How We Fight for Our Lives by Saeed Jones

Author:Saeed Jones
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 2019-09-15T16:00:00+00:00

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THE BOTANIST HAD the potted trees installed throughout his apartment. Huge, waxy-leafed tropical trees were grouped in every corner of the living room, and in between were clusters of oddly placed statuettes. It was like he’d decided to re-create a statue garden inside his home. The kind of stone lion you might expect to see guarding the gate to a large mansion was instead sitting beside his coffee table. Christmas ornaments were hanging from his Tiffany lamps. It was almost beautiful, this space, just a few blocks down the hill from campus. I probably passed the apartment twice a week and never would have guessed there was a jungle in 2B.

Still, though, Cody couldn’t be interested in something as feminine as flora. I picked up a magazine that was leaning against the stone lion’s stomach. The Botanist never sat still for long, constantly finding statues to nudge one inch to the left and picture frames to adjust ever so slightly. It didn’t help, I’m sure, that Cody hadn’t said a word beyond his first name. The Botanist walked over to a set of glass decanters and fixed himself a drink. When he was walking back to the couch, he realized that he had forgotten to ask me if I would like one as well.

“Oh, I’m sorry. How rude of me. Would you like a cocktail?” he asked, his hip resting against the side of the couch while he looked down at me.

I hated the way he enunciated the word “cocktail” into an obvious joke, and the way he held his martini glass like we were in a penthouse apartment in New York City and not a jungle-themed two-bedroom walk-up in Bowling Green, Kentucky. Cody nodded without looking up from the magazine. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him struggle to interpret whether that meant whiskey neat or vodka cranberry. I leaned back on the couch, absentmindedly rested my hand on my dick, and watched as the Botanist poured me a Jack and Coke I didn’t actually want.

After he handed me my drink, he plopped down beside me on the couch and put his arm around my shoulder, like a high-school jock trying to be cool with his new girlfriend. Cody wasn’t into that kind of move, so I scooted away from him.

“So,” he said, picking up a conversation that had never really started, “you’re a student?”

“Yeah.”

He nodded, waiting for me to say more. I gave him nothing; the restraint and forced reticence were turning me on.

“Athlete?”

“Yeah.”

I decided to change pace, so I took a break from the magazine long enough to take a swig of the drink and noticeably appraise his body again with a cold look. I didn’t want him to think I was shy so much as looking to be persuaded. In order for me to get what I needed out of this night, he needed to want Cody more than Cody wanted him. That, I realized, was why I was sitting on this stranger’s couch.

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