C.S. Poe

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Larkin sat on the couch, his legs on either side of Doyle, who was sitting on the floor with his knees drawn up and back against the couch. Doyle was fixated on the television—the Mets were losing—and Larkin was fixated on combing Doyle’s thick hair into submission. Setting the brush aside, Larkin checked his work by running his fingers through the soft and glossy hair a few times. He said, “Your hair is very healthy.” “Yeah?” “There are men who would commit serious crimes for hair this thick.” Larkin drew both hands through Doyle’s hair a few more times before shaking it loose. “Did you know that forty-two percent of men between eighteen and forty-nine experience moderate to extensive hair loss.” Doyle leaned his head back on the cushion to look at Larkin upside down. “You’re referring to Porter’s hairline.” Larkin pursed his lips to keep from smiling. Doyle grinned from ear to ear. “I see that smile.” Larkin promptly put his hands on either side of Doyle’s face and lifted his head up. Doyle let it drop onto the cushion again. Larkin moved it back. Doyle did it a third time. “Ira.” He laughed but asked in an overly innocent tone, “What?” Larkin gave Doyle an inverted kiss before pushing his head back up. “Let me work.” He resumed brushing Doyle’s hair. “You’ve been brushing for two innings.” “So.” “So, I think you should brush something else.” Larkin faltered and cocked his head to one side. Doyle tilted his head back again, this time while unbuttoning the front of his shirt. “I’ve got chest hair.” Larkin laughed abruptly and shoved Doyle away. “Hey! C’mon.” But Doyle was laughing too. He sat up on his knees in front of the couch, stroking his well-groomed chest one-handed while saying, “It’s messy, right?” Larkin knew his smile was giving him away but he murmured in agreement, “Very messy.”