Uttley leans forward on his elbows, beads Manning with a stare, and lowers his voice. “If she’s ever worked in the Midwest, I probably know her.”
“When I’m ready to get the investigation rolling, can I enlist your help?”
Uttley leans closer. “My hard-earned background deserves compensation.”
Manning leans back easily in his chair. He doesn’t bother to hush his words. This is business. “I can’t authorize that, but my editor can. I’ll speak to him. This could be an important story, and we need a source.” Manning closes his notebook.
“He wanted
money
?” asks Neil that evening, seated at the center island of the kitchen. He and Manning have arrived home within minutes of each other.
“Most informants do,” says Manning, pouring vodka over ice. “The difference is, most aren’t so brazen.”
“Why did you tell him the impostor is a woman?”
“Uttley’s weird. Something told me not to tip him that I suspect Zarnik. It’s a detail he doesn’t need to know yet. Even though I no longer suspect him of Cliff Nolan’s murder, I haven’t ruled out the possibility that Uttley could be involved in the Zarnik ruse. He’s demonstrated a conspicuous self-interest in Zarnik’s discovery, fake or genuine, by running those ads.”
“Tantalizing idea,” says Neil. “But frankly, I don’t think Victor’s that clever.”
Manning laughs. “Neither do I.” Garnishing the two glasses with orange peel, he hands one to Neil.
Rising for a toast, Neil tells him, “Welcome home, Mr. Manning. It’s been a long thirty-six hours—and yes, I counted every one of them.”
Before drinking, they take a moment for a leisurely kiss. Their embrace is made clumsy by the cocktails in their hands, but it’s good to be back in each other’s arms, and neither one flinches at the few drops of alcohol spattered down their backs.
Holding tight, Manning is secure in the innocence of his attraction to David—it could never possibly threaten his bond with Neil. Their identity as a couple is rooted far below the fertile topsoil of sex, deep in the spiritual substrata where their intellects, their shared past, and their planned future are nurtured. By any reasonable measure of commitment, they are “married.” And yet, Manning knows that he cannot simply dismiss last night’s transgression as an inconsequential slip. The marriage—Manning’s
sense
of their marriage—has been damaged. It’s up to me, Manning tells himself, to focus and to fix it. And Neil doesn’t even have a clue.
“What’s wrong?” says Neil, sensing an unexpected intensity, something almost desperate, in Manning’s hug.
Manning holds him at arm’s length. “I missed you. Being apart isn’t good for us.”
“I’ll drink to that.” And Neil does so.
Manning also drinks. “How’s everything shaping up for this weekend?”
Neil considers before responding. He strolls to the main space of the loft, toward the sofa that looks out through the windows. Manning follows. Neil sits, telling him, “Now that you ask, I realize that the whole project is finally winding down for me. Sure, the next couple of days will be hectic, but come Saturday, my committee days will be over. I look forward to getting my life back—getting
our
life back.”
“You have no idea how good that sounds,” says Manning as he sits next to Neil, close, thigh to thigh, wrapping an arm around him. “I’m sorry things have been so … uncertain lately. I haven’t had much time for ‘us.’”
“No need to apologize,” Neil assures him, dropping a hand between Manning’s legs to squeeze his inner thigh. “We’ve both been busy. That’s life.”
Manning’s been busy, all right. “I’ve got an idea,” he says. “It’s Wednesday, ‘date night.’ May I have the pleasure of your company at dinner, Mr. Waite? How about that trendy new bistro everyone’s yapping about—what’s it called?”
“Bistro Zaza. But we’d never get in.”
Manning won’t be deterred. “I’ll call the office and have someone in Features phone for us. Ten-to-one they’ll think we’re food critics. You watch: We’ll get the best table in the house, and they
won’t
keep us waiting at the bar. But”—Manning raises a cautionary finger—“we’ll come home for ‘dessert.’”
“A thoroughly intriguing proposition,” says Neil, sliding his hand from Manning’s thigh to the crotch of his chinos. “But I’ve always been sort of a pig about dessert. Let’s have it
now
—and I’m not talkin’ tiramisu.”
Yow. “Should I call the office first?”
“Later, big boy.” In one deft move, Neil has set their drinks on the coffee table, knelt on the floor, and unbuckled Manning’s belt.
Manning laughs, getting into the spirit of Neil’s spontaneous foreplay, when the phone rings. “I don’t believe it,” he says. “Not again.”
Neil looks up with a good-natured frown, wondering aloud, “Is nothing sacred?” They stare at each other through another ring or two. Then Neil says, “It might be important.”
“That’s what has me worried.” But Manning can’t let it ring. There’s a phone on the console table behind the sofa—he lifts the receiver. “Yes?”
“Hello, Mark? It’s Roxanne.” By the sound of all the background noise, she must be calling from the convertible.
“Hi, Roxanne. What’s up?”
Neil, hearing this, gets playful again, unzipping Manning’s pants.
Roxanne asks, “What’s up, yourself?” Her manner is breezy, almost giddy. “You sound … funny.”
Dryly, Manning tells her, “Let’s just say you caught me at an awkward time.”
“Oh.” She is momentarily subdued. Then she hollers,
“Hello, Neil!”
“Hi, Rox,”
he shouts back, giving up on the project at hand.
Manning asks them both, “Shall I pass the phone?”
“No,” says Roxanne through a laugh, “I was calling
you,
Mark. About Carl.”
“How … is he?” asks Manning.
“Never better. In fact, he’s right here. We’re driving home. We’d like to take you two to dinner tomorrow night—it was his idea.”
Manning chooses his words carefully, thinking that Carl may be able to hear their conversation over the car’s speaker phone. “Is everything all right regarding yesterday’s meeting? You’re sounding rather lighthearted this evening.”
“Couldn’t be better. I was
way
off base, Mark. We can’t wait to tell you the news.”
“I’m listening,” Manning reminds her. “So tell me.”
“Unh-unh. Too important. Only at dinner.”
Manning covers the mouthpiece to ask Neil, “Dinner tomorrow okay? I need to have a talk with Carl anyway.” Neil nods. Manning says into the phone, “Fine, Roxanne. Where and when?”
“We were thinking, there’s this marvelous little bistro we haven’t tried. …”
“Zaza’s,” says Manning, “but you’ll never get in.”
“Nonsense,” she snorts. “The office can reserve for us—plenty of pull. How’s eight o’clock?”
“Sounds great. We’ll be there.”
“With bells on. ’Bye, kids.” And she’s gone.
Neil gets up from the floor and perches next to Manning, retrieving their drinks from the coffee table. “What was that all about?”
Manning zips his pants, takes his glass from Neil. “We’re double-dating at Zaza’s. Roxanne and Carl can’t wait to tell us ‘the news.’”
Neil nearly chokes, spitting an ice cube back into his glass. “
What
? Did she mention the
m
-word?”
“No”—Manning sips—“but she was ditzy as a schoolgirl.”
Neil flumps back into the sofa. “It just can’t be—Roxanne married?” He blinks. “Besides, I thought Carl skulked off to a meeting with the Christian Family Crusade. How would
that
lead to
this
?”
Manning swirls his ice. “Maybe they gave him a sermon on family values.”
“Smart-ass.” Neil leans forward, sets down his glass, and starts to unbutton Manning’s shirt. “Gee,” he says wistfully, not watching what he’s doing, “do you suppose they want us to stand up for them?”
“I doubt it.” Manning sets down his drink, watching Neil’s fingers work their way down his chest. “They probably want us for ring boy and flower girl.”
“If they do,” says Neil, pulling Manning’s shirttail free of his pants, “I get dibs on the ring.”
“Like hell you do.” Manning lunges at Neil, and they roll from the sofa to the floor, Neil on top. If they were really wrestling, Manning could doubtless pin Neil, but he doesn’t even try, submitting to Neil’s mastery, arms outstretched in defeat.
On his knees, Neil straddles Manning’s hips and fully parts the shirt, baring Manning’s chest, which heaves from the exertion of their brief struggle. Neil leans forward to kiss Manning’s chin, then trails his tongue down Manning’s neck to his chest, where Neil notices the nipples, hardened like purple pebbles. He sucks one of them into his mouth, clamping it with his teeth. Manning gasps, but doesn’t move, eyes closed to heighten a fantasy. Then Neil bolts upright, back on his knees.
“Hey,” he says, “I forgot. Did you ever get a look at David with his clothes off?”
Manning’s eyes are open now, and his panting stops abruptly. “Yeah,” he answers. “As a matter of fact, I did.”
“Well …?” says Neil, eager for details. “Is he really built?”
“Yes, he is,” Manning answers dryly, tempted but not daring to give a few more details. Overcoming a momentary pang of guilt, he nudges the memory of Door County from his head, telling Neil, “I thought you were ready for ‘dessert.’”
Neil pauses, grins. “I’ll get the whipped cream.”
T
HE POWDERY SURFACE
of planet Zarnik retreats behind the sprint-paced beat of Manning’s shoes. Clouds of unknown gases whorl overhead, pink beneath the cold and distant sun. As Manning speeds toward the curved horizon, the clouds’ hue grows ruddy, then bloody, then black, invisible against the night sky. Naked except for his white leather running shoes, Manning trundles onward blind, spinning the globe under his feet in the darkness. His erect penis slices a path through the thin, pristine atmosphere, creating a wake of inertia that fans out behind him. Just as the sky begins to glow with yet another morning, Zarnik’s tiny yellow moon, Eros—the wad of nylon once launched by Manning himself—rises, darts through the clouds, and sets behind him.
Glancing down, Manning notices that he runs along a path of footprints in the dust. With surreal clarity, he sees that the prints are in fact those of his own shoes—he has circled the miniature planet countless times, never veering from the equator he has traced around its featureless terrain. With the discovery that his run has been futile as well as infinite, Manning feels his body drain of the energy that has propelled him. His penis sags. His pace slows. His feet tread heavily across the chalky sands, churning cumulous puffs of grit that trail from his shoes like dwarfed thunderheads of roiling talc.
Can he stray from the trail that his shoes have imprinted on this faraway world? Or is he forced—by the intangible but powerful momentum of repetition—to run faithfully, exclusively, forever in this rut of his own making? He can’t even remember how long it has been since he first trod this path that now seems so restrictive. Has it been an eternity, or merely a moment? Or something in between, about two years?
He knows, however, that the trail itself, while straight and narrow, is not an active force. It emits no magnetic field, no insidious cosmic rays that he is powerless to resist. Rather, he has grown so accustomed to his perpetual path that he fears his own ability to swerve from it. He left a former life billions of miles behind, but he’s forged a new routine out here in the wilds of the universe, running a familiar path that offers all the comforts of home. Why would he even flirt with the temptation to sidle into unknown territory?
Because he’s human, of course. He’s a man, with all his instincts intact—passion, curiosity, and a deep-rooted drive to fight confinement and convention. Dare he try, just once? Dare he even think of it?
The thought of transgression, while frightening, excites him. His hard-again penis pulls him like a leash, tugging him to the edge of the path, toward unexplored desert, challenging him to soil those immaculate white shoes. His sluggish pace halts. He stands at the brink, mulling an option he has never before considered. He knows, though, that a decision has already been made for him, as if fated. Both the mental enticement and the physical pull are so strong that he has no will to resist them.
So he sets one foot across the line. The other follows. He stands in the hinterland, within stepping distance of his equatorial path, under the rosy haze of Zarnikal noon. Newly energized, Manning sets off at a run, at first alongside the rut in the sand, but gradually skewing farther and farther from it, till it disappears beyond the horizon. Wispy tendrils droop from the clouds to slip past Manning’s limbs and tease him to higher euphoria.
Winded from his run, aroused to the point of pain, Manning slows his pace and stops. He lies on the ground, face to the sky, his body encircled by a pinpoint beam from the daystar sun. Closing his eyes, he reaches to his groin and coddles his genitals with both hands. Flopping his knees wider, he digs the heels of his shoes into the sand, piercing the planet’s surface. He strokes himself at a comfortable rate, not ready for an orgasm, prolonging his stay at this erotic plateau, riding it out. The sun glows red through the veins of his eyelids.
But then his vision blackens. Something has passed over him, perhaps the shadow of Zarnik’s nylon moon. Or perhaps it is
someone,
a visitor who has come to share his launch to ecstasy—Neil or David. Or
both.
They both arrived here once before to goad and witness his climax. He hopes they have returned, the best of both worlds. Manning resists the temptation to open his eyes, preferring to revel in the possibilities, exhilarated by the uncertainty, like a kid waiting to open a present. He breathes more deeply now, inhaling the heady atmosphere in uneven jerks.
Manning gasps, once, when he feels another man’s testicles lowered onto his forehead, dragging to his chin. He gropes in the sand around him, feeling for the other man’s feet, which he locates on each side of his chest. With eyes still closed, he fingers the visitor’s shoes, and he can tell, he
knows,
that they are white leather, identical to his own. He feels the edge of the treaded soles, the crossweave of the laces, a few inches of socks, and the fuzz of hair sprouting from the shins. Manning moans, lifting his head to nuzzle the other man’s groin. Then the visitor shifts his weight and bends over Manning, lips to cock.