(c)2024 by Brad Allison

     Now I understand the allure of toasting to the year’s end; it’s a gentle reprieve from the silent reflection that often accompanies the closing hours of December. This introspection is laden with the remnants of dreams not yet realized and promises to oneself left unkept. While a fortunate few can toast to triumphs and fulfilled pledges, many grapple with the ghosts of resolutions past. On this threshold of 2023, I’ve decided to forgo the tradition of resolutions. My focus is on tangible aspirations: deepening my bond with Mike, managing our home, and progressing in my career. The air is filled with the soft strains of Diana Krall, Rick Braun, and Beegie Adair—piano jazz is my soul’s delight. My gaze drifts to the TV, where the muted spectacle of a drone floating above the expectant crowd in Times Square unfolds. They’re all there for the descent of the gleaming Waterford Crystal sphere. In that instant, I reflect on the intricate tapestry of forces that unite us, ignite our passions, and shape our preferences, transcending political divides, social views, and religious beliefs. It’s a singular evening when all of humanity converges in unity. But just as quickly, I’m pulled back to the present. After all, I’m a marketer, not a psychiatrist, philosopher, mind-reader or a sage.

     Tonight, I cradle a snifter of brandy, its rich aroma enveloping me like a comforting embrace. The waning sunset spills warm hues through the large, bare oak tree just beyond the front yard, its gnarled branches etching delicate patterns on the living room’s bay window. My mind drifts to Mike—what is he up to? Earlier, I’d asked him to kindle a fire in the fireplace, its dancing flames promising a cocoon of warmth on this New Year’s holiday. For the first time, it’s just the two of us, unburdened by elaborate plans or the weight of a pandemic. Last week, we celebrated Christmas with Mike’s mother. His father had passed away five years ago in their Florida home, and now she resides in a quiet retirement community here in Michigan. Despite the trials they’ve faced, Mike and his mother have rekindled their relationship. As for our own bond, I’m uncertain if she fully embraces it, but she extends a quiet tolerance. There’s a subtle yet profound difference between acceptance and mere tolerance—a distinction akin to hearing someone versus truly listening. And in that nuance lies the heart of our connection. 

    It’s been twelve beautiful years since Mike and I made our heartfelt promises on a snowy Christmas morning, a year after the ordeal with Barbara. With each year, our bond deepens, a testament to the love and effort we pour into it. Although we yearn for the recognition of our union through legal marriage, Michigan had not recognized same-sex marriage until recently. We’ve been reluctant to travel elsewhere for our nuptials, wishing to share the moment with our loved ones right here. Interestingly, now that marriage equality is legal throughout the Unites States, remnants from the Defense of Marriage Act remain. Should we decide to elope, the vibrant New York City, with its rich theater scene, would be a top choice. Mike would surely delight in the Broadway experience, while for me, the city represents the zenith of advertising, aligning perfectly with our agency’s field.

     Previously, the idea of a ceremony felt superfluous to me; eloping seemed sufficient since marriage, at its core, is a legal agreement. Yet, Mike has opened my eyes to the beauty of community and the importance of lending a hand. He gently nudged me out of my introverted comfort zone, urging me to be a beacon for those adrift. Our therapist suggests that Mike’s sociability is both a shield and a salve, a response to the harrowing saga with Barbara, who ended the lives of his former lover Tad and my ex, Gabriel, or as I affectionately called him, Gabi. Her actions cast a shadow over many, leaving Mike grappling with remorse and wrath. Nevertheless, Mike seeks solace in the light of connection, spreading joy as a bulwark against dark recollections. As these memories stir, he finds solace in that radiance and camaraderie, and I stand with him. I recall the hospital incident vividly—Barbara’s attack, the scalpel grazing my arm and chest, the window shattering. It was later uncovered that the hospital had used subpar plexiglass. Following her tragic fall, the hospital sealed that area, replaced the windows, and revamped their safety protocols.

     As the calendar turns to December 31, 2022, Kalamazoo wears an unusual cloak—no snow blankets the ground. Instead, a gentle rain graced us earlier, and now, as evening descends, we’re blessed with an actual sunset. Mike, ever the winter skeptic, dreads the season’s arrival, while I find solace in its transformative embrace. Michigan’s gift lies in its full spectrum of seasons, each offering its own magic. I once tried to convey this to him, back in the aftermath of Tad’s funeral. Funny how he, the master of change, can mold others—me included—yet struggles to accept it for himself. Tad, a lingering presence in our relationship, isn’t a third wheel; we’re no “throuple.” He was Mike’s great love, the one who coaxed him from the same shell I’d once hidden within. But Tad’s existence was abruptly erased, a gunshot echoing through time. Gabriel, too, vanished from my life, our parting fueled by my love for Mike. My heart still aches for Gabriel, especially for his family. Yet for Mike, the loss was sudden, jarring. Since grade school in the late 1970s, I’ve stood by him, unwavering. 

     This year, we find ourselves in our mid-forties, still residing in the house I purchased right after we became a couple and after the tumultuous Barbara saga. My other house, the one where Barbara poisoned Mike and where the police did indeed find listening devices, was a place we both decided we couldn’t inhabit any longer. Our lives have settled into stability, and the agency supports our mid-to-upper-class lifestyle. Mike cherishes this home, and I’ve always appreciated its generous proportions. Yet, occasionally, I wonder if it’s excessive for just the two of us—it boasts 3,500 square feet, four bedrooms, and three bathrooms. However, that extra space becomes invaluable when we host friends and family. For Mike, this house transcends mere dwelling; it’s his sanctuary, his retreat.

A pair of firm hands gently rest on the nape of my neck, thumbs pressing into the knots of tension with a soothing rhythm. “Mmm… that’s perfect,” I murmur, setting my glass down on the coffee table with care. Turning around, I offer Mike a soft kiss. “Hey, be a dear and light a fire.” 

     “Absolutely,” he answered, moving with purpose towards the hearth. He skillfully set up the firebox, placing the kindling just so on the grate. The rugged charm of his features was highlighted by the presence of a fresh, short beard, giving off the vibe of the no-shave tradition of November’s huntsmen. This new addition suited his curly brown locks, which were just beginning to show whispers of gray at the temples. Clad in a crisp white pullover sweater over a red and black plaid flannel, his form was outlined by snug jeans, and on his feet, the ever-present Birkenstocks – his signature indoor footwear.

     As he knelt to ignite the kindling and place logs on the grate, he knew I was watching. “What?” I teased. He didn’t need words; his grin said it all. 

     “I’m just admiring the view.” I playfully slapped his ass, and his brilliant white teeth flashed in response.

     “Bill, it’s not much of a view,” he quipped, lighting the paper under the small kindle.

     “That’s your opinion,” I countered, rising to refill my brandy glass. I couldn’t resist giving him a hug and kissing the nape of his neck – a move that always drove him crazy. “You know I love you. Every day, you excite me. I can’t help it.” I gestured toward the front lawn, manicured despite its dull brown grass. “What do you not see?”

     “Um, no traffic? The road is quiet and empty,” he observed. “And no squirrels.” His mention of squirrels referred to our dog, Mana, who both feared and terrorized the local squirrel population. We’d adopted her a few years ago from a nearby shelter, and her Jack Russell mix of craziness kept life interesting.

     “And how about the weather? Any snow?” I asked, enjoying our cozy moment by the fire.

He turns and smiles, falling into my embrace. “Ah, you’re right, Bill. I’m truly enjoying this winter, and I wish it would linger. What time is it? Five? Only seven more hours until 2011. What should we do in these next six hours, with nobody to attend to, no parties—nothing but us.”

     I knew what he was hinting at, but that would happen later. “Let’s make dinner. The fillets won’t take too long to grill, and the shrimp—it’s just shrimp cocktail. Easy. I want to keep it simple. And the Taittinger is chilling if we can make it to midnight.” I walk by the bar. “Your usual?” I pour a few shots of Disaronno into a tumbler over ice and top it with cranberry juice.

“Sure,” he says, going through the mail, throwing ads into the fire. “Hey, it’s after the fact, but here’s a Christmas card from Charley.” He opens it and reads aloud, “Thank you for all your love and support. May you guys have the happiest of holidays and a blessed new year. Love, Charles.” That was nice of him. “I haven’t seen him since September.”

     Charles Forbes, whom we fondly call Charlie, is a dear friend and our go-to legal consultant at the agency. Our paths crossed at a gala organized by a prestigious arts institute in Kalamazoo, dedicated to fundraising for an LGBTQ youth and family support non-profit. It was Mike who struck up a chat with Charlie, both pausing to appreciate an abstract watercolor positioned next to a poignant metal sculpture of an angel, its wings seemingly torn, feathers scattered. I was nursing a martini, trying to mingle. My conversations typically leaned more towards the professional than the personal, but Mike believed it was an effective way to network for our advertising firm. Eventually, I joined in, learning that Charlie was in the market for legal contract riders, which coincided with our need for legal expertise. Shortly after, we sealed a partnership. While Charlie and I clicked over professional matters, he and Mike found common ground in light-hearted talks and a mutual love for the theater and the arts.

     Retreating to the kitchen, I’m greeted by the oven grill, ready to be lit. The house, with its generous open floor plan, was a major draw when I decided to buy it. It allows for a fluid transition from the kitchen to the dining area, ensuring that our guests in the living room are never out of sight or mind. On the countertop, the filet steaks await, their surfaces glistening with salt, slowly acclimating to room temperature. Tying my apron and washing my hands, I ponder aloud, “Is Charles still seeing that guy from Uganda? What was his name?”

     “Daniel Martinez… Danny. But he’s from Uruguay, not Uganda. And you know, Danny might just catch your eye too,” Mike teases with a knowing smile, tuned into my appreciation for Latino men—a preference we share. He’s always had a thing for the dark-haired, muscular types, a bit shorter with olive complexions. As for me, I stand a few inches below Mike at 5 feet 8 inches, my hair a nondescript mix of blond and brown, and my eyes a simple shade of hazel. I’ve never seen myself as remarkable, just your average guy with what’s lovingly termed a “dad bod”—complete with a hairy chest and a bit of a belly. And my skin? It’s fair to the point of being pale; I’m the type who burns rather than tans, even at the peak of summer.

    “Enough,” I interject. He joins me in the kitchen, opening the bag of thawed shrimp and taking them to the sink for a rinse. “I’ve only seen a few pictures of Danny that Charles posted on Facebook. He’s younger, undeniably good-looking, and they seem very content with each other. But here’s the kicker: they’re six thousand miles apart.”

     “I wonder how they do it? How can they maintain a feeling for each other without physical contact?” Mike’s hands deftly peel and wash shrimp, arranging them on the rim of a cocktail glass. Meanwhile, I place the filets on the heated grill. “I know they talk on Skype almost every night, but not having that physical connection—it’s hard to imagine. They’ve been together for what? Almost a few months now, right? And then there’s the Defense of Marriage Act. It’s not just an inconvenience; it’s discriminatory. Charley can’t legally bring Danny in on a K1 fiancée visa. Is he planning to become an expatriate in Uruguay?"

     Mike shrugs his shoulders. “That, dear, I do not know,” he says, popping a shrimp into my mouth.