Everyday People by Stewart O'Nan

Author:Stewart O'Nan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
Published: 2001-10-04T04:00:00+00:00

CRY ME A RIVER

HE CALLED ANDRE from somewhere over South Dakota, fuzzy, saying he’d be in around midnight and there was champagne in the liquor cabinet.

“Don’t put it in the freezer,” Michel said, as if they’d never done this before.

He wanted to say no, he needed his sleep, but the machine was across the room.

“And if you could, on your way over pick up some milk for breakfast. I’m sure mine’s cottage cheese by now.”

“I’m not staying for breakfast,” Andre said into the article he was reading.

“See you soon,” Michel said, and the line cut off. The machine clicked and rewound until the green light flickered.

Andre slowly got up and walked over in his slippers, the Advocate hanging open in one hand. He stood there with his finger on the button, frozen, as if trying to decide.

He’d told Harold he wasn’t seeing Michel anymore. It wasn’t a lie; he was off in the Pacific, pulling three full months of Bangkok, Hong Kong and Tokyo. The flights were long, and the time difference was tough to get used to, so they kept the crews together, then gave them two weeks off to decompress. When they were living together, Michel always came home exhausted, happy to see him, even when they were having a bad time. For a night, a day, a week, everything was forgiven, but then a backhanded remark, a chipped dish, an overdue bill, and they fought like dogs, each of them lunging for the other’s weakness, digging their teeth in. Andre wanted to say he’d finally left, sick of his constant criticism, but Michel never gave him the choice, shouting and pitching his things down the stairs in the middle of the night in just his underwear, like some overdone Tennessee Williams thing.

It had been nearly a year now, and they’d made up, seen each other around. Twice, late spring nights in Shadyside, Andre had ended up in his bed—not drunk, just sweetly buzzed on Campari—and things had been good. Michel knew how to love him, where and how much and when to be still. It seemed to both of them a mistake that they’d broken up. How did it happen, they asked; we’re so good together. Then Michel had to do his Pacific route. He promised to call, though Andre said he’d rather have a letter. Of course he hadn’t heard from him until now, when he wanted Andre.

Like takeout, he thought. It’s late and he’s hungry and there’s nothing open, just me.

He did miss him, he couldn’t deny it. Harold asked about him all the time, suspicious. Have you talked to him lately? Gotten any interesting mail? It was so typical, that hypocritical straight-guy possessiveness; secretly for a while Andre kind of liked it, but finally it wasn’t romantic, just another hassle.

Michel called Harold Mrs. Jones, after the Billy Paul song. He’d sing it every time he mentioned him—“We got a thinnnnnnnng goin o-on.” As usual, he thought Andre was being foolish, leading with his heart. “Or maybe it isn’t your heart?” he insinuated, and Andre told him to fuck off.

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