Page 29 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

“True,” I said. “After we exercise, of course.”

Peter grinned evilly.

“I’m going to wash the bowls and put the milk and cereal away,” he said. “Go upstairs and wait for me. Be nude when I get there.”

I rose from the table and pulled my shirt off over my head, then slipped my pants off as if sliding out of my skin, looking into Peter’s eyes as I did so. He swallowed hard and rose from the table.

“Fuck it,” he said. “Let me just put the milk up and we’ll go upstairs together.”

“I was hoping you would say that.”

On my third day in the U.S., Peter and I extracted ourselves from bed—after our morning exercise—showered together, dressed, and had breakfast. We agreed that sugary cereal should be a treat, not a meal, so I made a frittata for us instead. Once we had eaten and washed the dishes—including the bowls from the night before—we actually left the house during the daytime hours. Again, I found myself the passenger in Peter’s car, his hand squeezing my thigh as he drove us expertly through Minneapolis traffic. I found that I loved having Peter’s hand holding my thigh, though I felt compelled to lay my hand on top of his and twine our fingers.

He didn’t seem to mind.

Peter took me to the River Walk. It was supposed to be a self-guided audio tour, but even though we paid the requisite fees, we decided to forgo the audio. Instead, we strolled hand in hand, talking about our lives and the things we found along our walk, and greeted other Americans exuberantly, asking how they were doing though we didn’t want an answer. Peter seemed to derive great pleasure from watching me say “hello” and “how are you” to everyone who looked friendly.

After our walk—which lasted much longer than it would have had we taken the audio tour—we returned to Peter’s house so that I could make lunch. He had promised me that I could cook for him so that he wouldn’t spend more money than necessary on food, and he kept his promise on that third day. Fettuccine with a lemon cream sauce and sauteed chicken was our meal, and we ate until the entire pan was empty. We actually ate from the pan. Bringing it directly from the stove to the table, I set it upon a folded dish towel, and Peter and I ate together from the pan as we told stories and laughed.

After lunch, Peter took us to the Sculpture Garden, and like our time at the River Walk, we spent most of our time leisurely strolling hand in hand, talking about our lives instead of paying attention. The thought that began to form in the back of my mind, as we held each other’s hands and walked along, was that no one seemed to care. None of the other visitors to the Sculpture Garden looked at our locked hands with disgust. No one turned up their noses. No whispers or hisses greeted our ears.

It was so peaceful that it had escaped my notice for the first half of the day.

When our time at the Sculpture Garden was over, Peter drove us to his office building so that I could see where he worked. We didn’t actually go inside so that I could see his office or meet his coworkers, but he wanted me to at least see where he worked each day. It was an impressive building of metal and glass, though somehow it looked sophisticated instead of coldly and impersonally modern. I imagined dark woods and brass and leather chairs inside, though I figured that was probably not typical for a modern company. Everything was probably all straight lines and minimalism with glass and steel—nothing I imagined when I thought of Peter’s warmth.

That night, I made an onion tart and roasted vegetables. Peter had indicated that all of the heavy meals were “going to be the death of him,” so something lighter was in order. After dinner and the dishes were washed, Peter led me into his den and we laid in his favorite napping spot on his giant sofa and snuggled as a movie neither of us cared about played. Within minutes, Peter’s favorite place to nap became one of his favorite places to do other things.

Eventually, we managed to make our way upstairs to his bedroom for the night.

The following three days were essentially the same, though the places we visited in the city changed. In the mornings, we’d have sex, shower, I would make breakfast, and we would eat. Then we would go on an adventure until lunch. We would return to Peter’s home so that I could cook for us. After lunch—and possibly more sex—we were off on an afternoon adventure until dinner started to beckon us. The evenings were spent wrapped in each other’s arms, talking about our lives, telling funny stories, teasing each other, and more sex. The nights were Peter’s head on my chest, my chin tucked into his hair, and our arms around each other as we drifted off to sleep in his giant bed.

Every day was the same song, whose melody never grew bothersome.

Golden sunlight, the kind that only the earliest morning hours can produce—right as the sun peeks over the horizon—was streaming through the open shutters when I awoke on Sunday. I had washed Peter’s bedding the night before, and the crisp sheets and fluffy comforter whispered against the flesh of my legs as I stretched and groaned happily. Though a week of my visit had passed, I tried to push that from my mind. Focusing on enjoying my limited time with Peter was all that mattered. Everything else could be dealt with as it came, including my return to Montreal and leaving Peter behind; returning to my lonely life.

Where a man I cared for deeply wasn’t perpetually waiting to be dragged off to bed. Or to have breakfast with each morning. Or lunch. Or dinner. Or to snuggle with and watch an innocuous television show or movie. No one to hold hands with as I walked down a busy city street, jubilant and excited simply to be alive.

Peter was down in the kitchen again when I ventured from the bed to search him out. I’d done nothing more than put on my boxer briefs before tiptoeing downstairs. Peter’s home was becoming as comfortable to me as my apartment. When he caught sight of me, he gave me an appreciative, leering assessment, hunger in his eyes, before shaking his head clear of thoughts. Playfully, he ordered me back upstairs for a “surprise.” Of course, I couldn’t deny Peter anything, so I stomped back upstairs, feigning frustration with him, though I knew he saw right through it.

Barely five minutes had passed, and I was lounging on the bed once more, when I heard Peter coming down the upstairs hallway towards his room. When I heard the sound of his footsteps, I sat up expectantly. I didn’t want him to see how eager I was to have him back in his bedroom with me, but I found that, with Peter, I didn’t care if he thought me overly eager. I’d done nothing in the last week to show him that I could be cool and calm when around him. There was no need to try and start so late into my visit.

“I made breakfast,” Peter said, “to have breakfast in bed. Kind of.”

I rose to my knees on the bed so I could clearly what lay upon the tray that Peter was carrying into his bedroom. The coffee carafe and two mugs were clearly visible, but the food—the most important part—was not.

“I’m not the greatest cook, as you know,” Peter said, making his way to the table by the windows, “but it’s all edible. Maybe even tasty.”

I chuckled at the sight of the plate of scrambled eggs, the pile of buttered toast, and the plate of sausages. Peter had not made a complicated or refined breakfast, but everything looked delicious. Sliding from my kneeling position on the bed to lay my feet on the floor, Peter smiled nervously over at me. I didn’t leave him in suspense for long as I crossed the room to him and wrapped my arms around him, my lips finding his immediately. Peter’s hands went to my hips as he leaned into the embrace.

“I wanted to have a Perfect Sunday,” Peter whispered against my mouth once our lips parted. “Like we had talked about? At that fountain?”

“Carré Saint-Louis,” I said quietly, staring into Peter’s eyes. “I remember.”

He smiled.

“We will have breakfast, talk about life and politics and everything that matters, and then we’ll be sweet?” I asked, punctuating each part of my sentence with a quick kiss on his lips.

“You might have to be not so sweet,” he whispered back, “if the breakfast sucks.”