After All These Years You Know They Were Wrong about the Sadness of Men Who Love Men

17 Aaron Smith It’s Palm Springs and you’ve slipped away from a day of swimming and drinking to lie for a minute with your eyes closed in the other room while the air-conditioner moan-groans outside the window—your body chilled from sunburn and untouched for months. Startled from near sleep you hear a crash of laughter, man-laughter, the slapping of bare backs, hands smacking the skin of men drying by the pool or making hamburgers in the kitchen or solving a puzzle on the glass table in twilight— Does anybody need another drink? and laughter. The pizza’s here; Can I have a cigarette? Pass the pretzels and your name: Has anyone seen Aaron? You don’t say anything but listen to the man saying your name—Soon someone will be sent to look for you, and you’ll pretend to be sleeping, say you must have dozed off, you’ll rejoin the party soon but need another minute. You want to remember this. You’ve waited your whole life for them to miss you. After All These Years You Know They Were Wrong about the Sadness of Men Who Love Men ...