Date: Mon, 16 Feb 2009 00:00:14 GMT
From: G W <gwolfe6@juno.com>
Subject: "The End and the Beginning Again": Chapter 1

      The thoughts came to him fleetingly; fleetingly.  Fleetingly there
and then gone again, having evaporated back into the mists of his
overactive imagination.  They always came and went on Thursday afternoon,
when he sat in the false, vaguely pleasant florescent brightness of his
office and allowed his work to escape his mind.  The inside of his head
flashed with crimson, sex and smoke, although his eyes were numb with the
overabundance of beige walls and the neutral, corporate-friendly maple
furniture with sleek silver hardware that his boss prized so much.
      It was alright, for furniture.
      John rubbed his eyes and realized how long he had been hunched over
in his chair, staring at the screen of his laptop.  There was a stack of
thirty reports that he was supposed to be reviewing, and at 3pm he had only
cleared out three of them.  This one was spectacularly poorly done; the
inspector had clearly rushed through this particular building and submitted
crap before taking another hefty caseload.  Now it was up to John to make
up the information that the inspector had ignored but the underwriter would
need to stamp the case as a "good risk" and determine the yearly premium.
      "This building probably has a sprinkler system, maybe," he muttered
to himself, as he filled in the empty checkboxes.  "And there are no dogs
or children on the premises.  And fuck you Inspector 128, fuck you.  Drive
off a fucking cliff this week."
      John shook his head as he edited the rest of the incomplete report
and then, aggravated, sent it on to the underwriter with his initials.  It
aggravated him the most that he was stamping his name on shoddy work, but
time restraints were time restraints.  Maybe a politely admonishing email
to Inspector 128 would change the quality of work.  Probably not though,
given that a politely admonishing email to Inspector 115 had bounced back
with a false email address, one to Inspector 108 was returned with a three
page summary of the man's recent medical history ("boils on my inner
thigh"), and one to Inspector 143 inspired a reply with a fascinating
threat involving rock salt and John's nipples.
      It was all moot, John thought.  It didn't matter.  He sighed.  This
week's work would be out the door, poor as ever, and next week's work would
start rolling in on Monday.  That, too would be rushed, compromised,
okayed, then disputed . . . John shut his eyes and stretched, hearing each
satisfying crack and he flexed back into his chair.  His work was always
getting rushed, okayed, blah blah, submitted, blah blah, okayed . . . It
was always shit.  It was always . . . nothing . . . He was sitting in a
dark room, and there was a crowd; drunken, charged, and crowding in the
darkness.  Electricity was in the air, and they were laughing, and so was
he . . . they were watching something . . . he was excited . . .
      John's eyes snapped open and he sat up.  He had been sinking into his
private world again, where work dissolved and imaginary notes struck long
dormant chords in his gut.  He was no longer hanging on the bottom rung of
his company, no longer cleaning up the messes that the bigger guys threw at
him on their way to lunch . . . That warm, sexy place inhabited by people
that had a purpose . . . where entire conversations could be had and not
once mention sprinkler systems, or politely admonishing the inspectors, or
what the damn underwriter expects to see in a frigging Standard Field
Survey.  A nice, dark place where the booze tastes good and the men are
handsome –
      "Stop," John whispered to himself.
      The sleek silver handle on his immaculate maple desk shone in the
afternoon light as he grabbed it and pulled the drawer open.  An almost
empty bottle of Tums lay surrounded by pens and sticky notes, and he
grabbed two and threw them back with a fresh determination to focus on
completing reports.  Drinks and "having a purpose" and all that shit were
great, but John had watched his parents work themselves sick at midnight
shifts for years, and he always forced himself to live to that standard.
He must let his hard work be his satisfaction, however tempting fun and
crimson trysts and handsome men might be . . .
      No.  Not men, especially handsome ones.  That was one thing that was
off limits.  Not now; not since Derek.  No, not since Derek . . .
      The next report clicked into his screen, and John smiled briefly as
he realized that this inspector had been thorough at this building and
eloquent with his information.  A little knot had formed in the dormant
part of his gut when he thought of Derek, but it eased as he worked.  He
quickly reviewed three more cases, deftly editing the scattered information
into one homogenous, glowing, report.  He gladly added the inspector
number, his own initials, submitted it, and then sent a small email to the
inspector thanking him on such an excellent report.
      Finally settling back into the flow of his day, he clicked the next
report into his screen.  John groaned as he saw that each little box was
filled with the word "penis," and the first photo submitted was not
front-of-the-building-from-left, but instead, one of the most close up
photos of a giant, pink clitoris that John had ever seen.  Apparently,
Inspector 143 had been bored this week.

* * * * *

	John came through the door, glad to be home.  The smell of chicken
wafted from the kitchen, riding the fresh warm air breezing through the
open French doors.  Their small 12th floor apartment faced west, and during
the springtime John and Derek preferred all the doors and windows open to
catch the warm breezes off Lake Erie.
	John set his bag down on the carpet and went into the only other
room, the bedroom, and stripped off his tie and work shirt.  He sat on the
bed, facing the large open windows, and felt the breeze on his body as he
untied his shoes.  The sun was starting to set and bright yellow beams
would darken and soon bathe the modest apartment in gold.  Somewhere Derek
had a radio on while he cooked, and John happily hummed along to classic
rock as he removed his uncomfortable shoes.
	John was handsome.  His Italian roots came out in his olive
complexion and thick dark hair, although his startlingly blue eyes were a
gift from his mother's side of the family.  He was medium height, trim,
with a body that responded naturally to exercise.  To Derek's annoyance,
John had easily built up his arms and shoulders one summer just from
sticking to pull ups every day.
	"You little shit," Derek had said, surprised but grinning, when
John had flexed his new biceps in front of him during a walk last summer.
They went on walks all the time; it was their time to relax together after
each was home from work, which sometimes was often, and sometimes not.
John smiled as he thought of that, the golden light shining on his face.
He felt a leg slide around him on the bed, and then Derek's arms circled
him and a gentle kiss was placed on the nape of his neck.
	Derek was a bigger guy than John; taller, and broader, with buzzed
hair and a kind, strong face.  He had never finished his degree in history
and worked at a gym, but was all the sweeter and kinder for his mistake.
College had been satisfying for Derek, but difficult.  His modest family
was strapped between two mortgages and feeding three younger siblings, and
when he found it too hard to work full-time overnight and attend his
classes he had had to lose the classes.  Watching his diabetic mother had
instilled in him a life long need to exercise and eat correctly, and that
long-honed talent had helped him get the job at the gym.
	His arms and shoulders were almost model perfect, and his firm
chest had a blanket of downy brown hair.  His stomach belied his genetics
though, because no matter how many miles he ran or sets of situps, he never
could lose the last 10 pounds and slight stocky figure that was indicative
of both parents and all three siblings.
	John didn't care.  It was Derek's mind that attracted him.  They
saw in each other someone that had learned discipline at his parent's
overworked knee, and also the need for fun and kind attentive love that
such discipline fostered.  They soothed each other, entertained each other,
argued, trod over the other's independence constantly, and in the dark of
night, huddled close in bed, they wrapped their arms tightly around each
other as they slept.  They both recognized something they couldn't define,
it was something they weren't giving up.
	John turned around and faced Derek; that broad jaw and smiling,
goofy face.  He gave him a peck on the lips, then snuggled close as Derek
gave him a squeeze.  It's all too perfect, John thought.  There were
fights, there were winters; there were horrible, insulting mistakes, and
entire weeks of both of them being too tired and bitchy to talk.  But right
now it was spring, it was sunset, it was Derek, and it was John.  And it
was perfect . . . perfect . . .

* * * * *

	John woke up, tears in his eyes.  He looked over at the red digital
numbers on his alarm clock, and it was 3:15am.  Fuck, he thought.  Fuck,
fuck, fuck, fuck.  He rolled onto his side and squeezed his eyes shut,
trying to clear his mind and sleep.  He hated dreaming about Derek, it just
tugged on strings that threatened pull apart inside of him.  He tried every
day not to think about it, and to just let the dormant part of him sleep.
	The only other thing on his mind was Inspector 143, and that hardly
helped.  With a deep breath, he sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes.  The
blinds were open and the streetlight lit his room enough for him to see
himself in the water streaked mirror.
	He'd had to give up the small, west-facing apartment after the car
accident six months ago; it had been affordable with their two incomes, but
not on his alone.  Now he lived on the second floor of a carved up
Victorian mansion in the West Village; near enough to downtown to bike to
his job, but far enough away that he could avoid his old apartment
building.
	His dark hair hung in thick clumps, and his eyes were red and very,
very wet.  He saw his face break slightly, and he sniffled and quickly got
up to blow his nose.  The streetlight highlighted the lines in his defined
chest, and he looked down at his body and happily saw that he had gained a
little weight back.
	Six months ago John had bought a bicycle, and now biked everywhere
he needed to go, which was really only work and the grocery store.  Between
that and no longer eating on a regular basis, he was shocked to one day
look in the mirror and see a rail-thin version of his former self, and had
since then forced himself to eat three meals a day.  Derek, the nutrition
nut, would have been horrified, John kept thinking.
	He sighed and went back to bed.  He lay on his side, unwilling to
close his eyes lest he see Derek there smiling back at him.  The traffic
light outside shone through the blinds and painted green, yellow, and red
slashes across the ceiling.  The little room felt hot, but he didn't get
up.  Instead he angrily clenched the pillow, and just let the tears come.