from a fish hole. You can see the clasped arms of the boy and the man, and the two faces with their eyes locked.”
“Where was this?”
“In Woburn.”
“It sounds familiar. Could I have seen it?”
“Possibly. The Globe bought it.”
He nodded slowly and took a long swallow of his drink. “Actually, it’s much the same, what you and I are doing,” he said.
“And what would that be?”
“Trying to stop time.”
The barman beckoned to Thomas, and he walked to a small platform at one end of the room. He leaned on a podium. The audience, to my surprise, grew quiet. There was not even the chink of glasses. Thomas pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of his trousers and said he wanted to read something he had written just that day. There were words that stayed with me: Wainscot and redolent and core-stung.
Later there were a great many glasses on the table, mugs of cut glass that refracted the dregs. There seemed to be endless circles of liquid oak. I thought that nearly half the people in the bar had come to the table to buy Thomas a drink. Thomas drank too much. I could see that even then. He stood and swayed a bit and held the table. I touched him on the elbow. He had no shame in his drunkenness. He asked me if I would help him get to his car. Already I knew that I would have to drive him home.
A sink with a rusty stain leaned along one wall. A small bed that sagged and was covered with a beige blanket stood in the center. Thomas lay on his back on the bed, which was too short for him. I removed his boots and sat on a chair by the desk. Thomas’s feet were white and smooth. His stomach was concave and made a slight hollow under his belt. One of the legs of his trousers had ridden up to expose an inch of skin above his sock. I thought he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen.
When I knew that he was asleep, I slipped a hand into his trouser pocket and removed the folded piece of paper. I took it to the window, where there was a slit in the curtain. I read the poem in the street light.
After a time, I put a finger to the skin at his shin. I traced the scar on his face, and he twitched in his sleep. I put my palm on the place where his belly dipped. The heat of his skin through his shirt surprised me, as though he were running a temperature, as though the inner mechanisms of his body burned inefficiently.
I slipped into the bed and lay beside him. He turned onto his side, facing me. It was dark in the room, but I could see his face. I could feel his breath on my skin.
“You brought me home,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I don’t remember.”
“No, I know you don’t.”
“I drink too much.”
“I know.” I brought my hand up, as though I might touch him, but I didn’t. I laid my hand between our faces.
“Where are you from?” he asked me.
“Indiana.”
“A farm girl.”
“Yes.”
“Seriously?”
“I’ve been in Boston since I was seventeen.”
“School.”
“And after.”
“The after sounds interesting.”
“Not very.”
“You don’t miss Indiana?”
“Some. My parents are dead. I miss them more.”
“How did they die?”
“Cancer. They were older. My mother was forty-eight when I was born. Why are you asking me these questions?”
“You’re a woman in my bed. You’re an attractive woman in my bed. Why did you stay here tonight?”
“I was worried about you,” I said. “What about your parents?”
“They live in Hull. I grew up in Hull. I have a brother.”
“How did you get this?” I reached up and touched the scar on his face.
He flinched, and he turned onto his back, away from me.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“No, it’s all right. It’s just…”
“You don’t have to tell me. It’s none of my business.”
“No.” He brought an arm up and covered his eyes. He was so still for so long that I thought he had fallen asleep.
I shifted slightly in the bed with the intention of getting up and leaving. Thomas, feeling the shift, quickly lifted his arm from his eyes and looked at me. He grabbed my arm. “Don’t go,” he said.
When he rolled toward me, he unfastened one button of my shirt, as though by that gesture he would prevent me from leaving. He kissed the bare space he had made. “Are you with anyone?”