Like the Frickin' Dinosaurs

Candlelight pushed shadows across the damp walls as a gentle breeze swept through the broken window and across the room. The persistent drip of water from a damaged pipe provided a musical accompaniment to the tap-dance scratches of rats under the floorboards.

It couldn’t have been more romantic.

Mike buttoned his shirt and clasped his belt shut. The floor beneath their blanket was unforgiving but it hadn’t mattered. He fumbled in the dim light for their cigarettes and matches and looked up when he heard shuffling footsteps echoing from beyond the dark doorway.

Dennis filled the entrance, a beaming smile splashed across his face, black skin against a black background, and held up a bottle. ‘Found this,’ he said. ‘It’s vintage.’ He passed it to Mike.

‘Just because it’s dusty doesn’t mean it’s vintage.’

‘It’s ’84.’

‘That’s not vintage!’ Mike scoffed. He ran a hand through thick brown hair and blew dust from the bottle of wine.

‘It’s older than me!’ Dennis said. He settled down on the blanket beside Mike and they popped the cork, drinking straight from the bottle.

Mike reached out and ran his hand down the silky black skin of Dennis’ arm. He sighed. ‘If there was a meteorite in the sky, hurtling towards earth, would you tell your parents?’ He rested his forehead against Dennis’ shoulder.

‘I’m sure they’d see it.’

‘I mean about us. If the world was going to end, would you tell anyone?’

Dennis didn’t look at him. ‘This meteorite—how long we got? Before it strikes, I mean.’

Mike shrugged. ‘Couple of days?’

‘Monday?’

‘Sure. Monday.’

Dennis took another long pull from the wine bottle, ran the back of his hand over his mouth. ‘I’d tell them Tuesday.’

Mike turned away, hugged his knees.

‘Hey,’ Dennis said. ‘Come on, there’s no need to be like that. Why’d you want to go upsetting the balance, anyway?’

‘Because I hate this,’ Mike said. ‘I hate this. All this skulking around in the dark. This…this place. Why can’t we walk down the street and be ourselves? Why can’t we—’

‘We can. One day. You know what my Mama’s like. Man, we’re only eighteen.’

‘We’re nearly nineteen. We’re men. Fully grown. Don’t you lov—’

Dennis stood. ‘Don’t you dare say that. Don’t you dare.’

Lightning whipped the clouds and a dusty wind stirred in through the broken window making candle flames salsa on their wicks. The rain was sudden and heavy, punching fists against the corrugated roof.

Dennis crouched. ‘You know what my Mama’s like.’

‘Yeah, you said that already.’

‘It’s true. “Ain’t no son o’mine gonna walk round with no handbag.” You know what she’s like. Always down at church on Sunday. Always down there at that African Woman’s Self-Help thing.’

Mike turned further away, stared into the sputtering flame of the nearest candle. ‘Black men are just as likely to be gay as white men.’

‘I know that. You know that. But do you want my Mama to think I’ve got the devil in me?’

Mike didn’t answer. Dennis stood again, looked around, found one of their discarded cups—the cheap, plastic, picnic kind—and held it out through the window to catch some rainwater in it. As he drew his arm back in, he scratched it against a jut of broken glass, drew a droplet of blood. ‘Shit.’

Mike looked but didn’t move.

Dennis swilled the water in the cup, threw it out in the far corner, and poured some wine into it. ‘Here.’

Mike made no attempt to take the cup.

‘Come on, Mikey. Everything’s okay.’

‘Nothing’s okay,’ Mike said. ‘The world ends on Monday and nothing’s going to be okay until Tuesday. Where’s the logic?’

‘All right, all right. If there was the biggest, massivest, kick-ass meteorite hurtling full speed towards Earth that’d wipe out the entire population like the frickin’ dinosaurs, then yeah, I’d probably say something to somebody.’

Mike snorted. ‘Probably.’

‘Probably definitely.’

‘That’s confident.’

‘Just ’cause your mother’s a free-thinkin’, tree-huggin’—’

‘Shut up,’ Mike growled. ‘She’s nothing like that. She just accepts me for who I am.’ He stood, faced Dennis. ‘Like your mother would if you told her. I’m sure she would.’

‘No way. Nuh-uh. That’d be me going straight to hell. On the streets and straight to hell.’

‘I’m not asking you to tell her,’ Mike said. ‘I’m asking if you would tell her, if something major was going to happen like that, would you tell her? That’s all I’m asking.’

‘All right, I would. I would tell her.’

Mike looked away. ‘Too late now, isn’t it? You’ve already made your feelings clear. What is it? Are you ashamed of what you are?’

‘I’m not ashamed of nothing.’

‘You’re ashamed.’

‘I’m not. God, man, you know how I feel about you.’

‘Funny way of showing it.’

‘Do straight people tell their mums they’re straight?’

‘Don’t be a dick. They don’t need to.’

‘So why should we? Why should I tell my Mama something that’d break her heart?’

‘This is breaking mine.’

‘Me too,’ Dennis said. ‘I swear. I wish I could, really, but you know what she’s like. Give it some time. Maybe one day. Soon.’

‘But the meteorite—’

‘Fuck the meteorite, man. I said I would tell her.’

‘Like the frickin’ dinosaurs,’ Mike reminded him.

‘Them dinosaurs can kiss my ass.’

‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

‘Screw you.’

‘Too late.’

They stopped arguing. It had descended, as it always did, into comic name-calling and silly babble. They faced each other, bridged by a walkway of crumpled blankets and bazillion-year-old newspapers. Dennis smiled. ‘I’ll tell her.’

‘I know.’

‘Next time you see a meteorite.’

‘I’ll let you know.’

‘Dinosaurs,’ Dennis said. He stepped up to Mike, took his hand, black fingers laced with white. ‘You know I would.’

Mike pressed his forehead against Dennis’, their skin warm and clammy. ‘Yo Mama,’ he said.

‘No,’ Dennis laughed. ‘Yo Mama.’

And they kissed.