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He fucking hated New York in the rain. It was more depressing and unsound than it already was. And that said quite enough.
It wasn’t just the rain, of course. It was because Harold would cancel plans with him, because the man did not want to be caught in the rain. It was because no shopkeeper in his right mind would let the fruits and vegetables in stalls outside their little store, which is where Micheal usually got his food from. It was because Donald was too anxious to ever drive into the city when it rained. He got icky from the city; add rain and darkness, and he suddenly was hundreds of miles away from where he was supposed to be.
But what made the rain the most shit, was that it drew out most of the guilt and the hate he carried, usually so well protected inside his chest, now spilled out, ugly and deformed, right on the carpet.
And when thunder came, he fought not to throw himself out of the house, circling to find the tallest building of the city, and stand right on it, yelling to whatever God that hated him so much, to finally strike him down and be done with it.
Oh, how he wanted to be done with it.
“Sorry, Micheal. You know how I get.”
“Yeah. No worries, Don.”
“I really am sorry.”
“I know, kiddo.”
“Next week?”
“That is; if the weather stays nice.”
Micheal had hung up. He hated Donald today.
He had his hands wrapped around a glass of vodka, nourishing it like his life depended on it. Pathetically, that was the truth. His life did depend on a sad glass of throat burning toxins. If he couldn’t have it, God only knows if he’d ever even gotten this far.
The phone rung. He let it go. Even after the ringing stopped, he could hear it’s shrill ring going on in his mind. It was probably Harold, canceling on him again. He was getting rather used to that happening. The rain was just another excuse not to come.
“Pussycat,” he’d say, “I really refuse to get my hair wet after hours of careful maintenance. I simply love myself too much.”
They’d both know that that was a lie, and even though Micheal knew, he envied Harold for his balls to bring up the idea of self love in the first place. It was another jab at him, really. Everything Harold said was a goddamn jab at him.
The rain only got worse as the hours dragged on.
He could go out, maybe, but he’d have to get properly drunk before even thinking about bringing another man home, and he refused to go with someone to theirs. To compromise meant a back alley, but Micheal didn’t care about getting wet any other way than he normally would in that situation.
He closed his eyes. Down went the drink. Another streak lost. Well, who cared. It’s not like analysts really cared about queers. They just paid a lot. That’s all he was after. That’s all anyone ever was. Hence the stealing.
“Oh, stop lying to yourself,” he sneered to his reflection in the rain framing window. He turned away from himself, from the rain, from the city.
He didn’t steal for the principle. He didn’t care about sides or money or what other people thought of money. He just stole. Simple as that. How quick he was to jump at self-comforting facts, just so he could feel a little better about his empty life.
Harold saw right through it. He wondered if others did too, but simply were too polite to tell him. No, not polite. No one he knew or would ever be friends with was polite. They just couldn’t give two shits about him to confront his bullshit.
Only Harold took the time. But that was their game, wasn’t it?
Yet… there was Donald. If he could count that for a friend. Donald was polite. Instead of jabbing and cutting, slicing through Micheal’s lies, he simply opened his arms for him, inviting him to be open with himself as well. That was his way of cutting Micheal’s bullshit in half; by cutting Micheal off from his source of fuel completely, and fighting it off with warmth.
Good thing that weather was so shit, then. He couldn’t take Donald’s offers. They were too much- and not for people like them. So why try?
The phone rang again. Micheal took a deep breath and picked up.
“What?”
“Darlin’, I was going to call to say I wouldn’t come over. But I’m sure you knew, or you would’ve called by now.”
Micheal looked at his reflection again.
“Hitting the nail on the head again, Harry,” he used the nickname with spite, yet the underlying implications made it so neither of them ever commented on it. It just existed. Purposeless. Empty. Hopeful.
“Aren’t I always? So how are you enjoying your day?” An inhale came from the other side of the line. Micheal would kill for emotion killing drugs right now. But he couldn’t afford it.
“Just snappy, thank you. You?”
“Oh, you know,” exhale. “Bored, as always. You sound annoyed. Need to talk about it?”
Micheal huffed. “Please. I pay someone to talk with. And I can’t imagine how high your demands would be, so you can afford those drugs you inhale like oxygen.” He sneered the words. Good. Let them cut.
No exhale, but simply a bored sigh came. “I can just hear how snappy your day was. How fun for you. Unfortunately you’ll have to sit this storm out alone, since I am too expensive to talk with. Call me, Micheal.”
With that, Harold was gone. Driven off. Away. Out. Sooner or later Harold would walk out on Micheal’s life forever. Rather sooner, that was the wish. Then Micheal could just get on with it.
He put the phone back in it’s place, poured another glass and downed it.
Sitting down by the piano, placing his hands on the keys, he looked up, catching himself in the reflection again. He kept looking. At his jaw, his lips, his ears, the way his nose crooked, his eyebrows, his cheeks, his chin, his neck. How old he was getting. How exhausted his body looked. He looked at everything. Everything but the eyes. Anything, but the eyes.
He tried to find what he was looking for, until he became too tired to look any longer. He went to bed, not a note played, not a thing done.
All he had created today, was a world in which he created storms and rains and thunder, all to blow away islands that were all too interested in staying. But Micheal knew that one day the rains and storms would drown the stubborn islands under the surface. When that happened, maybe Micheal would finally be able to do what he wanted so badly. He just had to wait.