––––––––

“THAT’S COLD,” IZZY said to Zeke as he filled in ink on a client’s arm. “Kissing him, then telling him ‘no’? Cold, dude. I aspire to that level of arctic.”

“That’s not how it went down,” Zeke protested from his perch on the low bookshelf filled with various blown glass figures and paraphernalia.

“That’s exactly how it went down,” Izzy said, flashing his black eyes at Zeke as he refilled his ink. “You threw the boy a bone, then took it away.”

“I....” Zeke sighed. No matter how he phrased it, it sounded shitty. “Okay, yeah, I did. But what was I supposed to do?”

“Maybe not kiss him if you weren’t gonna do nothin’ about it?” The girl in the chair said, pursing her dark-lined lips and raising a perfectly shaped brow. “Watch the bleed, Izzy, you’re getting rose all over Mother Mary.”

“Bleed happens,” Izzy said soothingly. “It won’t stay, I’m coloring inside the lines.”

“You better be.”

“You wanna do this yourself?” Izzy asked, looking her dead in the eye. “Or maybe I should just send you to the juggalo’s kitchen table with all those suspicious needles and expired inks so your arm can blow up like Mariella’s?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, then sighed. “Go ahead, Izzy. Just don’t fuck it up, alright?”

“Hand to god, baby. You’ll get what you came for.” He bent over her arm again, his duckling-fuzz of platinum blond hair brushing her bare brown shoulder as he worked. Izzy was thin and wiry with big, black gages in his ears and a body covered in artwork. He had been Zeke’s foster brother in two different homes, and eventually they discovered that their useless parents lived within a mile of each other. These facts had forged a strong bond between them, one which had never been tested by sexual tension. Izzy was straight, and barely even that. His passion was art, and he saw bodies as blank canvasses first, potential for sex second. This kept him in a perpetual state of singleness, which he didn’t seem to mind. Zeke didn’t mind it, either. It kept Izzy’s mind clear to focus on Zeke’s frequent issues. He was also enough of an asshole to point out when Zeke’s problems were of his own design...like now.

“So you’ve got a hard-on for the rich kid,” Izzy said as he buffed his gun in little circles across the rose. “Which we all knew already. But you showed your hand when you weren’t ready to call, so now you’re trying to fold in the middle of a round.”

“This isn’t poker,” Zeke argued. “There is no middle of the round, there are no turns.”

“Everything is poker,” Izzy said, his voice thin and monotone as he concentrated on his work. “And you messed up. You took your turn twice without waiting to see if the rich kid was going to call or fold, which means you showed your hand twice, which puts you at a disadvantage.”

“How do you figure?”

“Well, now he knows that you want him. He also knows that you’re scared, and why you’re scared. Which means that if he doesn’t want you, all he has to do is play up those fears. Not a lot, just a tiny bit, and it’ll shut that door forever. On the other hand, if he does want you, he now knows exactly what to do to make you comfortable and get you wanting him back. So, yeah, you just put all the power in his hands. Better hope he does what you want him to do.”

“All I want him to do is move on,” Zeke said. His voice rang false in his ears, and he engaged in a furious battle of will and desire within himself. Izzy stopped tattooing and watched him struggle for a long moment.

“Uh-huh,” he said finally. “Sure, that’s all you want. Your pants are on fire.” He said it with such a straight face and in such a monotone voice that Zeke actually stopped for a moment to check his pants. The girl in the chair laughed at him, and he glared.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s just say for a second that I don’t want him to move on. Let’s say that I haven’t slept in days because that one stupid fucking kiss is keeping me up nights. Let’s just say that, hypothetically, for argument’s sake. What about it? What do I do then?”

“Nothing you can do,” Izzy said with a shrug. “You put it on the table, you took it off the table. You’re done. Whatever happens next is up to him.”

“That’s unacceptable,” Zeke said sourly.

Izzy gave him a bemused look. “It’s a fact,” he said. “Think about it. If you put it back on the table, how’s he going to react?”

“He’s going to leap into my arms and say take me, I’m yours,” Zeke said sarcastically.

“Exactly,” Izzy said. “He’s going to tell you to go fuck yourself. Now, what happens if you go and repeat yourself and tell him that no, no, really, it’s really really off the table?”

“He’s going to call me a damn liar,” Zeke sighed, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. “That’s some fuckery.”

“Fuckery of your own making, my man,” Izzy said. He swiped at the tattoo with a wipe, tilted his head, and squinted critically at it. It looked fine to Zeke from where he was sitting, but Izzy swapped out his ink again and went back to work.

“So I really can’t do anything,” Zeke said, scratching his arm in furious frustration.

“Not a damn thing,” Izzy repeated slowly and hazily. He was concentrating again, which meant that the conversation had come to a natural conclusion. Zeke knew that Izzy would put up with it if he decided to start the whole cycle over again; he was that kind of friend; but Zeke was driving himself crazy at this point, and the girl in the chair was shooting him a warning with her fierce brown eyes. Zeke bit his knuckle instead, then hopped off the shelf.

“Good talk, Izzy. Don’t fuck it up.”

“Never do,” Izzy said slowly as he moved in little circles around the edges of each flower petal. “Never do.”

Zeke left the graffiti-soaked shop and stepped out into the street. His lunch hour should be drawing to an end, he thought, and he checked his phone. He had twenty minutes, and eight missed calls. He started walking, and as he walked, he played his messages.

Hey, Zeke, uh...it’s Zack. Look, Dad’s not doing so good. Ben and I have been taking turns with him, but we’re gonna need a third player. It’s really getting bad. I know you like...swore him off or whatever, but it’s important. He’s, um...he’s not going to get better.

Zeke, Ben. Give me a call back.

Zeke, Ben again. Zack told me he told you. Call me back, dumbass, we need your help.

Hey, Zeke, uh....it’s Zack again. I’m sorry I shouldn’t have told you all that and everything, I’m just...really worried. He really shouldn’t be left alone, but his insurance won’t cover a nursing home and Ben and I can’t pay for it ourselves. I...I know you can’t either, so I’m...just trying to see if you can cover the overlap, you know, between Ben’s shift and mine. Can...could you? Please. We never ask you for anything, Zeke. This is just one thing. Just one thing for dad. Please?

Zeke. Ben. Call. Me. Mother. Fucker.

Hey...Zeke...look, man, I know... shit, why do I even....

Zeke! Ben. You’re making the baby cry, Zeke. You are making the baby cry. What did I say would happen if you made the baby cry, Zeke?

“The baby is twenty-fucking-two,” Zeke said angrily as he hit the button to delete the messages. “If he’s still crying about my shit, that’s on him.” Still, ancient guilt twisted in his gut. Don’t make the baby cry had been the mantra. When their mom died, Zack was barely a week old. Zeke was seven, and Benjamin was twelve. Benjamin took over while their dad succumbed to grief and alcohol, and for three straight years Benjamin gave Zeke only one instruction: Don’t make the baby cry. If you make the baby cry, I will make you cry. Threats made to a child have an odd effect in the adult; his brain knew that he could scoff at the threat. Benjamin couldn’t touch him. He had no toys for him to break, no teachers for him to manipulate, no weaknesses for him to identify. Zeke had made himself deliberately untouchable. But the phrase alone was enough to twist his stomach and turn his sweat cold. He was shivering with remembered adrenaline and anxiety as he walked through the doors to his work.

“Hey, Zeke!” Rebecca at the reception desk said brightly. “How was your lunch? Oh God, is it cold out there, you’re shivering? It’s not blowing cold already is it? I hate that! It’s still officially summer. Hey...Zeke...are you okay?”

Zeke caught his reflection in the mirror as he walked by her without a word. His face had gone completely grey, and his eyes looked strange and haunted. He shook his head and smacked his cheeks, trying to return some semblance of normalcy to his appearance.

“Um...not really,” he told her. “I’m not feeling very well. Swallowed something that disagreed with me, I think. I need to take a fiver in the office.”

“Oh...okay,” she said, her perfect brows crinkling enough to crack her foundation. “I’ll let Bill know if he asks. Don’t get me sick, okay?” She made a cross out of her fingers and held them out toward him. As he walked away, he could hear her spraying disinfectant on the counter that he hadn’t even touched. Don’t worry, baby girl, he thought. What I have you can’t possibly catch. In the office, he locked the door then took a seat on the big chair. Don’t make the baby cry. He decided to play it safe and call Benjamin first.

“It’s about time, assbutt,” Benjamin answered. “What did you do, wait until the last five minutes of your lunch before calling me back?”

“I was busy,” Zeke said, sounding weak in his ears.

“Busy avoiding me. You have family responsibilities. You need to step up.”

“Jimmy ain’t family, Benjamin.”

“You can say what you want about Jimmy,” Ben said nonchalantly. “But Zack’s family, and he’s asking. I’m family, and I’m fucking telling you. Get your ass out to Dogshead after work today and step up. We need you out there from four, ‘cause I know you get off at three. I am giving you a whole hour to drag your idiot ass out there.”

Zeke sighed. “What do you need me to do, exactly?”

“Just watch him, dude. Make sure he drinks water and pisses in the toilet and eats his dinner and shits in the toilet and takes his pills and goes to bed in his bedroom, and make sure he doesn’t wander into the middle of the lake. That’s it. Just babysit the old man until I get home from work at one.”

“Dude, I have to be in bed by nine if I’m going to make it to work on time. This isn’t going to work.”

“Fine, then just stay until Zack gets home at eight.”

“If Zack’s getting home at eight, why did you want me to stay until one?” Zeke asked heatedly.

“Because it would do you good to spend some time with the kid, and because he gets overwhelmed when he has to do it alone. I was just lookin’ for a little bit of help, Zeke. But yeah, fine. Come do the bare minimum. Be there at four.”

Benjamin hung up the phone, and Zeke could picture his face perfectly clearly. Those pursed lips, that head shaking in disappointment. Zeke had made the baby cry, and he was going to pay for it one way or another. Benjamin wasn’t about to let this go.