#ephemera au

“Do you ever worry that they are right?” You can’t lie to Nico, your odd, oft distracted man who doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. “I did at first,” you say, “But not anymore.” “Not any more,” says Nico. “You take care of me when I’m sick,” you say, “You make sure i fill my meds and wake me up when I’m having bad dreams. You wouldn’t do all that if you just meant to ditch me. You stood up to my Mom. Nobody stands up to my Mom.” “Your mother is a piece of work,” says Nico. “That’s a funny way of saying ‘cunt’.” Nico huffs and his lips quirk in an almost smile. He rests his face into the space between your neck and shoulder, you feel the tension in his shoulders bleed out under your hands. “I’m being foolish again, aren’t I?” “Maybe a little.” “I’m not going anywhere,” says Nico. “I’m not either.”

         "Vine lo más rápido que pude, Osita," He bursts in and you want to hide. Your try to curl into yourself but he will not allow it, his hand on your shoulder, rolling you so you are facing him.          "You shouldn't be here."          "Where else would I be?" You blink the tears away and look at him, knowing more tears will come. Once you start crying like this it's like a river. Nothing can stop it. The corners of your mouth quirk up because Nico's a mess. He's wearing his glasses instead of contacts and his curls stick out every which way. He's wearing a t-shirt with a stretched out neck, and pajama bottoms. You laugh a little and it hurts, bringing a wave of fresh tears. His eyes are wide and shining, his teeth worry at his lower lip and his concern is too much. You roll away from him on your narrow bed, and curl inward, feel the dip of the mattress as he sits.          "What happened?"          "My family knows about us."          "So?"          "God, you're really fucking dense sometimes," you say, and there is silence, except for the hitch of your breath, the sounds of the neighbors music oozing through the walls, the sounds of someone arguing in the parking lot.          "I don't mean to be."          "Fuck. I know. It's just--"          "Talk to me, Osita, tell me what happened."          "You know the art show we went to?"          "Yes! The Henry Darger exhibit."          "Well, someone took a picture of us and someone tagged me in it, and it got back to my sisters and my mom." He runs his hand along the curve of your shoulder, tracing up and down your arm, a mindless, repetitive motion.          “I don't--"          "They say you don't love me, okay? That you're just gonna fuck me till something better comes along and then ditch me."          "Why?" He says, and his voice is cold, hard like you've never heard. You've seen Nico happy and melancholy, but this is the first time you have ever heard him angry. "They don't know me. Why would they think such things?"                You start talking and you don't stop. You don't stop until your voice is hoarse. Your mom, your sisters. You'll be back in three months. Who do you think you are? As if the enclosure of your hometown is all you should ever dream of. All you should ever be. Aspiring to anything else means you're insulting them. Go ahead and go. See what it's like. You'll be home by thanksgiving. Who do you think you are? It all falls out of you. The way all your friends turned their backs when they found out your were leaving. How you got suckered. We all work together and we can make it. Except making it ended up being a shit apartment with everyone scraping to put together rent and food and bickering over who ate what from the fridge, the nearby strip of public beach always filled with washed up trash, littered with cigarette butts. A promise gone sour right from the start.            "They're right. I can't make it. I never should have come out here in the first place." Nico doesn't speak. He doesn't speak, but he slides into bed behind you, enfolds you in himself, a warm wall around you.           "They are wrong about you," he says, his breath warm on your nape, "They are wrong about us. We can go to the courthouse tomorrow morning if you wish. I had intended to court you properly, to surprise you, something romantic, you know--"           "Nico, are you asking me to marry you?" He curls around you tighter, his hand finds yours and he threads his fingers through yours and squeezes.           "You don't have to answer right now," he says, "I don't want to pressure you. I just--mierda, I'm bad at this. This weight you carry, you don't have to carry it alone. I want to carry it for you, Osita."           "Why? You want to rescue me from my sad little life?" He squeezes you even tighter.           "Do you know why I call you Little Bear? It's because you are strong. You are fierce. But you don't need to be. You don't have to go it alone. I don't want to rescue you. I want to stand beside you. If you'll have me." And there is silence between you, the sound of some cop show coming through the thin walls, the sounds of someone arguing, the sounds of the compressor in your balky window unit kicking on.           "You're sure."           "I am."           "I need to think."           "Of course."           "Will you stay?"           "I'll be here all night. As long as you need."  He tucks his face into your neck and pulls you close. And you're so tired from crying, from arguing with your mother, from the cramped spiral of your own thoughts, you feel yourself relaxing into him, settling into Nico's arms, your breath matching his, his chest curved to your back, his long legs entangled with yours, you feel your breath even out, his words pressed soft into your neck.           "Rest well, mi amor."

         You come to a fork and take it, breath coming hard, it's a bit of an incline and then you see him, sitting on a blanket, broad back and unruly curls dark against the velvet blue of twilight sky. He turns and smiles, and whenever he smiles at you, its like something inside you squeezes and lets go, he is radiant even in this tricksy pre-dawn light.   You barely manage to say 'hi' before he enfolds you, pulls you tight against him. You tuck your face into the warm juncture of his neck and shoulder and he cups the back of your head, his palm a soothing weight. You feel yourself relax against him.          "Missed you, Osita,"          "It's only been a week."          "A week is too long," he murmurs, his breath warm in your hair, "A week is forever." He is solid and strong and the two of you sway for a moment, a gentle rocking back and forth before he draws back so he can kiss you, soft press of his lips against yours, hands sliding down your arms to clasp yours.          "Come sit with me," he says, "I brought us some pastries!" You plop down on the blanket next to him and feel your own smile mirroring his.          "Coffee?" He says and presses a paper cup in a cardboard sleeve into your waiting hands.          "Oh thank fuck," and take a big sip. Extra cream and extra sugar. Just the way you like it. Nico giggles.          "I know how you are without your morning coffee, Osita." He unzips a soft sided, insulated grocery bag and hands you a waxed paper wrapped parcel. You set your cup in the loose dirt and twist it, a makeshift holder in the sand.          "Is this what I think it is?" Nico just smiles. There's a little coffee shop Nico takes you to sometimes, Stargazer's it's called, and sure enough he's brought you one of their croissants, still warm from the oven. You take a bite and your eyes close your eyes in pleasure.          "Good?" He asks.          "You don't even know."          "I got myself an apple fritter," he says, around a mouthful of said fritter, "I think I have some idea."          "How did we end up convincing ourselves that carbs are bad for you? Like, as a culture? How the fuck did we get here?" Nico laughs. A big one that rocks him back and forth, eyes screwed shut in mirth.          "I'm serious! People would rather drink, I don't know, kale smoothies than have a nice warm croissant," You take another bite, relishing the slight crunch of the outer layer, and the tenderness of the insides, "Sometimes I think people just don't know how to live."          "But we do, Osita, don't we?"          "Yeah, Nico, I think we do. You do. I'm learning. I think," You laugh, "How did you manage this? I didn't think Stargazer's opened till six."          "Do you know Julietta?"          "Yeah," you say, "She's the owner, right?"          "Co-owner," says Nico, "Francesca is her wife. She comes in around midnight to do the day's baking. I walk down there sometimes when I can't sleep. She takes pity on me and lets me in. She told me once I looked like a stray cat, peeking in through the window."          "You have trouble sleeping." This is news to you. The times you've stayed over with Nico he slept like a stone, curled around you, pressed to your back like a protective wall, his face tucked against your neck.          "Sometimes," he says, and his eyes slide away briefly, "Francesca likes to use me as a test subject. I have a hard time saying no. Which explains some of this." Nico squeezes at his belly through his sweater, and it hurts your heart a little. Because for all Nico's charm, for the way he seems to glide effortlessly through the world, you know there is a fragility to him, insecurity behind those lovely, dark eyes.          "Oh! Speaking of which, this is Frannie's latest," he pulls two wrapped pastries from his bag, "Apricot hand-pies with a dark chocolate glaze." He frowns. "They got a little melty--"          "Dude." You say around a mouthful of sweet and tart and perfect crust, "This is so good. If she doesn't add this to the menu she is out of her mind." Nico doesn't speak, just makes a contented sound. He is beautiful in the gradually rising light, a rare overcast day, the ocean a cold mirror for the sky, grey reflected on grey. Pastries consumed, you burrow against him, chilled even with your coffee clasped between your hands.          "Here," says Nico, drapes a blanket around the two of you and you lean into him, and his arm wraps around your shoulders. He is warm and solid and you feel anchored by his breath, the rise and fall of his chest pressed against yours. I could love this man, you think, not for the first time, and that thought comes with it's own raft of anxieties. I want to love this man, you think. But you don't know where you stand. You don't know what you are to him. A lover? A project? A charity case? The decreasing circle of people you still listen to are telling you to run, telling you that there's no way someone as wealthy and well connected as Nico could possibly want you as anything other than a distraction, a dalliance. And yet here he is. He's held you while you cried. He's taken care of you when you're sick. He calls you Osita, his little bear. And he hugs you so tight whenever he sees you. Like he might never get the chance again.          "Marra's moving back home," you say. You don't even mean to, you've tried to compartmentalize, to just be in the moment like he is, to not think too far down the road, but here tucked against his side it just comes falling out of you. "At the end of the month. That means it'll just me and Lu. I don't--we can't swing it. I think I'm gonna have to go back to Ohio." The light is rising now, no sharp shadows, not this morning, gradual shift in definition, color slowly leaching back into the world. Nico is silent, pressed against you, staring out over the ocean. He worries at his lower lip with his teeth.          "I was married for a time," he says, "Did you know that?"          "No," you say. You googled him. Of course you did. And found nothing but mentions in dry financial publications, nothing that raised any red flags. You've never seen a ring, or a line of pale skin where one should be. There are photographs tastefully displayed around his house but none of them are of people.          "We were very young," he says, "Very much in love. It was like being on fire. We did everything together, yes? Everything seemed so clear then. We would have a life together, get old and grey. I could see it. It seemed so certain. Inevitable." He smiles out over the slate grey water and blank sky, but it doesn't touch his eyes at all, and his  arm around your shoulders tightens, fingers press into the flesh of your upper arm, as if you are his anchor and not the other way around. You slide your arm around his back and squeeze.          "What happened?"          "She died." He taps a finger against his temple. "Brain aneurysm. She was twenty three."          "Jesus, Nico, I'm so sorry." And he laughs, a bitter huff of air and falls silent.  The light rises, a gradual shift and the Pacific turns from sky-reflected gray to its own deep foam laced green. You sit like that for a moment, clinging to each other, leaning against each other. His hand draws up your arm and rests around the nape of your neck, kneading the tense muscles there, needing to soothe even when wrapped in his own thoughts.          "Her passing has made me a coward."          "What? How do you mean?" Nico exudes confidence. There is nowhere he is not welcome. Everywhere you've been with him he seems perfectly at ease, as if he is meant to slip through the world without resistance.          "There are so many things I would say to you if I were brave, Osita," And here he turns to face you, his eyes limned in tears that don't quite fall, "But I am not brave. I never have been. You deserve someone who is not so afraid, you--" You reach for him, your hands cradling his face, smoothing your thumbs over his cheeks and he leans into your touch, his eyes falling closed.          "What would you tell me if you were brave?"          "I would tell you that I don't want you to leave," he says, and you feel him tremble beneath your hands, "I would tell you that I love you. But I am so scared. I'm so scared, Osita--"          "I'm scared too."          "You are?"          "Yeah. I'm scared. I love you and it scares me."