Neal Pollack

I was doing my best to move toward Matt through the crowd without spilling my drink or touching anyone. The lights went down. Nothing to do but stand still and hope for a short set. The entire room grew silent as the thick darkness settled over us and our pupils expanded into black holes devouring light. Eduardo took the stage like a newborn deity. Strobes flashed and he stood bathed in purple footlights. He had surgeon’s hands, long, tapering fingers that curved around the microphone. The guitar strapped to his back like a warrior’s sword. Looking at his face, I remember Matt saying, “He’'s half-Brazilian. Exotic.” For once, Matt had not overstated. Eduardo. Juxtaposed, I see Matt’s simplicity like a cashmere cotton blend that you thought worked when you bought it off the rack, but didn'’t wear well after all. A knobby knit peeled off and discarded at my feet.

Eduardo leaned into the mic. “September is dead and the October bacchanalia is upon us. Feel this one in your blood.”

I did. I felt an unused chamber surge and flash brilliant, a spectra behind my left eye. The blue-white burn of startling truth seared me. I longed to bite down.

I didn'’t move through the entire set. Matt introduced us when the next band went on. Eduardo wasn'’t like Matt had described. He’d been worshipped in a previous life. I knew right away, Matt had no idea what he’d discovered. Eduardo, idealistic and lordly at the same time—his words were a dizzy aphrodisiac tingling the arch of my foot and waking my bellybutton to connect a new cord, to rebirth.

“Do you dream, Eduardo?” I said. His name cream-coated my tongue and I anticipated the swallow.

“Sonhos. I live by them.”

I’'ve found an equal, I thought. Nothing is going to separate me from him. “He’'s one of us,” said a jeweled whisper.

I watched him stroke Matt’s face, but when the boy leaned in with lips close to his ear, Eduardo’s eyes found me. Unspoken agreement. We knew, as easily as one tiger recognizes another. It’s not the first time a blood sacrifice was made in his honor. I’m sure the scent of such allegiance was as familiar to him as it was to me. We are not like other people, we’re an unknown matter born of divine illumination and escaped velocity. Matt’s presence is a sudden impurity on my new found love. Eduardo and I are capable of heights Matt cannot conceive. Like a fingerprint on fine crystal, everything filthy may be polished away.

*

Death is beautiful and it need not be difficult. After the first night with Eduardo, I dreamed the whole production in great bruised sky colors. For Matt, I thought, it should come softly, a fragile sigh in his sleep.

I’m a devil for details. Matt’s departure from my life needed to be as tendered in hypocrisy as his entrance. I planned to wear a new pair of dark adobe leather pants that night. So it had to be clean. Clean and quiet. Easy enough, I thought, to get him drunk and go about the X method. Drugs and suffocation. Good night, sweet queen. I took my time shopping and found the perfect poison. HPNOTIQ liquor, product of France. It was Smurf-blue and bottled as to confuse the consumer whether it was bath gel or liquor. I bought two bottles.

We met at the Pepper Lounge. I used to blow the bartender and now he lets me bring in special bottles of choice. Matt proceeded to get drunk while we discussed everything from Johnny Depp to Mandarin collars; we never were at a loss for words with each other. Sleeping pills go down as easy as speed.

“Matthew, Eduardo’s incredible.”

“This is so different than I thought it would be.”

“Really, I kind of always figured we’d be here, sooner or later.”

Matt, the pathetic little peasant that he was, ate it all up. I thought for a second he was going to offer me a goodbye fuck in return for my tenderness. But then he started to feel the blue liquid settle in and I helped him to the bathroom. “Look, let’s get you cleaned up. Want to come back to my place?”

“Oh yeah. Okay. I’m so sorry. I feel like shit. I just need a shower and some coffee.”

“It’s early yet, we have plenty of time.”

“Stephen, I’m so happy.”

“Me too, mon ami, me too.”

He passed out on my bed. I lay down close, propped myself on an elbow, and studied his profile. “They all look like angels when they sleep.” I pulled on my kitchen gloves and couldn'’t resist one last goodbye. I bit down hard on his bottom lip before slipping the plastic bag over his head, secured it around his neck, and poured a subtle Bordeaux. Never underestimate how the right wine enhances an experience. His slow breathing against the bag crackled like dry kindling. “Burn. Escape and burn, little soul. You are no longer inseparable from skin.”