By Monday morning, Ted had discovered a disturbing consequence of having money: he could now afford to worry about spending it.
When he’d had eleven dollars and twenty-seven cents, life had been relatively straightforward. Almost everything was out of the question except for canned tomatoes and chickpeas. Now there were options, which seemed to involve considerably more mathematics.
He sat at his kitchen counter with a coffee and the little budget in his phone. Rent had its own line, marked DO NOT TOUCH in capital letters. Groceries were no longer hypothetical. A modest emergency cushion sat beneath the rent amount, looking smaller every time he remembered a bill.
The university refund had been $5,439.34.
A wonderful number. A romantic number, really. He’d considered looking at it over candlelight.
Unfortunately, unlike a handsome man, it was not something he could keep admiring without eventually having to do something about.
His phone buzzed.
BUILDING MANAGEMENT
Subject: Window Air Conditioner Request
Ted sat up.
The email was almost offensively cheerful. Thank you for your patience. The approval looked suspiciously like someone in building management had copied and pasted a paragraph directly from his rental agreement. Installation requirements. Tenant responsibilities. The usual legal nonsense.
But there was one word Ted cared about.
Approved.
“Fucking finally.”
He was being allowed to purchase a machine that would make the inside of his apartment less like a steamed vegetable. That was good enough for him.
At twenty-five, he had apparently reached the thrilling stage of life in which a message from property management could make his entire morning.
He opened Amazing.com.
The two air conditioners he’d saved on Friday were still waiting in his cart. One was 30% off.
The first unit promised eight thousand BTUs. The second offered ten thousand, a remote control, and something the manufacturer called Arctic Blast.
Ted studied the measurements.
Eight thousand sounded adequate. Ten thousand sounded impressive. Arctic Blast sounded like the sort of setting that might cause his testicles to retreat into his body and file for relocation.
He read the reviews.
One customer claimed the smaller unit had transformed his bedroom into a sanctuary. Another complained that the larger model was too noisy to sleep beside.
That mattered.
Ted didn’t particularly mind a bit of white noise. His apartment faced the roof of a clinic. He’d learned to sleep through mutant HVAC, traffic, sirens, arguments, and one neighbour who seemed to take up the trombone whenever somebody else was trying to pass out for an early morning shift.
There was, however, a difference between pleasant background noise and having to shout a compliment over a compressor.
He imagined someone coming in from the Toronto heat and sighing with relief. One careless tap of Arctic Blast, though, and his guest's nipples might become structural features.
Perhaps the quieter model would do. He wanted to hear a man talking, even if the conversation was nonsense. The nonsense, after all, is what drew him in.
A few minutes later, he found himself comparing airflow direction.
This was new territory.
He had always assumed that air conditioners had two jobs: make air cold and remain firmly attached to the window. Now he was wondering whether a blast of refrigerated air aimed directly at the bed would make a man feel refreshed or personally attacked.
Ted rested his chin on his hand.
The real appeal, of course, wasn’t simply having sex in a cool room.
It was what came afterward.
Summer was excellent for patios, tank tops, shirtless men, and watching Toronto collectively forget how to behave in public as soon as the temperature climbed above twenty-five degrees. Summer was considerably less excellent for cuddling.
There was something deeply unromantic about two freshly showered bodies sticking together like slices of sweaty cheese.
He liked having someone close. An arm around his waist. A warm back against his chest. Someone falling asleep beside him without first having to negotiate the terms of a five-year domestic partnership.
He liked a proper cuddle.
He just preferred not to melt during it.
With an air conditioner, he could manufacture cuddle weather in July. He could lower the temperature until blankets were useful again. Goosebumps. Someone reaching for him because the room had become a little too chilled.
It was an excellent plan.
He didn’t need a boyfriend. He needed climate control.
Although a boyfriend might occasionally be useful for carrying the air conditioner upstairs, his building had an elevator. So much for that justification.
A patch of sun crept across the floor, catching the leaves of his thirsty plants.
Then he looked at the price again.
He still had rent, groceries, and a small emergency cushion to protect. Sofia had offered two shifts for Friday and Saturday, but he couldn't spend those wages before he'd earned them.
And he needed black trousers. The cleaned grey-pinstriped kitchen pair hung over a chair, while his graduation trousers remained with Vikram Sethi, presumably somewhere in the city being rich in them.
Ted added AFFORDABLE BLACK TROUSERS and RETURN CHEF PANTS to his list. Then he checked the window measurements one final time, reviewed the building's installation requirements, and selected the quieter eight-thousand-BTU model. It would fit. He clicked Place Order.
A week ago, he wouldn't have had the money to consider buying it at all. Rent was covered. Groceries were covered. And now, apparently, so was his future sex life. Cuddle weather was officially on its way.
His phone buzzed again.
MARCUS: Bitch. You owe me the wardrobe disaster. ALL of it.
TED: Tragedy. Generosity. A beautiful ass lost to the world.
MARCUS: Wednesday. Sushi. I want details.
TED: Forty dollars for an audience? Bargain.
MARCUS: 4:30. Then we're going out.
TED: After all-you-can-eat? We'll need assistance animals.
MARCUS: Wear something slutty.
TED: That's my only setting.
Ted grinned.
He could already picture it: a mountain of sushi, Marcus laughing at his misfortunes, and the two of them waddling onto Church Street while insisting they had made an excellent decision.
It was the kind of evening money was for.
Not a lot of money, ideally.
He glanced at the order confirmation once more.
The website was already recommending accessories he didn't need.
“Nice try.”
He closed the tab.
Outside, Toronto continued to steam.
He could survive a few more days. Preferably without melting.
∞
By four thirty-seven on Wednesday, Ted was standing outside a sushi restaurant in the newly named Sankofa Square, already dressed for a night out and beginning to suspect this was a tactical error.
He was wearing a fitted black shirt, dark jeans, and the expression of a man who understood, intellectually, that forty dollars’ worth of unlimited rice would eventually have to occupy a physical space inside him.
Marcus arrived eight minutes late, smiling as though he'd been there all along.
“You look slutty,” he said.
“Thank you. You're wearing stretch fabric. Clearly one of us planned ahead.”
“Four rounds minimum. I’m a pro—less rice, more meat.”
“You said last time we'd learn some restraint.”
“I've learned how to pronounce it.”
Ted laughed, and they went inside.
Inside, cool air met them at the door. Ted stopped to enjoy it.
“Are you making sex noises at the ventilation?” Marcus asked.
“I finally ordered my air conditioner.”
“Finally. Your apartment is a fucking terrarium.”
“I want cuddle weather. A blanket without sweating all over somebody.”
“That's actually nice,” Marcus said. “You like having people stay.”
Ted glanced at him. “I do.”
Marcus smiled and let the subject rest.
They were shown to a table with a view of the busy sidewalk. A laminated menu arrived, followed by a tablet for ordering.
Marcus picked up the tablet with the gravity of a man preparing to make a terrible decision.
“We do this properly,” he said.
“Agreed. Sensible portions.”
“Salmon?”
“Obviously. And edamame, so there's a vegetable on the table for legal reasons.”
Marcus laughed and began tapping. Ted watched the numbers climb, then ordered the shrimp tempura himself.
Their first dishes arrived in a procession of salmon, tuna, rolls, nigiri, and enough fried shrimp to suggest they'd invited company. Somewhere during the second round, they stopped discussing quantities.
Marcus ordered more rolls.
“You realize we're constructing a load-bearing dinner now,” Ted said.
“Every project needs a foundation.”
Ted pushed the tempura closer. Neither suggested stopping.
For a while they simply ate and enjoyed the conversation. It was good to have an unhurried evening together, without either of them checking the time.
Ted leaned back, content.
“I still owe you the Thursday story,” Ted said.
Marcus put down his chopsticks. “The trousers. Finally.”
Ted told him about Sofia, Noah, the wine he'd spilled, and the wealthy regular who'd suggested he was hired for his looks.
Marcus's smile faded. “What a prick.”
“Yeah.”
“Especially when you're trying to prove yourself.”
Ted nodded. He appreciated that Marcus understood why it had bothered him.
“Anyway,” he said, “things got stranger.”
Ted described the brown stain on Vikram's beige trousers, the guests taking photographs, and the need to do something before the man turned around.
“Brown?” Marcus asked.
“Very.”
“On beige?”
Ted nodded.
Marcus closed his eyes. “Oh, no.”
Ted leaned across the table, suddenly solemn.
“I'm telling you, Marcus. I've thought about it. That wasn't just a stain.”
Marcus reached for another piece of salmon. “Oh, Christ. Here we go.”
“That man got fucked, trusted a fart, and shat himself in a pair of trousers worth more than my rent.”
Marcus stared at him. “You have absolutely no evidence.”
“I have eyes.”
“You have an imagination and a deeply unhealthy interest in that man's asshole.”
“Marcus, there was cum involved. I'm convinced.”
“You're convinced? Bitch, you've conducted an entire forensic investigation without leaving your apartment.”
Ted shrugged. “Somebody has to get to the bottom of it.”
Marcus nearly choked on his salmon.
“THE BOTTOM OF IT? Oh, fuck off!”
Ted burst out laughing. He had no idea what had actually stained Vikram's trousers, but he'd decided his theory was too entertaining to abandon.
“I told Sofia. She found clean kitchen trousers, and I figured Vikram and I were about the same size.”
“So you gave him the kitchen trousers.”
Ted took a slow drink of water.
“Tell me you gave him the kitchen trousers.”
“I gave him mine.”
Marcus stared. “Your graduation trousers?”
“The very ones.”
“The ones that make your ass look like it should have its own postal code?”
Ted nodded.
Marcus burst out laughing, loud enough that a server glanced over.
“The man was about to have his picture taken with a shit stain on his ass,” Ted said.
“And you became a public service.”
“Somebody had to.”
Marcus wiped at his eyes. “And you wore the kitchen ones?”
“Grey pinstripes. Elastic waist. The shape of a pillowcase.”
“Oh, Ted.”
“Like somebody's divorced uncle who'd lost custody of his ass.”
That did him in. Ted laughed too.
“And the worst part,” he added, “was that Vikram looked fucking fantastic in mine.”
A server approached to clear a dish, smiling at their laughter.
“Everything all right?”
“Wonderful,” Ted said.
When she left, Marcus wiped his eyes. “Did you ever get them back?”
“No. He left in them.”
“Did he at least tip?”
“A thousand dollars. For the whole staff pool, not for me.”
Marcus whistled. “That's something.”
“It was. Sofia was pleased.”
Marcus regarded him across the table. “You did a nice thing, you know. Especially after what he said.”
Ted shrugged, but he was glad Marcus thought so. He'd replayed the decision more than once.
“Still want the trousers back, though.”
“Obviously. Your ass deserves representation.”
Ted laughed. This time they let the joke end there.
Marcus set the tablet aside. “So. How's Danish?”
Ted smiled. “He asked me on a proper date.”
“Did he?” Marcus seemed genuinely pleased. “You like him?”
“Yeah. I do. He's easy to talk to. His hotel work is mad, and he talks about opening a restaurant someday.”
“That sounds like him.”
“He's not asking me to pretend I'm somebody else. We haven't promised exclusivity. But that night, I sure showed him.”
Marcus nodded. “Good. So go on a date. See what happens.”
It was such an uncomplicated answer that Ted felt himself relax.
“And Thiago?” Marcus asked.
“The Brazilian art conservator. We had tea after my shift. And a walk.”
Marcus lifted an eyebrow.
“A very nice walk,” Ted conceded.
“Lovely. I'm in favour of the arts. And giving blowjobs in a dark alley.”
Ted laughed, then told him about running into Alex at Greatlife and learning that he was happily married in an open relationship.
“And you told Danish about all this?”
“He asked. So I told him. He didn't get weird about it.”
“Good,” Marcus said. “I like that you can just talk to him.”
Ted did too. He was beginning to look forward to the date more than he'd expected.
“Enough about me,” Ted said. “What have you been doing?”
Marcus leaned forward. “I had a date with a man who brought a five-year plan.”
“A five-year plan for what?”
“Us. Before the drinks even arrived.” Marcus reached for his water. “An actual spreadsheet. Relationship milestones, future holidays, all of it.”
“You're kidding.”
“I wish. I asked where he kept the column for spontaneous bad decisions.”
Ted laughed. “What did he say?”
“He wanted to know if spontaneity was a non-negotiable.”
“So you told him—”
“That he could put me under conditional formatting.”
“Yellow for feed me first,” Ted said.
“Exactly.”
Their laughter settled as another plate arrived. Marcus looked relieved to have someone who understood what had been funny about the whole date without needing it explained.
“What about Saturday?” Ted asked.
“I went to a birthday party for somebody I'd never met.”
“How did that happen?”
“Started talking to a guy in a coffee shop. We argued about whether a muffin is just an ugly cupcake, and he invited me. By the end of the night his aunt was asking me to come for Thanksgiving.”
“Of course she was. You know she meant ‘cum,’ right?”
“She was sweet.” Marcus paused. “She asked whether I'd ever thought about travelling more. Just going somewhere new. I actually have.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I love everyone here, but sometimes I wonder what else is out there.”
Ted considered that. Marcus was always making friends and organizing evenings; Ted hadn't thought much about what his friend wanted beyond the next weekend.
“You'd be good at that,” he said. “You make friends anywhere.”
“That's the plan. Ideally somewhere warm.”
Ted smiled. He wanted Marcus to have that adventure, whatever it turned out to be.
The tablet chimed gently to remind them they could still order.
Marcus looked at it.
Ted looked at Marcus.
“Another round?” they said together.
∞
By the fourth round, the food was still delicious, but neither man had any business ordering more.
Marcus put down his chopsticks and looked at the remaining plates.
“Why do we always do this?”
“Forty dollars,” Ted said. “We like to get our money's worth.”
Marcus spotted the warning on the menu: unfinished food would be charged separately. He turned it towards Ted and nodded at the remaining sushi. This was going to require teamwork.
“Are you hiding sushi?” Ted whispered.
“I’m avoiding a surcharge.”
Ted joined in without another word. Marcus tucked two rolls between the used plates while Ted stacked empty dishes over the remaining sushi. They worked in perfect coordination, concealing evidence beneath plates and napkins like two very badly trained criminals.
The rice was the problem. There was still far too much of it.
Marcus glanced towards the servers, then calmly scooped a handful into his trouser pocket.
Ted stared at him. “You're fucking joking.”
“Do you want to pay extra?”
Ted checked that nobody was watching and started stuffing rice into his own pocket.
“We're going out after this,” he whispered.
“Then stop drawing attention to yourself.”
The real outrage came when they learned dessert was limited to one ice cream per person.
“One?” Marcus said, scandalized.
“You've got rice in your pocket,” Ted said. “How much ice cream do you need?”
“It’s the principle.”
Their ice creams had seemed like a reward when they ordered them. Now even dessert looked like a personal attack.
When they finally stood, Ted paused to make sure the room had stopped moving.
“We're supposed to go out looking sexy,” he said. “I currently look six months pregnant.”
“Bitch, suck it in. We're going.”
“I'm not bottoming for at least twenty-four hours.”
“Twenty-four? That's optimistic.”
“After this much sushi, somebody would fuck the rice right out of me.”
Marcus laughed so hard he had to grab the table.
“Don't,” he managed. “It hurts.”
Ted steadied him with a hand on his arm. They stood there, laughing and hurting, until they could walk. The staff watched closely without reacting.
Outside, they fell silent for half a block, grateful for the evening breeze. Ted rubbed his stomach clockwise. He'd learned the motion from a reel.
“Next time, less,” Marcus said.
“Absolutely.”
They both knew they were lying.
∞
They went straight to a different bar in the Village, one Ted knew well enough to recognize the bartender but not well enough to know his name. It was darker than The Lantern, louder, and less concerned with the appearance of being respectable. A corridor at the back led to a dark room. Ted had never felt the need to ask for a guided tour. He had given himself enough guided tours to figure it out.
The early crowd was starting to grow. The air smelled of cologne, cold beer, and the vaguely sweet cleaner that bars seemed to use in the belief that it cancelled out the smell of alcohol. Stale poppers filled the air.
Marcus immediately waved to somebody near the entrance.
Then to somebody beside the bar.
Then to a man at the other end of the room, who waved back with both hands.
Ted stared at him.
“Do you know every gay man in Toronto?”
“No. There's one in Etobicoke I haven't met.”
“Give it a week.”
“I'm working on it.”
They found a place along a cushioned wall. Ted ordered a small drink. Marcus asked for a soda, then assured Ted, unprompted, that he was going to take it easy.
Ted looked at him.
“We have to be sensible,” Ted said. “Our stomachs are registered as commercial properties.”
“High-density residential,” Marcus agreed.
“No vacancies,” Ted added.
Marcus raised his glass.
“To restraint.”
“May we meet her someday.”
They clinked glasses.
It wasn't long before Marcus was holding court with two men who'd wandered over to ask whether a seat was taken. Within a minute, he knew where they worked, whom they'd dated, and which one was pretending not to have a crush on the other.
He made a devastatingly accurate imitation of a man taking a thirst-trap selfie in a gym mirror. Both strangers dissolved into laughter. Marcus followed it with an impression of a realtor describing a closet-sized apartment as a spacious urban retreat.
Ted watched him with fond admiration.
This was Marcus's peculiar gift. He made people feel as though they'd been invited into a joke that had existed long before they arrived. Nobody had to be particularly clever to keep up. Marcus did enough laughing for everyone, and somehow nobody ever felt laughed at.
One of the men asked whether Marcus was single.
Marcus put a hand to his chest.
“Emotionally available. Financially controversial.”
“What's that mean?”
“Take me on a date and find out.”
The man laughed and pulled up a chair.
Ted took a sip of his drink.
At least one of them was functioning.
Ted added a comment to Marcus's impression, and one of the men laughed so hard he had to set down his drink. Marcus touched Ted's shoulder as if to say, There you go.
Ted leaned against him for a second. They could do this for hours, and often had. Tonight, though, Ted was happy to see Marcus making new friends.
Fifteen minutes later, Marcus started telling a story about a disastrously dressed man he'd seen on the subway.
“He was wearing one of those little hats,” Marcus said, holding his fingers close together, “and I swear he looked exactly like the guy from—”
He paused.
His eyes drifted shut for a second.
“—you can't park the dishwasher in the ocean because the pigeons have the elevator key.”
The table went quiet.
Ted looked over.
Oh, here we go.
“Marcus?”
“I'm listening.”
“You were talking about a hat.”
“I know.”
“Do the pigeons know?”
Marcus frowned, visibly struggling to locate whatever conversation he'd been having.
“Don't be stupid.”
Then his head dipped again.
Ted smiled despite himself.
Ice wine womb.
That was what they'd called it for years: Marcus's remarkable ability to drift toward sleep in the middle of a coherent sentence, letting whatever absurd dialogue was happening in his dreams wander out into the room. It was particularly likely after he'd eaten too much, whether he'd been drinking or not.
Ted had learned to wait it out.
“Is he okay?” one of the men asked.
“Yeah,” Ted said, checking that Marcus responded when he touched his shoulder. “He does this when he's exhausted. After that much sushi, I'm surprised he lasted this long.”
Marcus opened an eye.
“I can hear you.”
“Good. Then you can drink some water.”
Ted got Marcus some water. Marcus slowly leaned against Ted, as he often did, using his friend as a cushion for a power nap. Within a minute, he was asleep, breathing steadily, while Ted fielded a series of increasingly imaginative questions from their new acquaintances.
The others lowered their voices and went back to talking. Ted kept Marcus's water within reach, staying close while the room filled around them.
Ted remembered the rice still lurking in his jeans pocket. He fished out a sticky little clump and held it toward Marcus.
“Come on, bitch. Open wide.”
Marcus didn't stir.
One of the men stared at Ted's hand.
“Is that rice?”
“Forty dollars,” Ted said. “I'm getting my money's worth.”
He wrapped the rice in a napkin and let Marcus sleep.
After about fifteen minutes, Marcus opened both eyes.
He sat up.
Looked around.
Then announced, “RIGHT. Where are the men?”
Ted nearly spilled his drink.
“Jesus Christ. Did you just reboot?” Ted asked.
Marcus stretched and drank some water. “Did I say anything weird?”
“Something about pigeons and an elevator key.”
Marcus considered that. “Seems reasonable.”
“Of course it does.”
They grinned at each other, then both burst out laughing.
“Ice wine womb,” they said in unison.
That only made them laugh harder. Then Marcus spotted someone across the room and waved.
Two minutes later, Marcus was on his feet, laughing with a fresh circle of strangers as though the preceding fifteen minutes had been a brief and completely normal software update.
He stuck to soda.
He didn't need anything stronger.
∞
By ten, the bar had grown warmer and noisier. Marcus moved between conversations with an ease Ted admired, remembering names and drawing quieter people into the circle.
Ted joined in when Marcus waved him over. They had two strangers laughing together in minutes, but when Ted stepped away for some water, Marcus carried on without him. Ted liked watching his friend in his element.
Marcus had been chatting with a group near the end of the bar when a new face caught Ted's attention.
The man was handsome in a slightly uncertain way: broad shoulders, dark hair, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled, and the expression of somebody who had followed friends into a place he hadn't quite decided how to feel about.
Marcus spotted him too.
Naturally.
Within moments, he was beside the man, gesturing animatedly toward the row of photographs behind the bar.
Ted couldn't hear the opening line, but he saw the effect.
The stranger laughed.
Then Marcus said something else, and the man laughed harder.
A few minutes later, they were standing almost shoulder to shoulder.
Ted wandered closer, mostly to see what sort of nonsense Marcus had come up with this time.
“I'm serious,” the man was saying. “I usually go out with women.”
“Congratulations,” Marcus said. “They sound lovely.”
The man laughed again.
“No, I mean, I'm straight.”
“Okay.”
Marcus took an unhurried sip of water.
The man looked puzzled. “Okay?”
“Yeah. I like talking to you. Nobody's asking you to declare anything.”
The man smiled. “I'm having a good time.”
“Thank God,” Marcus said. “I was about to invoice you for the entertainment.”
The man visibly relaxed.
The man bent forward laughing, one hand landing briefly on Marcus's arm. When he straightened, he left it there.
Ted caught Marcus's eye and dipped his chin, looking up through his eyelashes—the same familiar, indecent expression he'd given him at Trinity Bellwoods.
Marcus knew the look. He gave it right back, the smallest, most insufferably pleased smile creeping over his face.
Oh, you bastard.
Less than ten minutes later, the man was the one leaning in to speak close to Marcus's ear. Marcus answered, and the two of them laughed. Whatever they'd agreed on, it had clearly been mutual.
Marcus and the man passed Ted on their way toward the dark room.
Ted smiled. “Have fun.”
“Planning on it,” Marcus said.
The stranger turned toward him and smiled too.
“Nice meeting you.”
“You too,” Ted said.
Then Marcus slipped a playful hand inside the back waistband of the man's trousers. The man laughed, leaned back into the touch, and let Marcus steer him down the corridor.
He followed with the cheerful obedience of a dog on a leash.
Ted watched them go.
Ten minutes earlier, the man had been explaining that he was straight. Now he was following Marcus of his own accord.
Apparently Marcus hadn't needed an argument at all.
Ted shook his head, smiling.
“How the fuck does he do it?”
Ted was delighted for him. Marcus could make somebody feel welcome without demanding anything from them. Whatever happened beyond the corridor, this had been his evening.
Ted finished his water. Outside, Toronto would still be impossibly hot. His air conditioner was on its way, but he still needed trousers for Friday. That was tomorrow's problem.
Tonight he'd eaten too much sushi with his best friend and watched him do what he did best. He couldn't wait to hear Marcus's version of it. Between the two of them, the story would probably get less accurate and much funnier with every telling.
Assuming, of course, Marcus actually came back to tell the story.