That Little Talk

“Hutch, can I ask you something?”

“Huh? Yeah, sure.”

“About being married, when you were married.” Hutch took a slight breath, unnoticed. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, go ahead.”

“I was just wondering, how did you know, you know, how were you sure it was her?”

“You mean sure she was the one?”

“Yeah, did you ever talk about that? Like in bed, did you just lay and talk about the future? What it was gonna be like, say twenty years later?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Va-vanessa, she never had much room for anyone in her head but herself.” He looked down sadly. “I guess I should have figured that out before, huh?”

“Hey, I’m not trying to bring up bad memories. Maybe I shouldn’t…”

“No, no, continue. Ask me.”

“I just want to know, about if couples that close, if they have that little talk, about, hey, like what would happen if suddenly tomorrow was the day I wouldn’t be here anymore, what would I want for my partner, what I’d hope they’d accomplish, after I was no longer. Or if they, say after twenty years together, they go back to what they said and see how it turned out.”

“I guess I didn’t have that kind of relationship. I can see now I didn’t have much of a marriage.” Hutch rubbed his hand with his chin reflecting. “I’m not sure what you want to know, Starsk, if I can say it.”

“I guess I’m wishing I could have that–that talk. I’d want someone to care about me that way.”

“You don’t have to be married.”

Their eyes both met, and disengaged, looking down at the same time, somewhat embarrassed. But Starsky recovered quickly. “Actually, I think we’re like that.”

“Married?”

“In a manner of speaking, close like a unit, yeah.”

Hutch looked at him with the softest face. “You can have that talk with me, you know.” Starsky gave a few positive nods. “Tell me, Starsk.”

Starsky cleared his throat just slightly. “It’s in two parts.”

“Okay…”

“One part is sitting up, one part is…not.”

Hutch didn’t want to understand that, not now. He put both hands on Starsky’s right shoulder. A little squeeze. “Tell me.”

Starsky picked on his rings, preparing. “I’d say, Hutch, if something ever happens, if one day suddenly I won’t be here to be part of our every day life, I’d want you to come back here, to caress everything we owned together. The lamp I turned on in the morning, the cup I used in the kitchen, still half full, the toothbrush…and then I’d want you to sleep in the sheets we last shared love in, one last final time. And then, I’d want you to soldier up, stiffen, and take our life apart. Efficiently clear out. I’d want you to go home, Hutch.”

“Wouldn’t this be home?”

“No, I mean take me with you. Find home again. Travel. Walk. Sing. See Europe. Write a novel. Take pictures of old abandoned places, of Ferris wheels. Love and laugh. Run nude and scream. Show me the world through your eyes. Get real old and live every experience of what older looks like, feels like. Do it for me, with me.”

Starsky lowered his head, wrung his hands. Hutch hesitated, but then brushed his partner’s cheek with the back of his hand. Starsky closed his eyes to the touch. He grabbed his hand with his left palm. He didn’t want to let go. “I’d want a love like that. That could keep going, you know?”

Starsky turned to Hutch’s anxious face. Hutch twitched, a small half smile appeared, then a frown, a nod, then that longing look away. The hands parted.

“That’s beautiful, Starsk. Just beautiful. Anyone would be blessed to have your love that way.”

Starsky spoke a little faster. “See, you could take me, have me cremated, and keep my ashes. Then once in a while, you could open them –me– up, and rub a little of the ash on you, by your heart, and take me–where you go.”

Hutch took his right fist to his forehead, then sat stiffer, the shaky fist lead to his mouth. Trepidly, “Hurts, Starsk.” A sigh. “The thought of you like that.”

“You could love that much. It would feel good by then, soothing. It would carry you.”

Hutch put his other hand over his fist, still at his mouth as he leaned forward, reflecting.

“I’m up to the other part.”

“Huh?” Hutch moved his mouth away from this hands. He turned right to his partner. He got lost here somewhere. He had so many worried frown lines in play.

Starsky took his hands with his. He got up, all four hands attached. He pulled Hutch up from the couch, face to face, a stride removed.

“The other part…it’s not sitting, you said.”

“No. It’s not standing, either.” The air got very thick. Hutch looked at him intensely. Puzzled. Starsky held him mesmerized in his gaze. Hutch face calmed a little. “Come lay down with me. Like a married couple would.”

“Starsk, we’re not…”

“I don’t care what we’re not, Hutch. I don’t care what we are, or who we’re gonna be, with who, when, and all those whys and why nots you like to get confused about. I’m not talking about that.”

Hutch didn’t know what ‘that’ was. He didn’t have time to argue. He was being dragged forward. A few stumbles into it and he’d have to make a choice to plant his feet for a fight, or smooth out his gait. Somehow he was walking, the long legs seemed to be working now, without his mental will.

Starsky pulled him through the door, needing only one hand by this time, he was more delicate now. He led Hutch to the large bed, he walked right on it, walked two, three steps, turned quickly. He still had him by the hand, Hutch had to use his knees to follow him. He was prodded to turn towards him, to lay down. He fell into Starsky’s arms like a gelding.

Hutch tried a small wiggle, an elbowed lift. Starsky only got closer. “Shh, no, no, don’t go. You’re safe, really.” Starsky took his head, cupped it under his chin, onto his shoulder.

Hutch complied stiffly. He waited, as Starsky sifted his fingers lightly through his hair. Whispering, he shivered, “What are you doing, what–“.

“Did you ever do it with her?”

He was trying to crunch his arms against the bed, get some leverage, when the question stopped him cold, stiff. “Do what?”

“Calm down, Hutch, relax.” Starsky moved his hand from his hair, grabbed his shoulder gently, murmuring, “Relax, Babe.” Hutch tried. “Did you ever talk about the twenty years.”

When did he have anything, even a part of that. Hutch shakily took his hand and placed it on Starsky’s warm shirt, on his stomach. He took a long breath. “There’s was never going to be a lot of years. It was never in her eyes, not even in the beginning. There was no –connection…”

“Not like this.”

Hutch shook inside. It radiated hand to stomach to soul. “No.” Swallowing. “Not like this.”

Starsky placed his palm gently across Hutch’s hand. He let the weight of it establish itself. “Those twenty-thirty years. A couple should talk about the future, what they love about each other, what they aspire for their partner, what they want each other to be, as individuals, as well as together. What they’ll build, create. Who they still are, even after they’re one unit.”

All by itself, Hutch’s arm under Starsky’s hand was beginning to snake and smooth across his friend, to encompass his outer side. Starsky let it happen, gripping his forearm, trepidly, then with a little massage, encouraging.

They stayed quiet. Hutch’s was biting his lip, his eyes closed. Starsky waited. It was his turn to say something, he was trying to say it.

But nothing came, not right away. Then Hutch sat up delicately, in slow motion. He slid his imprisoned hand to cup Starsky’s cheek. The other hand followed, along with a engrossing gaze. Stammering, his delicate voice said, “No one e-ver as-asked me that. I ne-never had any-one who wanted to know. To know me, my dreams.”

“I want to. Know you.” Starsky put his hand on Hutch’s arm. “It’s not all about carrying ashes around,” he smiled. “I’d want to fondle the live parts.”

Hutch pulled his hands away, recoiling. Starsky tightened his cinch across his back. They were seconds from a wrestle who’d have their volition. They stared, at a draw.

A gentle voice. “Years to know, days to have, hours to be. If I’m not here after tomorrow, I want to have that, Hutch.”

Briskly Hutch sat up, clenching his arms across himself. Starsky let him go. He rocked forward. “You mean couple with me.”

“Yes, Babe. You.”

Noiseless but for breathing, tremors from Hutch, and a debilitation from his partner. A minute. Two.

Starsky turned away, becoming fetal. “Okay. Thanks for letting me ask you. About your wife, about talks.”

Hutch stopped squeezing his ribs. He turned, looked at him, for a good minute. Starsky focused on the wall. Then, it hit. In a spur, Hutch reached quickly for him, hands on his shoulder. He turned him back, hurriedly he fell against him, half on top of him. He pushed his knee between the legs. He embraced him with everything.

Starsky enveloped him, writhing, swaying. They both grappled for each other’s hair, back, waists, with stamina, then supple.

Hutch was against his ear. A tremulous breath, a dream, a whisper.

“Couple us, Starsk.”

Sequel Twenty Thirty Thence