HOUSE M.D. FIC: A Single Man (3/6)

[flywoman]

 


A guard opens the door for me at Sun National Bank, his eyes flicking to my cane and then politely away again. The teller greets me by name. I think hers is Sharon, or maybe Sheila. She leads me back to the safe deposit boxes.
Once she’s gone, I remove the documents one by one - titles and insurance policies, mostly - and stuff them into my backpack. A small ring box rattles in the bottom as I shift the papers. On impulse, I open it and slip the heavy gold band inside onto my finger.

The last item, hidden underneath everything else, is a Polaroid of Wilson. He’s lying naked on a chaise lounge, smiling, squinting against the sun. I close my eyes.

The air is warm. I’m stretched out beside Wilson’s pool, a damp towel pillowing my head. Wilson sprawls beside me, propped up on one elbow, drinking a beer. Julie is away for the weekend; things haven’t been going well between them, and although Wilson won’t admit it yet, I know that it’s the beginning of the end, again.

“So, explain Cuddy to me,” he smirks.

“What do you wanna know?” I’m disarmed, half-dozing, between the drowsy sunlight and the six-pack of Coronas we’ve polished off between us.

“I don’t know. You seem very… intimate, I guess. Do you two have a thing?”

“I think you’re mistaking wrath for romance.”

“Nooo… hostility is exactly how you exhibit romantic feelings. You’re like an eight-year-old who pulls a pretty girl’s pigtails on the playground and then runs away.”

“And does that make you the pretty girl in this scenario? Get over yourself.”

He just looks at me. “You haven’t slept with her, have you?”

“Yeah,” I say, surprising both of us.

His grin widens. “And?”

I shrug. “Once, when we were younger. I wouldn’t say that it meant nothing to me, but it meant a lot more to Cuddy.” I grab the beer dangling from his fingers and take a sip before handing it back. “It was a long time ago, in Michigan.”

Wilson is quiet for a minute. Then: “Why are you with me?”

I tense, straining to sit up. “What the hell?”

“I’m serious.” He leans back, draining the bottle. “You’ve been with women. Cuddy, Stacy…”

“You’re a fine one to talk.”

“I know,” he says. “I’ve never been with another man, though.” He looks at me sidelong, and doesn’t have to say that this, in a way, is the closest to sexual fidelity that I can claim from him.

I open my eyes, back in the stale, air-conditioned air of the bank vault. It’s suddenly hard to breathe. I slide the photo into my back pocket and notify the teller that my task is done.

Claiming my daily limit of cash at the ATM, I become aware that a little girl is staring at me from behind her mother’s waist at the next station. Blonde pigtails, impossibly limpid blue eyes. “Why do you look so sad?” she lisps.

“Oh, aren’t you adorable. I’m not sad, I’m complicated. Chicks dig that. One day you’ll understand.”

Mom gives me a suspicious look and hustles the little girl away.

I drop by the gun shop on my way home to pick up a box of bullets. The kid behind the counter comments on how old my piece is and tries to sell me on their two-for-one special. I keep my temper by thinking about how outraged Wilson would have been at being called my “little lady.”

As I’m leaving the liquor store with the requested fifth of gin, my head is down, negotiating the threshold along with cane, burden and door. I collide with a young man, Southern European, probably Iberian, and the bottle shatters, spilling its contents across the pack of cigarettes that has fallen from his fingers. We nearly bump heads trying to retrieve our respective possessions, but it’s too late. He’s noticed my cane, and he apologizes with a distinctive accent that I immediately place in central Spain, most likely Madrid.

“No, it’s my fault,” I say gruffly. “I’ll get you another pack.”

When we re-emerge, he offers me a cigarette from his new supply. “No thanks,” I say. Then his eyes catch hold of me: a warm, rich brown, below heavy eyebrows, so reminiscent of Wilson’s that there’s a sudden twinge in my chest. I swallow. “Actually, yes,” I amend. “Why not. Thanks.”

He’s wearing a wifebeater and tight jeans that hug the hard curve of his ass. His face looms in front of me as he leans in with his lighter. He inhales, pauses. Smoke wafts sensually from between his full lips. I imitate him, and the first rush of nicotine sends me into a dizzying sugar high - the best thing about not being a habitual smoker.

“Carlos.”

I blink, bewildered. “What did you say?”

“Carlos. You asked me my name. Are you okay?”

“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, sorry.” And then, because I’m feeling generous, and I’ll never see him again, I add, “Tienes algo especial. Una cara increíble. Disfruta, es un regalo.”

“Tu español es perfecto,” he responds, also using the intimate tú form despite our recent acquaintance and the difference in our ages.

“Gracias. Debia usarlo más.”

“Bueno. Nunca es tarde.” Is it just my imagination, or does he mean more than he says? I don’t want to take the chance. I drop the cigarette and stub it out with the tip of my cane, then press a $100 bill into his hand before turning and limping away.

Carlos follows me to my car. Before I catch on to what’s happening, he’s walked around to the passenger’s side and is reaching for the door handle. “What are you doing?” I demand sharply.

He pauses, puzzled. “Aren’t we going somewhere?”

I shake my head. “No. But thanks.”

He follows my embarrassed gaze to the sky, where a glorious sunset is unfolding in swathes of scarlet and gold. “Sabes, es la contaminación que hace esos colores.”

“I’ve never seen a sky like this before,” I murmur.

He gives me a grave look. “A veces las cosas mas horrorosas tienen su propia encanto.”

This sentiment is so closely aligned with my own thoughts that I decide to linger in his company just a little longer. “Could I have another cigarette?”

“Sure,” he says, looking relieved.

We lean companionably against the rear of the car and smoke silently for a few seconds. Inevitably he asks, “Are you sure you don’t wanna go for a drive?”

I smile sadly. “I’m sure.”

“No one has ever picked me up and not wanted something,” he says.

“I think you picked me up,” I point out. After a pause, I add, as a sort of apology, “This is kind of a serious day for me.”

“Come on,” he says. “What could be so serious for a guy like you?” I’m a little disappointed, thinking that all he sees is the snazzy red sports car, the expensive sneakers, the iPod protruding from my pocket. Then I’m disappointed by my disappointment.

“Oh,” I say lightly, “I’m… just trying to get over an old love, I guess.”

He smiles, suddenly on surer footing. “Well, my mother used to say that lovers are like buses. You just have to wait a little while, and another one comes along.”

The silence stretches meaningfully for a minute before I stub out my cigarette. “Gotta go.”

“Soy buen tipo,” he calls after me as I open the driver’s door. “Pienso que lo que necesites es alguien que te quiere de verdad.”

“Thanks,” I say gruffly. “But I’m going away.”

Back at home, standing in the dim corner of the living room. I pick up an LP, turning it over in my hands.

Tito Beltran’s “Nessun Dorma” swells, then fades. “It’s your turn to change it,” I say without looking up from my book.

“Yeah, I’m not changing it, it’s your turn,” Wilson grunts from his side of the sofa. “Besides, you never like what I put on, anyway.”

“That’s only because if you had your way, we’d be listening to Liza Minnelli every night.” Silence. “I’ll give you $20 if you change it. I’m too old to get up.”

“You’re only old when it’s convenient for you to be old,” Wilson complains, but we both know that that was just shorthand for my leg hurts, and that eventually he will indeed get up and change the record. “What are you reading, anyway?”

I hold up The Metamorphosis, and Wilson rolls his eyes. “Oh god, not that depressing crap again.” He fails to follow this with his usual psychobabble about how much I must identify with Gregor Samsa, waking to find himself disfigured, the object of everyone’s pity and incomprehension. This omission inspires gratitude and therefore irritation.

“And what highbrow work of fiction might you be reading?”

“That smugness of yours really is an attractive quality.” He’s halfway through Breakfast at Tiffany’s, yet one more indication for anyone who’s looking that Wilson may not be the straightest cue stick on the rack.

Hector emits a sudden snore, and Wilson looks fondly down at him. “Don’t you envy the life he has?”

“Why, ‘cause he can sniff anyone’s ass he wants?”

“Ni-i-ice. No. Because he does what he wants. In fact, he’s basically a very sophisticated parasite that’s figured out how to get us to do whatever he wants.”

I look at him over the rims of my reading glasses. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

He just smirks at me. “Well,” I say, “the dumbest creatures are always the happiest. Just look at your mother.”

“House,” he says more seriously, “wouldn’t it be nice if we could just live in the moment like he does? For instance, what could be better than being tucked up here with you?” He gives me a rare, soft smile. “I mean, if I died right now, it’d be okay.”

My skin prickles in a sudden flash of irrational panic. “Well, it wouldn’t be okay with me,” I say roughly. “So why don’t you shut the fuck up and go change the record?”

We glare at each other for a minute, than relax into shared, slightly sheepish half-smiles. “Good answer,” he says.

He goes back to his book, turns the page, then glances up again. “Oh, I was thinking of taking him up with me next week if that’s okay with you. It’s my mom, she loves him.” And then, deadpan: “Probably in recognition of a similar mind.”

Rewarded with a reluctant chuckle, Wilson gets up to change the record, motioning for me to stay put. “No, you stay there, old man,” he teases, and then bends swiftly to kiss me on the forehead.

Read Chapter 4