Talking at Night

I had only seen Tom during summer visits after we graduated from high school. We had the same homeroom with Mrs. Evanston for three years in middle school, social studies in our freshman year at high school and performed in a dance recital together in our junior year. He was exacting and rehearsed obsessively. I was easily persuaded to perfectionism, so this did not phase me much at the time. We practised all winter that year after school in the gym and in his basement. Tom chose the Eurythmics, Sweet Dreams, for our performance. I came up with most of the steps and he drilled me on my execution. The recital was in the spring and I had a flaming red dress. Literally. I wore a red bodysuit and a red, blue and orange skirt of pieces of tulle netting that flared out like flames. I had blood red shoes and Tom wore slim black trousers, his white shirt impeccable.

We were both meticulous and concerned with detail. We talked for hours after our dance practice. He was a listener, suiting me perfectly. I told him about my family, how I planned to graduate high school early and get a job, then leave with a little money so I would not need to come back for a couple of years. He applied to an art school for a degree in photography. By the following summer, we went everywhere together, confiding and making escape plans for each of our lives.

We wrote each other Christmas greetings and called each other when we came to visit our families. After finishing college, I travelled. Tom had changed schools. He got a degree in economics and started working for a bank. When Tom said he was coming to L.A. to visit for four days, I was living in a studio apartment. It was small and there was only one bed, no sofa. So be it. Acting provided only so much. We would share. I worked all day, and he would be on his own. In the evening, we had dinner, drinks and fell asleep talking like we had in his basement after dance rehearsal.

The second day, I turned out the lights at night, we continued talking, invisible in the dark. A barely coherent conversation jumped from work to family, then money and the unrelenting pace of life.

“Good night, Tom,” I finally said.

“Good night. Sleep well.”

“You too.”

“Amanda.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m gay.”

Later Tom told me that, when he told someone, he expected the world to stop. He never knew what would happen to the relationship with the person he was speaking to and it was not immediately apparent. The result came later when friends drifted, or family became cool.

“Oh,” I said.

I paused. It was late, the room was darkened, I could not see his face. I was tired but I had one last thing to say. I turned toward him, on my side, hands together under my cheek.

“What do you want to do tomorrow?”