Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [153]
I keep Richard company at the kitchen table while he sips his customary nighttime herbal tea. It has wild nettle root in it, which Richard swears helps him sleep a deep and dreamless sleep. It also tastes like dirt, which is why I’m drinking silver-tipped Darjeeling with extra milk and sugar.
“Richard,” I begin. “About Nate—”
“It’s okay. It’s over, Mira. It’s been over,” he says, reaching up with a paint-spattered hand to brush a piece of hair from his eyes. His hair is the color of dust, and the way it hangs over his ears in ragged tufts makes Richard look old.
“It’s funny,” he continues, resting his chin in his hands. “I think you get to a certain age, and what you want from someone becomes very different from anything you’ve ever wanted before. But it’s hard to let go of your youthful sense of what love is. You want to hold onto it for as long as you can, even though it doesn’t fit. Even though it is,” he hesitates, “ridiculous. Let’s face it, there’s nothing romantic about Depends and three-pronged canes and sweat suits,” Richard continues. “But I’ve got to start thinking about the long haul, Mira. My chief requirement should be someone who is willing to see me through to the end.”
“Richard, what are you talking about? You’ve got years still. Besides, you’ve got me. Remember, we made a pact?” Richard rests his cool palm on my hand. His skin is translucent, the intricate network of veins running like tiny rivers beneath the surface, the remnants of a tired-looking bruise, left over from the IV, encroaching across the back of his hand, the bluish purple of a deep-water sea.
“So,” Richard says, taking a sip of his tea, “when are you leaving us?” Richard raises his hand to my face and strokes my cheek. His eyes are sad.
I sigh. “I just bought this place. Even if I can get a loan to cover the initial AEL investment, I’ll have to sell this place quickly to rent again in New York.”
Richard flaps his palm at me. “Don’t worry about it. If we stage it right, it’ll sell in a minute. Who knows, I might even buy it from you,” Richard says, looking around with his practiced decorator’s eye, which finally comes to rest on the yellow wall.
“You?”
“Yes, it might be time for a change—for both of us,” he murmurs.
“Richard—”
“I fully intend to get back out there and begin combing the geriatric wards for the unattached, the infirm, any eligible gay man of a certain age who can’t outrun me. And I suggest you do the same—age and appropriate sexual conventions considered, of course,” Richard says, raising his teacup. “You know, I think I like Caribbean Sunset,” he says, flicking his chin in the direction of the living room wall.
“Which one is that?” I ask, shifting slightly in my chair in order to have a better view.
“The third from the left,” Richard says, pointing.
“I don’t know. I kind of like the one two down, the big splotch that looks like Texas. What’s that one called?”
He consults the piece of notebook paper on which he has kept a record of his splotches, all of which are numbered, along with their corresponding names.
“Well, well. How appropriate,” Richard says, laying his hand once again over mine. “New York Cheddar.”
The next morning I awake before five and lie in bed for an hour contemplating, of all things, the blueberry muffin. Capitalizing on the tartness of the fruit is the key, I’ve decided. I’m thinking about muffins because it seems much easier to think about a relatively simple baking conundrum—namely, why there aren’t more good blueberry muffins in the world—than it is to contemplate the enormity of what I am about to do. Namely, sell the apartment I’d managed to convince myself just a few short weeks ago was the ticket to my getting over Jake, and move back to New York to reclaim Grappa. Chloe and Richard are still sleeping soundly, and I won’t be gone long. Quietly, so as not to wake them, I pull on jeans and a sweater, pad downstairs, and let myself out the front door. I buy several pints of wild blueberries from the guy on the corner, who also tries to talk me into buying yesterday