That gnawing, empty feeling scraped the bottom of Paul’s stomach. The sound of suitcases being dragged out of the closet punctured the silence inside his head. The last drop of saliva evaporated inside Paul’s mouth, leaving it sand-dry. And for the twelfth time in two hours, he ran to the toilet with dry heaves, only to relieve himself yet again – this time, how could the bladder be anything but completely empty?
Paul heard the rubber wheels of the suitcase roll over the grout lines of the living room’s tile. He looked across the apartment. Jonathan stood there, his face an icy mask dripping in hostility.
“Where will you go?” Paul asked.
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” Jonathan replied, his voice as flat as the glassy reflection of his eyes. “Just as long as I’m as far away from you as I can possibly be.”
“I told you I was sorry. What more would you like?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing more that I want from you, ever. I’ll send Jean-Louis over to get the rest of my things. You’d better not sell anything.”
“Please don’t go,” Paul said. “I depend on you. This apartment is a black hole without you in it.”
“You might’ve thought about that before you slept with Noah. The first time, the second time, the hundredth time,” Jonathan said. “And now I have to deal with HIV because of you.”
“I’m sorry, sweet –“
“Never call me sweetheart or anything again. Just disappear from my life. For good,” Jonathan said, and turned away from Paul and left the apartment.
Gone, and dead silence from every corner of the apartment. Paul put his head in his hands and wept until he tasted the salty cream of the tears through his nose. He knew Jonathan would come back, how could he not? And then Paul looked down at his pants, where he’d had an accident. And never knew it.
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