October 2018
Stupid idiot left his fucking phone behind.
It had been just over fifteen minutes since Justin left - since Sören had made Justin get out, coming home to find him fucking someone else in their bed. Justin had packed some of his things but not all, and in the mad rush to leave, Justin had apparently forgotten his phone also.
Sören was tempted to drop it in water, or throw it away, but when he picked up the phone from the coffee table another urge overcame him. He found himself swiping to unlock, and then doing something he normally didn't do - looking at Justin's contacts. He had the feeling that this Scott person he met from Grindr wasn't the only one Justin had cheated with, and sure enough, scrolling through the contacts, his suspicion was correct - besides Scott, Justin had one other contact labeled with "hookup". Somebody named Anthony.
Sören sat back in the armchair, holding the phone, staring at Anthony's number. He thought about dialing it, but he knew if Justin came back for his phone he'd see the call history and Sören didn't want to argue with him over something else. Not thinking, just seething with rage, Sören went to the kitchen drawer, grabbed a notepad, and jotted down Anthony's number. Then he took his own cell phone and when he sat down, he dialed Anthony's number, hand shaking. It was seven-thirty on a Thursday evening. Most people who didn't work retail, food service, or hospital would be back from work now, and it wasn't terribly late.
Sören was used to most people taking two or three rings to pick up, if they did at all and it didn't go right to voice mail for a game of phone tag. To Sören's surprise, he answered after one ring. "Anthony Hewlett-Johnson." Deep, crisp, professional.
Sören's mouth opened. He couldn't make words. He had no idea what to say. He swiped to end the call, and let his phone drop to his lap, feeling the sickening drop in adrenaline. He heard himself breathing harder.
For some reason, both the name and the voice seemed familiar. Sören couldn't place it, but the feeling of déjà vu unsettled him. Probably just your mind playing tricks on you with the adrenaline.
It wasn't just his hand shaking now, but all of him. After four months this was what it came to. Sören supposed it was better he find out now rather than several months from now, or years, but he still felt crushed. Justin Roberts hadn't been the great love of his life - that had been Mark, who left two years ago - but Sören nonetheless cared about him. He had gotten used to living with someone again, after years alone in this studio apartment. Sometimes Justin could be rude, but he could also be charming. They could make each other laugh.
Sören wondered how long Justin had been cheating on him, if this was recent or it had been going on the entire time. Judging from Justin having one other contact labeled "hookup", he guessed it was at least a couple of weeks if not longer. Why wasn't I good enough?
Sören felt the tears starting, but he was too angry to give in just yet. It was like a dam was rising inside him, valiantly taking one last stand against breakage, holding off the flood to the last possible second. He was hurt, and most of all to his pride. He wasn't a stranger to being left, being rejected, but this was an insult. He didn't want to cry for Justin like some needy, desperate thing who wanted him back.
There was pounding at the door. "I left my bloody phone," Justin called out.
Sören didn't want to let him back in, even though Justin still had some things here, having only packed a couple of suitcases in a rush, gathering things at random from the closet and drawers. Sören didn't know how to explain it but he didn't feel quite safe letting Justin back in the flat. Things needed to cool down. Sören took Justin's phone, got up, unlocked the deadbolt and the bottom lock but left the chain on, opening the door just a crack. "Here," Sören said, and then he tossed the phone down the stairwell before slamming the door.
"Fucking hell," Justin yelled. Sören heard him take a few steps down to get his phone, then Justin said, "The rest of my things -"
"Come back in a week," Sören said. So we don't end up murdering each other. Though Justin could easily overpower him - he was a professional footballer, playing for FC Arsenal, and of a muscular build. Sören wasn't quite a twink - he had a mustache and beard - but he was slim and asthmatic, the boy who'd always been picked last for sports during physical education classes when he was in school.
Justin's steps continued down the stairs, and Sören went from the door to the window, not really looking out, but he listened as Justin's car, a red-and-yellow McLaren that Sören had teasingly called "McDonald's", tore off. Good. Bastard.
Sören sat back down in the armchair and now, the dam broke. He hated himself for crying, but he couldn't help it. It was like his soul was bleeding out.
_
Sören Sigurðsson would be thirty-four in a month, and he still made his living as a barista. He had once been in med school, and made it as far as his internship before he had a breakdown. In the ashes of his breakdown he'd reconnected with his first love of art, a form of therapy, and like a phoenix he'd begun to paint, and occasionally made pottery as well. In Reykjavik he'd met Mark Lowry, a musician traveling Europe, and after a passionate summer together Sören had followed him back to London. That was 2009, when Sören was almost twenty-five. In 2013, once same-sex marriage became legal in the UK, he and Mark were wed, and Sören gained UK citizenship. Then in 2016, after seven years, Mark suddenly left with no warning or explanation given, Sören woke up one morning and Mark was gone, though he'd deposited a very generous sum of money in Sören's bank account. Sören was absolutely devastated, and had spent the last two years trying to pick up the pieces of his broken heart.
Sören lived modestly in a studio apartment in Holborn, a few blocks away from the cafe where he worked thirty hours a week to stretch the money Mark had left him, but not so many hours that he didn't have time and energy for his art. One of the reasons why Sören still ached for Mark to this day was that he and Mark had created together, pulling "all-nighters" where Mark composed and performed his compositions, and Sören painted what he saw in his mind's eye - Sören always had synaesthesia, but for some reason it was much stronger with Mark's music. Mark had been his muse, and for awhile Sören's art dried up in his grief, but eventually it came back, as Sören had been making art before he met Mark - that was in fact how they'd met, was Mark saw Sören sketching outside and chatted him up. Sören could have gone back to school and "made something of himself", but there was really nothing he wanted to do besides art. For some it was a hobby; for Sören it was his calling. So he was willing to "be nobody" and work as a barista, to allow himself the freedom to focus on his craft.
It was better than some of the other jobs Sören had worked. He'd been working retail when he and Mark met in Reykjavik, and customer service was a special kind of hell. He still had rude customers as a barista, but there were some interesting people who came in, and the cafe was close enough to both the National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery and Lincoln's Inn that a fair number of professionals frequented, who tended to tip well - though both the hospital and Lincoln's Inn had cafeterias on-site, he knew the doctors and nurses and lawyers and legal assistants liked a change of scenery; he would too.
A week had passed since Sören threw Justin out, and though Sören was still feeling sad and agitated, he at least wasn't a wreck like he'd been after Mark left - he was able to go to work instead of just crying in bed for hours at a time. He was also trying to be somewhat objective. and tell himself he'd probably dodged a bullet - Justin had said some genuinely hurtful things and made him cry a few times over the last four months, especially about his artwork, and Justin seemed to expect Sören to be the cook and the housekeeper even though Sören worked more than he did. Sören was stung, but he kept telling himself he was better off. He could almost believe it; today was a beautiful fall day, the leaves were turning, and on his way to work Sören enjoyed the clear blue sky, the blaze of color on the trees, the touch of smoke in the air. Every now and again between customers Sören took a step outside to savor what he could of the autumn loveliness.
That wasn't the only thing Sören liked looking at. In the afternoon, one of the semi-regulars came, who Sören assumed was from Lincoln's Inn - about six-two, lean and fit, short black hair with a few barely noticeable threads of silver, wide-set green eyes, high cheekbones, generous mouth, boyishly handsome. Today he was wearing a dark navy pinstripe suit with a medium blue tie and a white shirt. He was sitting at a table by the window with a laptop; Sören took a moment to admire his hands, with their long, elegant fingers, neatly manicured, ringless. The man came in once a week on Thursdays, and Sören had always felt a little guilty about ogling him, though Sören would have never done anything about it while he was with Justin. Now that Justin was gone, Sören noticed himself glancing over again and again, and feeling a little disappointed that one of the other baristas had waited on him. The man took sips of coffee - Sören knew his usual was a hazelnut latte - between peering intensely at his laptop and typing furiously; Sören was impressed with his typing speed. Every now and again the man looked out the window, and Sören observed he was watching birds, which Sören found adorable.
Though the man wore no rings and Sören guessed he was mid to late thirties, being unmarried at that age didn't necessarily mean gay, and the man didn't follow any obvious stereotypes beyond seeming to take very good care of himself. Nonetheless, there was always something about him that pinged Sören's gaydar, and now that Justin was gone, Sören was starting to feel like he was at a meat market and had just seen a very choice cut of beef on sale. After he'd stared at the guy a few times, the guy started looking back, and Sören's face burned - oh god, he's going to think I'm a creeper; he's out of my league anyway - but then the guy smiled, a genuine, dazzling smile with very white, very straight teeth, like something out of a toothpaste commercial. Sören smiled back. Their gazes kept meeting every now and again, and after a few more rounds of this Sören gave him another smile, this one more demure and shy; the man winked in response.
Oh yeah, he's definitely gay.
Sören had another rush of customers and felt like he was drowning in anxiety, not just in and of itself, but he knew the man was probably on break from work and was going to have to leave soon. But then, after the queue dissolved and Sören had a chance to catch his breath, the man slowly walked to his register. "Hi," he said. "I'd like a refill."
I'd like to fill you. Or vice versa. Either. Both. Sören swallowed hard and put in the order. When he took the man's card, which he'd probably handled dozens of times now, the name on it caught his eye: Anthony Hewlett-Johnson. Now he knew why the voice and the name seemed familiar, a week ago.
You son of a bitch. Sören froze.
Sören continued to process the order, trying to stay as nonchalant as possible, while his heart hammered in his ears. It took him every ounce of his restraint not to spit in the man's drink, or throw it in his face when it was ready. Anthony continued to be perfectly pleasant as he received the drink, and Sören watched him return to his table, and after a couple of sips their eyes met again and held, like Anthony had very deliberately ordered from him to initiate some sort of conclusion to this not-quite-flirting-but-not-not-flirting.
Sören was livid now. He didn't care if he lost his job over this. He came over to Anthony's table - it wasn't unheard of for the baristas to occasionally come over and ask customers if everything was OK and if they wanted something else - but instead of asking him if the coffee was fine, his fists clenched and he hissed, "You."
Anthony blinked slowly and squared his shoulders. "I... beg your pardon?"
"You fucking piece of shit!"
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