R. Hernández - An Innocent Fashion

“Hey, where’s the bathroom?”

“That’s the line right there.”

My stomach made a full revolution inside me. I gazed at the floor and began to sway, my feet stumbling in front of me. “Excuse me,” I murmured at the floor. I pushed to the front of the line — some guy said, “Hey!” I knocked him out of the way and swung the door open. “Sorry,” I said, shouldering away somebody who was washing their hands. Seizing the mirror, I vomited all over the sink.

“COME ON,” DORIAN PRODDED.

I yawned, and swatted at him.

“Come on, you big baby, let’s go.”

“What’s happening?” I moaned.

“What’s happening is I’m trying to take off your shirt,” he said, in an exasperated tone that made it clear he had been trying to do this for quite some time. I opened my eyes; found myself faceup on the mattress in my apartment, with Dorian’s legs straddled on either side of me.

“Oh,” I said seriously, as it dawned on me: Dorian wanted to have sex. A bucket of cold water fell through my body. I was suddenly quite awake. “I—” I thought briefly of Madeline, but I tipped her over in my head like a vase off a ledge. “Well, all right,” I said, and decided not to ask any questions. I couldn’t remember how we’d gotten to that point — had we kissed already? Had we done anything else? I struggled to lift myself, and my head swayed around in a circle.

“Finally,” he said. His face was illuminated by my bedside lamp, while behind him the four-foot loft ceiling was pressed directly above his head.

His warm hands under my shirt incited a rushed floundering of my limbs.

“Just — hold still,” he said, as I tried to squirm from under the wet fabric.

“Do I look okay?” I asked, self-conscious.

“What?” He tilted his head. “You look fine. Who cares?”

“I just — are you sure you wouldn’t rather — I don’t know, take a shower before?”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, stop it—”

“What?”

“Do you think I’m trying to undress you?”

“Well, isn’t that what’s happening?”

“Yeah, but — not like that.” He laughed and rolled his eyes again. “You’re all wet,” he said, shaking a clean white shirt in my face. “I’m just trying to change your shirt.”

A mist of disappointment sizzled over me. I frowned. “Oh.” I slumped back on the mattress and limply crossed my hands over my wet chest.

He laughed outright again.

“Go ahead, laugh at me then,” I said. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Oh babe, don’t be like that — it’s okay — I just—”

“No, get off if you’re going to just laugh at me,” I said, pushing his thighs from around my body.

“I’m not laughing at you — I just — come on, let me change your shirt!” He tried to look serious, but now that he’d started laughing, he couldn’t stop. “Okay, fine, I’m not laughing, I’m not laughing. Sit up.”

“No.” I pouted.

“Sit up, you big baby,” he nudged. “You’re going to get sick tonight and then I’m going to have to do everything at work.”

“Don’t you want to sleep with me?” I moaned.

He laughed. “Well, yeah, and that’s exactly what I plan to do, sleep next to you, as soon as I get you out of this shirt, now come ooonnnnn , babe, I’m exhausted.”

I rolled my eyes and barked, “Go away,” and tried to tug my sheets from under his blokeish knees.

“All right, babe, seriously, I’m not laughing — you think I don’t know you? Remember that water-gun fight we had on the Davenport lawn? — you woke up in a puddle on Madeline’s floor and were sick for two weeks, now—”

“Yes, that was over a year ago, before you left us,” I retorted, and gave the blanket a yank.

“Come on, that has nothing to do with anything. Why would you bring that up now?”

“Why shouldn’t I? You never do,” I mumbled. “You just pretend like it never happened, like—”

A knock against the doorframe. “What’s going on?” came a familiar voice.

I turned my face to see Madeline standing on the loft ladder, blinking for the first time at my room. “Gosh, your apartment is small,” she said, and poked her golden head in.

“What are you—?” I began.

“Dorian said you were sick,” Madeline explained, and crawled inside. She smiled and reached into a plastic bag she had brought. “Here — I got you some Pellegrino, and some saltine crackers — and your favorite!” She held up a glass bottle of grape soda, and then swooped in. “Hi,” she said, and kissed Dorian hello. With a hand on his back, she knelt beside me, and ran her fingers through my damp hair.

I frowned, and escaped her touch with a grimace.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

“Don’t take it personally,” Dorian muttered. “He’s being. ”

I flipped over and dug my head into the pillow with a muffled shout. “Just — give me my blanket!”

Dorian lifted his knee and threw the blanket in a heap on my head. “Take the fucking blanket then. Fine. Do you want me to leave?”

“Stop it,” Madeline intervened. “That’s not necessary.” She wrapped her hands around his forearm and held him there in place.

I remained silent, and covered my head.

Dorian tore his arm away from Madeline’s grasp and gave me a prod. “I said , do you want me to leave?” he demanded.

A clicking sound, as Madeline opened her mouth to protest — then silence, and the hum of the fridge below us.

“No,” I said. “I never wanted you to leave.”

Dorian swallowed. “Get up and let me change your shirt, please.”

Shifting, I pushed the blankets away and sat up.

“Thank you,” he said, and started to unpeel me. As the shirt came up I covered my skinny chest with one arm, with an embarrassed glance at Madeline, who had calmly arranged the crackers and bottled drinks by the lamp and was now folding up the plastic bag beneath her arm.

I took a deep breath. Dorian’s breath smelled like champagne, mixed with gin and tonic. He took my wet shirt and draped it over the corner of the mattress, and I watched his muscles ripple as—

I sneezed.

“See?” He pointed. “I knew it. I knew you were going to get sick.”

I sneezed again. Madeline reached into her purse, and handed me a tissue.

“What did I tell you?” Dorian went on, “you always—”

I tossed the crumpled tissue in his obnoxious face. “Shut up.”

“Lift your arms.”

I felt the cool, clean cotton drift over me.

“There,” he sighed. “That only took twenty minutes.”

Madeline came around from behind me and kissed my neck, her perfume enveloping me. “My boys, my sweet boys,” she smiled. She wrapped her arm around my waist and felt for my hand, while her other hand extended to Dorian. “Just like it used to be.”

“That boy — the male model,” I said, rubbing my eye. “You didn’t really like him, did you?”

“Don’t listen to him,” Dorian explained to Madeline. “He’s just—”

“I know.” Taking her hands back, she tilted her head and removed the backing from her pearl earring.

“Don’t pretend you don’t remember,” I whined. “That model. The male model. His face was like — a square, a horrible, ugly square.” I looked at my hands on my lap as Dorian began to lay me down. “I mean, I guess it’s fine if you like that sort of thing, but—”

Cradling my head in his hand, he lowered me onto the pillow, his face suspended over mine like a chandelier. “Just get to bed, babe.”

I implored him one last time, “Are you sure you don’t want to at least kiss me? Because if you wanted to, I promise I—”