The thoughts came to him fleetingly; fleetingly. Fleetingly there and then gone again, having evaporated back into the mists of his overactive imagination. They always came and went on Thursday afternoon, when he sat in the false, vaguely pleasant florescent brightness of his office and allowed his work to escape his mind. The inside of his head flashed with crimson, sex and smoke, although his eyes were numb with the overabundance of beige walls and the neutral, corporate-friendly maple furniture with sleek silver hardware that his boss prized so much.
It was alright, for furniture.
John rubbed his eyes and realized how long he had been hunched over in his chair, staring at the screen of his laptop. There was a stack of thirty reports that he was supposed to be reviewing, and at 3pm he had only cleared out three of them. This one was spectacularly poorly done; the inspector had clearly rushed through this particular building and submitted crap before taking another hefty caseload. Now it was up to John to make up the information that the inspector had ignored but the underwriter would need to stamp the case as a "good risk" and determine the yearly premium.
"This building probably has a sprinkler system, maybe," he muttered to himself, as he filled in the empty checkboxes. "And there are no dogs or children on the premises. And fuck you Inspector 128, fuck you. Drive off a fucking cliff this week."
John shook his head as he edited the rest of the incomplete report and then, aggravated, sent it on to the underwriter with his initials. It aggravated him the most that he was stamping his name on shoddy work, but time restraints were time restraints. Maybe a politely admonishing email to Inspector 128 would change the quality of work. Probably not though, given that a politely admonishing email to Inspector 115 had bounced back with a false email address, one to Inspector 108 was returned with a three page summary of the man's recent medical history ("boils on my inner thigh"), and one to Inspector 143 inspired a reply with a fascinating threat involving rock salt and John's nipples.
It was all moot, John thought. It didn't matter. He sighed. This week's work would be out the door, poor as ever, and next week's work would start rolling in on Monday. That, too would be rushed, compromised, okayed, then disputed . . . John shut his eyes and stretched, hearing each satisfying crack and he flexed back into his chair. His work was always getting rushed, okayed, blah blah, submitted, blah blah, okayed . . . It was always shit. It was always . . . nothing . . . He was sitting in a dark room, and there was a crowd; drunken, charged, and crowding in the darkness. Electricity was in the air, and they were laughing, and so was he . . . they were watching something . . . he was excited . . .
John's eyes snapped open and he sat up. He had been sinking into his private world again, where work dissolved and imaginary notes struck long dormant chords in his gut. He was no longer hanging on the bottom rung of his company, no longer cleaning up the messes that the bigger guys threw at him on their way to lunch . . . That warm, sexy place inhabited by people that had a purpose . . . where entire conversations could be had and not once mention sprinkler systems, or politely admonishing the inspectors, or what the damn underwriter expects to see in a frigging Standard Field Survey. A nice, dark place where the booze tastes good and the men are handsome –
"Stop," John whispered to himself.
The sleek silver handle on his immaculate maple desk shone in the afternoon light as he grabbed it and pulled the drawer open. An almost empty bottle of Tums lay surrounded by pens and sticky notes, and he grabbed two and threw them back with a fresh determination to focus on completing reports. Drinks and "having a purpose" and all that shit were great, but John had watched his parents work themselves sick at midnight shifts for years, and he always forced himself to live to that standard. He must let his hard work be his satisfaction, however tempting fun and crimson trysts and handsome men might be . . .
No. Not men, especially handsome ones. That was one thing that was off limits. Not now; not since Derek. No, not since Derek . . .
The next report clicked into his screen, and John smiled briefly as he realized that this inspector had been thorough at this building and eloquent with his information. A little knot had formed in the dormant part of his gut when he thought of Derek, but it eased as he worked. He quickly reviewed three more cases, deftly editing the scattered information into one homogenous, glowing, report. He gladly added the inspector number, his own initials, submitted it, and then sent a small email to the inspector thanking him on such an excellent report.
Finally settling back into the flow of his day, he clicked the next report into his screen. John groaned as he saw that each little box was filled with the word "penis," and the first photo submitted was not front-of-the-building-from-left, but instead, one of the most close up photos of a giant, pink clitoris that John had ever seen. Apparently, Inspector 143 had been bored this week.
John came through the door, glad to be home. The smell of chicken wafted from the kitchen, riding the fresh warm air breezing through the open French doors. Their small 12th floor apartment faced west, and during the springtime John and Derek preferred all the doors and windows open to catch the warm breezes off Lake Erie.
John set his bag down on the carpet and went into the only other room, the bedroom, and stripped off his tie and work shirt. He sat on the bed, facing the large open windows, and felt the breeze on his body as he untied his shoes. The sun was starting to set and bright yellow beams would darken and soon bathe the modest apartment in gold. Somewhere Derek had a radio on while he cooked, and John happily hummed along to classic rock as he removed his uncomfortable shoes.
John was handsome. His Italian roots came out in his olive complexion and thick dark hair, although his startlingly blue eyes were a gift from his mother's side of the family. He was medium height, trim, with a body that responded naturally to exercise. To Derek's annoyance, John had easily built up his arms and shoulders one summer just from sticking to pull ups every day.
"You little shit," Derek had said, surprised but grinning, when John had flexed his new biceps in front of him during a walk last summer. They went on walks all the time; it was their time to relax together after each was home from work, which sometimes was often, and sometimes not. John smiled as he thought of that, the golden light shining on his face. He felt a leg slide around him on the bed, and then Derek's arms circled him and a gentle kiss was placed on the nape of his neck.
Derek was a bigger guy than John; taller, and broader, with buzzed hair and a kind, strong face. He had never finished his degree in history and worked at a gym, but was all the sweeter and kinder for his mistake. College had been satisfying for Derek, but difficult. His modest family was strapped between two mortgages and feeding three younger siblings, and when he found it too hard to work full-time overnight and attend his classes he had had to lose the classes. Watching his diabetic mother had instilled in him a life long need to exercise and eat correctly, and that long-honed talent had helped him get the job at the gym.
His arms and shoulders were almost model perfect, and his firm chest had a blanket of downy brown hair. His stomach belied his genetics though, because no matter how many miles he ran or sets of situps, he never could lose the last 10 pounds and slight stocky figure that was indicative of both parents and all three siblings.
John didn't care. It was Derek's mind that attracted him. They saw in each other someone that had learned discipline at his parent's overworked knee, and also the need for fun and kind attentive love that such discipline fostered. They soothed each other, entertained each other, argued, trod over the other's independence constantly, and in the dark of night, huddled close in bed, they wrapped their arms tightly around each other as they slept. They both recognized something they couldn't define, it was something they weren't giving up.
John turned around and faced Derek; that broad jaw and smiling, goofy face. He gave him a peck on the lips, then snuggled close as Derek gave him a squeeze. It's all too perfect, John thought. There were fights, there were winters; there were horrible, insulting mistakes, and entire weeks of both of them being too tired and bitchy to talk. But right now it was spring, it was sunset, it was Derek, and it was John. And it was perfect . . . perfect . . .
John woke up, tears in his eyes. He looked over at the red digital numbers on his alarm clock, and it was 3:15am. Fuck, he thought. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. He rolled onto his side and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to clear his mind and sleep. He hated dreaming about Derek, it just tugged on strings that threatened pull apart inside of him. He tried every day not to think about it, and to just let the dormant part of him sleep.
The only other thing on his mind was Inspector 143, and that hardly helped. With a deep breath, he sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. The blinds were open and the streetlight lit his room enough for him to see himself in the water streaked mirror.
He'd had to give up the small, west-facing apartment after the car accident six months ago; it had been affordable with their two incomes, but not on his alone. Now he lived on the second floor of a carved up Victorian mansion in the West Village; near enough to downtown to bike to his job, but far enough away that he could avoid his old apartment building.
His dark hair hung in thick clumps, and his eyes were red and very, very wet. He saw his face break slightly, and he sniffled and quickly got up to blow his nose. The streetlight highlighted the lines in his defined chest, and he looked down at his body and happily saw that he had gained a little weight back.
Six months ago John had bought a bicycle, and now biked everywhere he needed to go, which was really only work and the grocery store. Between that and no longer eating on a regular basis, he was shocked to one day look in the mirror and see a rail-thin version of his former self, and had since then forced himself to eat three meals a day. Derek, the nutrition nut, would have been horrified, John kept thinking.
He sighed and went back to bed. He lay on his side, unwilling to close his eyes lest he see Derek there smiling back at him. The traffic light outside shone through the blinds and painted green, yellow, and red slashes across the ceiling. The little room felt hot, but he didn't get up. Instead he angrily clenched the pillow, and just let the tears come.