Sometimes, Jean wakes up feeling nothing.
Jeremy knows it’s one of these days because when he opens his eyes, Jean is sitting in the bed, window open, staring at the traffic. On good days, Jean gets out of bed first, puts the coffee on, and goes in the shower. The smell of coffee wakes Jeremy. On very good days, Jeremy even joins him in the shower.
Today, Jean doesn’t even look up when Jeremy rolls toward him. His arms are crossed on the window sill. His eyes are empty, staring at the street down.
Jean had explained it to him once. How it feels. He’d said when it’s too much, it’s like my mind just gives up, it feels like being underwatet, inside my own head, all fuzzy and cold and empty.
When what is too much? Jeremy asked.
Everything, Jean said, with a shrug. His toenails had been painted a soft blue by Renee the day before. Nightmares, life. Existing.
Jeremy gets up. The floor outside the bedroom is cold and he grimaces. He turns on the radio in the kitchen. And just to prove you do, Julie London sings. You can cry me a river…
Jeremy turns on the coffee machine. The sound drowns the radio. He waits as it fills the two mugs. The light streaming through the window warms his feet.
The machine stops. I cried a river over you. He takes the mugs, puts two sugars in his, a dash of milk and half a sugar in Jean’s.
Jean hasn’t moved. Jeremy climbs on the bed and precariously walks on his knees with the mugs in his hands. He puts Jean’s cup on the window sill, next to his hand. Once, they’d been careless and a cup had fallen over. They’d watched with absolute dismay as it smashed on the ground, ten floors down. Thankfully, no one had been under.
They are more careful now, but can’t shake the habit.
Jeremy crosses his legs. It’s a nice Sunday. The air is warm, and a cool breeze plays with Jeremy’s air. He looks down. A lady is sitting in the sun. She has long gray hair tied in a bun, and an elegant blue dress. “I think she used to be a seamstress,” he says. “She made beautiful dresses for royalties and first ladies all over the world. People knew her name. She never married but her sister had children. Now, she makes dresses for her grand nieces and nephews. She’s in holidays, visiting Miami.”
There’s a long moment of silence where Jeremy’s heart sinks. It happens sometimes. Jean doesn’t answer, can’t be bothered.
“Why would she visit Miami?” Jean asks, eventually, voice rough and barely higher than a whisper.
Jeremy wants to wrap him in his arms and protect him from anything else that could happen to him. Instead, he puts aside his cup and leans against the wall, feet brushing against Jean’s legs. “To learn Spanish of course.”
And there it is, the little amused huff, the way Jean’s gray eyes leave the road to fall over him. “That is ridiculous,” Jean says, his French accent hardly notable anymore, but still there, coloring his words.
Jeremy laughs. “I don’t see why. There are almost more Spanish speakers here, than English.”
Jean doesn’t answer, his hands curling around his mug. Jeremy doesn’t mind. This isn’t the same kind of silence, the oppressive where it seens impossible to reach Jean. This is just the silence of two people who are comfortable around each other.
He pokes Jean’s thigh with his foot. Jean glares at him and Jeremy grins. “You could speak Spanish, too.”
Jean shakes his head. “My Spanish is terrible. You’ve heard it.”
Jeremy hums. “I like it. Your accent is very charming.”
Jean reaches over and covers Jeremy’s grin with his hand. His hands smells of coffee. Jeremy kisses the palm, gently pulls it away from his mouth, and keeps it in his own hand.
“What do you want to do today?” He asks softly.
Jean finishes his coffee slowly. The traffic continues outside. Someone honks loudly. Time passes, enough that Jeremy thinks the question was forgotten. Eventually, Jean puts his cup down and squeezes Jeremy’s hand that he hasn’t let go. “No,” he says. “I just want to stay here.”
“Okay then, give me a second?”
Jean nods. Jeremy slides out of bed and walks to the kitchen. The radio is still on. Jeremy picks it up and brings it back to bed. He leaves it on the bedside table and climbs in bed. He puts his head on Jean’s lap. Jean, gently, puts a hand in his hair.
You make me smile with my heart, sings the radio.
