It's as if my nervous system packed up and left, right there and then.
Abandoned by my sense, left with this throbbing callus that no longer provides any force beneath.
Formed through the decades of distractions, of fights, of fucking.
Through the decades of wanting, just one person, to say my name more than once.
"Seazon… this, isn't the first time I've been your client. We've done this before."
His knees give way, drifting me to the floor, landing at his side, my legs tangling below my ass.
"Hold on, scoot here."
He says, his hands firm to my legs, shifting them into a position more comfortable for me.
"Is that any better?"
A bubble of snot dislodges from his nose, while wearing the expression of this broken, pathetic guy.
Did he always look so much— like me?
Is that why I've become so fixated on him?
I'm even noticing things about him that I bet he doesn't see himself. Like That shimmer in his eyes. The one i see within them again.
"Lucas… Talk."
My voice crackles from the tears, the ones I fought not to cry.
He pulls his knees up to his chest, his ripped jeans tearing even more in the process.
"When I moved out of my place— your place— my old apartment. I didn't completely quit my job… not immediately."
What is he saying? Does he mean was still selling his body for cash, even when it wasn't necessary? Why—
"It's stupid I know. Over a decade of it, you'd think I'd be bored of the constant breeze on my skin, but, it wasn't so linear. In a way, I felt like leaving it behind would be like leaving my mum behind.
That job was what helped us get by. That job paid for the bills, the rent, the food, the flowers… if I quit, that was it.
Leaving it in the past meant leaving that life behind. The life where my mum still lived. Or perhaps it was just a cheap distraction for me. An easy way out, because finality hurt, too much to accept.
So i did it. I kept on going.
I overstayed my welcome. And it made me feel… nothing. You see, the job really had no purpose now. I think I hoped it would be a comfort, but reality was too cruel to allow that, so I just felt like— nothing, and nothing mattered."
He pulls his knees up further, squeezing them so tight I can see his knees turning purple. The cut in his jeans, it's beginning to dig into his skin.
I suck in the dribble that ran from my nose and tap his shoulder.
"I promise I'm listening but can I—"
I shuffle my hand, climbing it up towards the hole where his knee pokes through, pinching the fabric, allowing it some breathing room.
"There." I breathe.
He's not facing me but his eyes, I can see them glaring to my side.
Sneaky bastard.
I set my poker face to extreme, torn between:
'what the fuck am I hearing?!'
-
'Why is he wearing ripped jeans as a 30 something year old guy?!'
And—
"I want to know more."
-
"I guess… I'd always been the caretaker. I just wanted someone to take care of me for once.
So that's why I did it.
"Why I booked someone.
Why I decided to be a client."
A client? He paid someone to… fuck?
"I didn't realise, not until the match came through, that the client would turn out to be you, Seazon."
"4 years ago I was sent back to my old apartment.
4 years ago you spread yourself on the bed for me, the bed in which I used to sleep. The bed in which I used to share.
4 years ago, me and you— we connected, but not through sex, just by talking."
My chest twists, tightening, ache panning from one side to the next.
"I think… I think I remember now."
I think I know why I feel so stuck on you.
-
Lucas.