Walter didn’t realize he was crying until his vision blurred. He angrily dashed the tears from his eyes, grabbed War of the Worlds, and took it to the bed. When he got there, he toed off his shoes and tossed his jacket aside, then curled up under the colorful quilt to read.
He woke up flailing at an object covering the lower half of his face and ended up batting it to the floor, ashamed when he realized it was only the paperback. He must have fallen asleep with the book in his hands. Oddly panicked, he picked it up, then sighed with relief when he saw it was unharmed.
With barely enough time for a quick shower and shave, Walter was just putting on his shoes when a knock sounded on the door. He hurried over to open it.
“Hi,” Martin said, looking happy. And even more beautiful than Walter remembered.
“The, uh, flowers and the books… thanks. That was nice.”
Instead of answering, Martin stepped through the doorway and pulled Walter’s head close for a kiss. This time Walter was less surprised. And sure, someone might be watching through the open door, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care. Not with Martin tasting like mint and sighing happily into his mouth.
“I like kissing,” Martin said, leaning his forehead against Walter’s. “If you’ve never done it and you think about it, it seems really odd. But the reality is amazing.”
Honestly, Walter had never given kissing much thought. Maybe he would have if he’d gone without a kiss as long as Martin had. He found Martin’s earnest appraisal charming. “We could always skip dinner,” Walter said, jerking his head toward the bed.
Martin’s wide smile bloomed. “Can we save that for dessert?”
Fair enough.
The Kitee Café was crowded, and when Walter and Martin entered, every person turned to stare. Even the kids. Martin just grinned and gave the room a general wave. They smiled back. It was weird.
Walter had apparently acquired a personal table, his usual one by the window. As he and Martin sat, Walter tried to ignore the quiet conversations of strangers, positive that most were about him.
Dorothy bustled to them within seconds and then astounded Walter by drawing a chair to their table and sitting down. Nobody else seemed surprised, though. Not even Martin. She tilted her head and gave Walter a close look. “What makes you happy?” she asked.
Walter blinked at her, but Martin chuckled. “It’s a question we ask when getting to know someone.”
“My people usually ask where you’re from or what you do for a living.”
Dorothy harrumphed. “Not important. Not like happiness. So?”
He had to think about it for a long time, but nobody hurried him. Finally he sighed. “Peace and quiet. I like each of those a lot. Books.” And then another memory hit him—this one from before the war, when he was still a boy. “Waking up early on a day you know something great’s going to happen, and then just sitting there, savoring the anticipation.”
She nodded a few times as if she agreed with his answers. And then, hoping he wasn’t breaking any foreign rules of etiquette, he returned the question. “What makes you happy?”
Oh, that was the right response. She smiled so widely that all her teeth showed, and Martin gazed across the table at him with shining eyes. “Oh, honey,” Dorothy said, patting Walter’s hand, “I love it when people enjoy my food. And I love cats. Such perfect little creatures! I’m happy when they curl up in my lap and purr. And I like it when someone gives an unexpected gift.” She stood. “Now, what can I get you?”
When Walter hesitated, Martin said, “I’ll have the special, please.”
She looked expectantly at Walter. “Do you want to see the menu?”
“No. I’ll have what he’s having.”
Another response that clearly pleased Martin. A brief nonverbal conversation passed between Dorothy and Martin, she with raised eyebrows and he with a firm nod. She nodded in return before hurrying away.
“She likes you,” Martin said.
“She doesn’t know me.”
“She knows enough.”
Now, that wasn’t true. Walter knew that if anyone could see past his bland shell to view the real him, they’d be disgusted. The real Walter Clark had been a rotting, corrupted corpse for over five years. Martin would realize that soon enough, if Walter stuck around much longer.
Walter tried a smile. “What makes you happy?”
“You.” Martin’s response was immediate and sincere.
“Martin—”
“Spending time with you makes me happy. You’re good at… quiet. I like that. And keeping my inn looking nice makes me happy too. I know it’s not much, but I’m proud of it.”
“You should be.” Walter was sincere too. His little rented cabin was the most comfortable place he could remember.
Martin answered him with a gaze so intense and heated that Walter glanced around them guiltily and shifted in his seat. It would be clear to even the most casual observer what Martin was thinking about. Hell, now Walter was thinking about it too. He licked his lips and watched Martin’s pupils widen and cheeks flush.
Then Martin leaned forward over the table. “I know about sex,” he whispered huskily.
“Uh….”
“I did some research this afternoon.”
Jesus Christ. Walter had no idea how Martin would conduct such research. In Chicago there were places a fellow could go, if he knew where to look. Shops that sold books, magazines, and photos geared toward a particular clientele. Bars where men coupled in the shadows and didn’t much care who watched. But Walter doubted that Kiteeshaa boasted similar attractions.
“I didn’t know there were so many options,” Martin said. Wide-eyed and grinning—a kid in a candy store. “Are any of them as nice as what we did today?”
Walter’s instinct was to say something dirty and blasé, to come off as a tough guy who didn’t care. It was a persona that had served him well during his casual encounters. But he couldn’t make himself do it, not with a virgin who brought him flowers and books and shared his personal sorrows. “It’s not the mechanics so much as the person. I’ve done a lot of things, Martin. None of them were as sweet as what we did today.”
Martin’s eyes went watery and his smile softened. “The body….” He cleared his throat. “Bodies are wonderful things. But they’re only decoration. Like a bright coat of paint. The true self is what matters. You know this.”
“What if the body’s the good part? And the true self is….” He wasn’t sure of the right words. Damaged. Dead. Ugly.
Martin shook his head. “Just because someone’s been touched by pain, that doesn’t ruin him. I know you don’t like the ocean, so please forgive this analogy, but sometimes I like to walk on the beach. There’s always a lot of driftwood. Whole trees even. They’ve been wrenched from where they were rooted, then battered by water and sand. They look nothing like they used to. But they still have such beauty. The grains of their fibers, the softness of their grays…. And they’re still useful too. Animals use them for shelter. Burt Evans—you met him today—he fashions driftwood into furniture and sells it to tourists in Newport.”