“We’re on the Millennium Bridge. The London Bridge is in Southwark. And please, Paul. Keep your voice down.”
“No!” Paul shouts, and people around them turn their heads. “Fuck you, Mark. I won’t keep my voice down. You don’t get to tell me that, do you hear me? You don’t get to tell me that ever again.”
Eloise
July 8
Mark suddenly dumping Paul is costing her six hundred pounds. She figured that out last night after Paul called, crying, to tell her that they’d broken up, and that there’d be an empty place setting at the wedding, and that he, Paul, needed somewhere to stay. She doesn’t care; she would’ve happily paid double that amount to not have that son of a bitch there. In fact, she’d be fine giving Mark twenty thousand bucks if he promised to never speak to Paul again. But then, she stops herself: she’s always considered it tacky to think about all the things she’d do with her money, so long as no one else was watching.
She watches as a car across the street tries to parallel park between two black sedans. Ollie left half an hour ago—he had an early-morning meeting—and after following him out to their building’s front stoop to say good-bye, she decided to stay, to sit and bear witness to the morning unfurling itself. She’s not properly dressed—she’s wearing an old Yale shirt and a pair of running shorts—and if anyone she knew were to walk by, she’d be mortified. Still, she stays where she is, blowing into her mug of coffee to cool it, even though it’s already grown lukewarm. She wants to be here when Paul gets here—she figures that’s the important thing. She doesn’t want him to have to climb the stairs up to her flat (and away from Mark) alone.