Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [59]
“Naw, he is my responsibility, in a way. He doesn’t have any money.” Foster scratches his collarbone and his biceps becomes the size of a large mango.
“Are you in love with him?” I ask impartially, sipping.
“No, I’m not in love with him. I never was. We were just two messes that got together and stayed together.” He laughs bitterly. “That’s me, a big ol’ mess.” He takes a sip from his cappuccino and asks, “So what about you? How’s your relationship going?”
“I’m not in a relationship,” I tell him.
“But . . . I could have sworn you said something about some guy named Hector living with you?”
“Hayden,” I correct. “And we’re not boyfriends, I met him in rehab. He’s just staying with me for a while before he goes back to London.”
Foster gives me a little smirk. “You sure there’s nothing going on?” He wipes some foam from his upper lip, then licks his finger.
“You think I wouldn’t know?” I say. Although in the past, it’s possible I wouldn’t have.
He laughs. “Sorry, it’s none of my business anyway.” He strains his neck to the right and there’s a crack, then he cracks it to the left. He looks at me. “But you are single?”
“Yeah, I am single. Unlike you.” There’s faint hostility in my voice and I regret it instantly. It gives me away.
He scratches his chin and smiles so slightly that a person wouldn’t notice unless that person were transfixed by his lips.
The waiter arrives with a book of matches and lights the candle at our table. I’m in the middle of horrifying myself, telling Foster all the details of my life. My crazy, psychotic mother, my mean, drunk father, my advertising career, how I used to have a wake-up service call me on my cell phone just so it would ring when I was out to dinner at a fancy restaurant in Soho with friends. When cell phones were new and the size of baguettes.
He flicks the light switch behind his blue eyes. “So what do you find attractive in a guy?” As he asks this he slings one arm over the back of the chair next to him.
I gaze at the arm like a dog watching bacon and stammer. “Oh, you know. Hard to say, really.”
“Gimme a hint,” he says.
“I hate this question—okay—I guess, somebody with a lot of substance; someone who’s funny and smart and reads and is crazy but not too crazy.” Then I add, “I sound like a really bad personal ad here.”
He laughs. “What about physically? What physically draws you to a guy, what qualities?”
I reach for my coffee, see that it’s empty. Foster catches this and he picks up his mug and pours the contents of it into mine. “So?” he says.
“This is embarrassing,” I begin. “I have this really shallow . . . attraction . . . to furry arms.” I space my words out so that the fact can be diluted.
He laughs in a way that reminds me of a huge, fragrant glass of red wine. His laugh is expansive. He nods his head. I feel like some straight guy on a date with Pamela Anderson who has just told her, I love big nipples.
As he laughs, he casually unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt, rolls up his sleeves and then rests his furry arms on the table in front me. “I’m not laughing at you,” he goes on. “I’m laughing because I also have this really specific thing I’m attracted to.” He’s grinning wickedly.
“What’s that?”
A breeze passes over the nape of my neck. I feel stoned, like I’ve smoked a joint.
“I’ve got this . . . thing . . . you could say, for guys with cappuccino foam on their upper lip.” He winks or twitches again.
Without taking my eyes off his, I swipe my index finger above my lip, then pull it away and look: cappuccino foam, of course. “Is that right?” I say, probably bright red. I’m drunk from the attention.
“That is very right,” he drawls in a way he has to know is sexy.
“Can I get you something else?” the waiter asks.
“No, that’s okay,” I say. I glance at my watch because I’ve seen people do it in movies. “I guess I should head home.”
“Okay, Auggie,” he says with something that my feeling chart might lead me to believe is hopefulness, sadness and disappointment. I get the feeling he would stay here all night.
I reach for the check, but he snatches