“Well, that’s brave,” Mark says. They are speaking normally, as if the previous conversation hadn’t happened. “Who would open a store like that in this economy?”
“There were people in there when I went. It’s mainly books and CDs, but there are some interesting pieces, too. There’s a charango from Peru. Gorgeous. I heard the guy saying he was down there with the tribe people. I was thinking, if you don’t want Africa, maybe we can go to South America next year.”
“Who is this guy?”
“Some strange bird, all dressed up like a guru. I’ve never seen him before. He’s got plenty of charisma, though. He calls himself Apocatequil, after the Incan god of lightning.”
“Really.” Mark is surprised by a stab of jealousy.
“There were people there talking to him, a whole little cult. Apparently he’s running drum circles and healing sessions.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Mark says. “The self-absorption of these people is truly limitless.”
Harris pauses. “I’m thinking of signing up for a healing session.”
“You are? For what?”
“For the Lyme. The antibiotics aren’t working anymore, so what the hell?”
Mark is quiet. A picture comes to his mind of another man bent in front of Harris, massaging his knees. This is how it happens, he thinks. It would be foolish to imagine that Harris hasn’t felt his distance, hasn’t suffered over these cold months. This is how the script goes, the arc of every such story.
The spring issue of the local magazine runs a front-page profile on the shop, with a photograph of Harris and Mark flanking the big birdcage chandelier. Harris poses in a cream cashmere V-neck, arms over his chest. Mark is in plaid and jeans, leaning on a Chinese altar table. Both smiling, relaxed: men of style and success. The article is full of superlatives about Harris’s eclectic taste and social conscience. There is a box insert about the store’s contributions to global charities: International Rescue Committee, UNICEF, VillageReach.
In the weeks that follow, customer traffic surges. Harris nearly sells out of the painted insects, which he has tucked in surprising locations throughout the showroom. The birdcage chandelier also goes, and the twelve-piece Louis XVI dining set.
At home, they open the bottle of ’95 Margaux, a wedding gift. They drink, go into the bedroom. For the moment, Mark allows himself to slide back into the old ways. It is a simple pleasure to feel Harris’s hand on the small of his back, the familiar sensations returning to his body.
While Harris spends a preliminary moment in the bathroom, a feminine quirk of his, Mark undresses and waits. Perched on the bed, he opens the top drawer of Harris’s night table and hunts through handkerchiefs for the bottle of sandalwood oil. Instead, he finds a glossy booklet entitled Navigating Your Adoption Journey. A folded piece of paper falls out, a “Pre-Orientation Information Form,” with blanks filled out for each of them: their birth dates, heights, yearly incomes.
When Harris comes out of the bathroom, Mark is naked on the bed, holding the packet.
“Oh, honey, I was just curious,” Harris says preemptively. “I was just doing some preliminary reading. I wouldn’t send anything in without you.”
Mark does not respond. After a moment, Harris gently takes the packet from his hands and slides it back into the drawer. Standing there in his robe, he glances at the bed and sighs. “Do you not want to do this now?”
Mark is trembling. He can still see the logo at the top of the form, two intertwined hearts with a third, smaller heart nestled between. He can see his own name inked in block print beside the heading “Parent #2.” He cannot bring himself to look at Harris, whose dragon-print robe fills his field of vision.
Finally, the robe moves away. There is a whisper of silk upon silk as Harris lowers himself onto the trunk at the foot of the bed. After several blank moments, Mark turns his head to see Harris facing away, his back quaking.
Later, in bed, Mark lies awake. Harris’s sibilant breathing deepens and turns to full-on snoring, as often happens when he drinks. Mark usually interrupts this with a shake of his shoulder, but tonight he lets it continue. How silent the room would be without its tumbling cadence. One day, he knows, that silence will come—they will no longer be together. Sooner or later, through his own doing or through the brute force of time, of death, it will come. There is no truth more absolute than this. Perhaps it is understandable that in days of serenity the heart seeks it own friction—whether in defense against, or in ignorance of, the ultimate blow that awaits it.