Cooking Light

A few years back I wrote the first couple of paragraphs for this story for a Toads prompt and never finished it.  Well here is the finished version.  Hope you are all doing well!!!

Cooking Light

     “You are a spring dick.”  

     “What the hell is that,” William asked, emptying a second packet of Sweet-n-Low into his iced tea.
 

     “A spring dick, my dear old friend, is someone who can find fault, regardless of the fact that there is a near perfect spring day upon him and he has nothing to do but spend time with his best friend, soak up the sunshine and revel in the miracle of being alive.”

     “Those day lilies on the table smell like cat piss to me, I don’t know why you insist on bringing them indoors.  It smells like we live in the cat ladies house. And when is my best friend going to get here?”

     “A spring dick.”

     “Yes, I heard you the first time.”

     The back yard was resplendent in the springtime. The lilies, freesias, wisteria all blooming in a rhapsody of life and color.  William and Charles would sit on the porch every day for the next three months from nine until two, William drinking iced tea and smoking small cherry cigars and Charles sipping whatever sickening sweet cocktail of the day he could purge from the depths of his Cooking Light magazine collection.  His subscription had long run out, but he had the tattered remains of every issue from March of 2000 until April of 2010, the year he liked to refer to as his “untimely fall from grace.” He had borrowed five hundred dollars cash from the register at Hero’s Bar and Grill, his place of employment at the time.  He was short of cash and needed to buy heels and get waxed before the drag competition at Apollo’s the weekend before Pride. He didn’t think the cash would be missed.  He was wrong.  He always “intended to put it back out of my next paycheck,” but there was no next paycheck for Charles.

     The cacophony of fragrances in the back yard put to shame any perfume, of any old woman, on any elevator, in Savannah Georgia, on any given Sunday.  That was saying a lot. The hummingbirds would flock by the hundreds in the spring to sip from any one of twenty-five hand decorated bird feeders. Charles was certain that the decoration was what lent to the large number of birds. He was of course, largely overlooking the fact that there were no other hummingbird feeders for at least ten blocks, but then how would he know that was the case.

     The grass was as perfect as any grass could be, neatly trimmed and cut, so resilient that sometimes the afternoon sun would reflect harshly into the eyes of anyone on the porch who was not wearing sun glasses. Charles only had the best sunglasses, polarized and designer brands in every shape, color and style you could imagine.  The grass was no match for him.

     Charles sighed heavily and took a sip of his cocktail. When he didn’t elicit a response from William he repeated his melancholy melodrama. 

     Still no response. After the third sigh without so much as a glance from William, Charles began to sob lightly with his head on the back of his hand that wasn’t holding the cocktail.

     “What!!!!” William shouted looking up for the John Irving book he was reading.  Charles nearly jumped out of his chair and began to wail now instead of just sob.

     “What do you mean what,” he shouted back, tears streaming own his cheeks.  “You’re dying that’s what!!” He slid forward in his seat and set the cocktail on the ground and started sobbing into his cupped hands.

     “I have been dying for a year and a half now Charles.  We do this little dance at least once a week, always after your third martini.  Nothing has changed except the timeline, and yes, the doctors say soon and I really do feel like shit, but I don’t want to spend the rest of my time crying in the backyard with the man I love.  I want to spend quality time and I need you to take my mind off of the facts, not keep shoving a list of them under my damned nose every ten minutes.”

     “But what am I going to do…. I’m too old to start over, I’m too ugly to get a job, and I’m too fat to be a prostitute!”  Still wailing but in a more controlled manner, Charles got up and began pacing the concrete.

     “I have life insurance enough for you to take some time to figure it out, you know that. You are only forty-two and for chrissake you are not ugly, homely maybe, but not ugly.”  Charles stopped wailing long enough to flip William the bird.

     “Besides you said that the cutie at the gym with the big bulge wants you.  A couple of pokes with that thing and you will forget all about me.”

    This comment brought a fresh wave of sobbing. He turned to William, hands on his knees.

     “How can you say I will forget about you!!! I’ll never forget you.”

     Charles returned to his chair drying his eyes with a cocktail napkin.

     “Besides I don’t like penises that big, you should know that, I chose you.”  William laughed and took a puff off of one of his cherry cigars.

     “You will do what everyone who is still living will do.  You will get your ass out of bed, shower and comb that rats’ nest and go out into the day with a positive mind and spirit and respect me by keeping yourself together.  You will do fine.  I think half of our friends are just waiting for me to die anyway to try and get their filthy hands on you and your insurance check.”

     “Not to mention my glowing skin and sizable package.”

     “Sizable compared to what?  A walnut?”  William laughed at his own joke this time and took a drink of his iced tea.

     “Do me a favor and go to the night stand drawer next to my side of the bed and pull out the envelope under my socks.  Do not bring it out here.  I was going to give this to you after I was gone, but you have been such a mess, I just want you to know you will be OK.”

     Charles eyes began to sparkle, fresh tears welled in his eyes.

     “What is it?”  

     “Go”

     Charles pulled the yellow manila envelope from the drawer and sat down on the side of the bed. He slowly unclasped and emptied the contents on to the duvet. There were three things.  The first was a letter hand written on fine stationery, the kind William would always pay too much for when he wrote his letters. The letter was short and said only this:

  

You were mine, for the rest of my life, like I promised

I loved you from the day we met

You made me great

And I leave you with a heavy heart, but rapturous love
 

William
 

     The tears were a faucet now and Charles had to work to stifle his sobs, the tightness in his chest threatening to choke him.  He didn’t even care what the other two items were at this point but picked them up anyway. One was check for four hundred thousand dollars with a note written in the memo line that read “Play Money” and the other was a lifetime subscription to Cooking Light magazine. 

     In the bedroom Charles cried and reflected on his life. On the Porch, William smoked and smiled.