Chapter 2

“You won’t marry me, Steve. I know that about you. You’re not going to sleep around behind my back. You’re not going to have an affair with a younger man in his twenties who looks like Thor or the other Hemsworth brothers, or a studly jock who plays professional soccer and fucks like a porn star in his too-tight uniform. You just really don’t feel there’s a need to be married. I know that. You know that. You can’t see how a license can prove my love for you. Plus, I know your parents never got married. They’ve been together for over forty years now. Hippies, which I respect. The first liberals in your family. Your mom’s totally against it, like you. So, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,does it? I suppose not.”

It’s upsetting, Steve thought.

Gio often suggested having (and wanting) a Sunday marriage ceremony with just a few guests; one of those lovely and small luncheon events at The Lou or Low Hollow Park. It somewhat irritated Steve. If only Steve could talk the man into not bringing the topic up again. Why couldn’t Giovanni see that Steve just wanted to be lovers for the next three…maybe four decades instead of having the state government legally recognize them as husbands? It’s not that Steve was against marriage. On the contrary, he was all for it. Honestly, he just didn’t feel as if it were personally for him, an act he could live without.

Steve knew he couldn’t go back in time and change who he had fallen in love with, even if he wouldn’t marry Gio. Father Time didn’t allow such actions. So, either he had to suck up his predicament and accept Gio’s harping about marrying him, or move on.

Steve said while continuing to dust, “Let’s agree to disagree at this time about the topic. What do you say?”

“Agreed. I’ll bring it up again in a few months to discuss.”

Or a day, or a week, Steve thought, knowing Gio well enough to admit such a fact, even if it didn’t happen yet.

Adorable Gio winked up from the sofa. Damn him for being so cute, charming, and the perfect guy. Doubly damn him.

Steve couldn’t help himself and smiled at his Italian husband, adoring him more now than when they met seven years before at one of Steve’s violin concerts. Giovanni’s dark Mediterranean skin, almost-black eyes, and thick buzz cut had turned him on again and again, every time Steve had taken the slightest glance at the man. And Gio’s body was still a temple of muscle since he worked out at Meat’s Gym at least four times a week: solidly ripped with a hulking and hairy chest, veins along his pumped neck, and a flat stomach rippled with perfectly constructed abs that had taken a dozen or more years to construct. Steve had a happy life with the music teacher, as his husband or not. A perfect life between the two of them. He couldn’t ask for a better lover, even when he shared an uncomfortable Sunday chat about marriage.

“Someday you’ll marry me. Just not now. I’ll give you time.”

Steve said nothing in return, continuing to dust the living room, swinging his feather tool to and fro over knickknacks, books, and other whatnots that had meaning in their lives, stories of their couplehood and love for the last six years. Developments of their relationship. Memorabilia of two men spending one life together. The mix of their belongings that not only symbolized their heartfelt tenderness for each other, but also their individualism.

Gio added, “Just don’t marry someone else before the topic comes up for discussion again.”

“I promise,” Steve said matter-of-factly. He chuckled and turned away from his dusting.

Steve watching Gio pick up his massive book again, flip to the middle, and start reading.

* * * *

Steve’s Alice in Wonderland moment happened the following Monday morning. Gio was making the drive to Buffalo for a music convention, exclusive for high school music teachers in the tristate area, which left Steve alone in their Tudor at 17 Tone Street. Steve spent the morning with two cups of coffee, his violin for a few hours of practice, and a cold and snowy February day ahead of him. He had fallen in lovewith the violin at the very young age of ten and turned into a professional violinist at age twenty-two,a graduate of Julliard in New York City. Steve wasn’t a millionaire by any means, nor did he have world fame, but he was happy and content with the product of his skills.

Dust. Dusting. More dusting. Still dusting. He could hear Gio from the day before.

You won’t marry me, Steve. I know that about you.