The Hive, Part 1--Frill

Behind the windows were the orange-dusted lights of Manhattan. But Frill was looking at the windows themselves, more exactly their casings, which were black. What if they were silver? He turned around to briefly take in himself before concentrating again on the casings. Or a pearly yellow. And that wall with a blue scumbling over it.

His two paintings would have to be separated. He was bored by their fraternal twinning over the past four months. He addressed them individually. You are 8 years older than him, yet you look so good. And you, are a wicked little boy masquerading as an old man. He wondered what these paintings had to talk about.

Through the kitchen to the bathroom by the closet wash. This stone basin sink would have to go. He bought it seven years ago in Italy, and now they were found in Canadian restaurants. Besides, it was too obviously faggy. His last three boyfriends had said as much. The polished shallow curve competing against the hard natural edges. The blow job plateau. Thanks, Stephen. Rosemary lavender something soap--a present from his mother. He switched on the spigot and sloshed his finger in the stream. When it scalded and steam levitated off the basin, he switched it off.

I've got to get out of this business and do something that really challenges me. I should move back to Europe, or this time, North Africa.

He made to punch the mirror, then laughed at this frat boy gesture as it passed. He smelled the hand towel; it didn't need replacing.

In the living room, Terry was on the sofa, fluffing his crew-cut. 24-year-old Terry, who had been out for less than a year, and spent every minute exploring his gayness. Ellen in the morning, and double-ended dildos at night. He had on that too small pink bathrobe he'd stolen when Frill's sister came to visit.

"You're dripping on my briefs."

"Oooh, sailor! Do you talk to your mother with that mouth?"

"Yes. And I will again in about half-an-hour. So turn down the TV when she calls."

"I don't know, nurse, it could be glandular... Does Britney need a high colonic?"

Terry unstrung the bathrobe and patted his lap. Frill collected his papers and sat at the opposite end of the sofa.

A new luxury hotel was opening in Red Hook. This was one of several initiatives to put Red Hook on the map. The hotel's business was going to one of three agencies. Decent odds, he figured, but he had no head for numbers. Nor did he really understand advertising. Concept, execution, tactical, branding. He just made things look nice, look right. Of course, he wasn't worried about the concept. Sten would have the concept. Sten had more hooks than a retired fisherman. Frill wrinkled his nose. I've got to stop spending so much time with him; my metaphors are going straight.

Terry was looking into him. "What's so funny?"

"Oh. That guy on the television."

"I know. I love him." And he turned his attention away.

What I need is a look. Colors and lines. Figures and styles. Something that has brashness, without appearing young or artificial. Something that a banker would find new, but a designer would find tasteful. I can do this. This is what I do.

He closed his eyes, and inhaled over his teeth to clear his head. He waited for his sight to completely wash itself of residue. And from the formless black, he saw pearl yellow in the periphery of blue scumbling. The phone was ringing.

Terry wound himself up in that robe, and mouth-pantomimed as he sashayed to the bedroom: "I'll be right over there, lover."

Frill resented how much he needed what Terry gave, and he knew he'd hate himself when he told Terry he had to move out. He'd probably cry too.

"Hi, Mama. No. I just wasn't near the phone. Another check is always welcome. I want to do some new things with the place."