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“David, put down the pitted fruit.”
Patrick’s voice is tinny and muddled over the phone, his face large and bright on the screen, just below David’s eye level.
“No,” David refuses, grasping the dark purple fruit tightly in his hand. He gestures toward the phone, stubborn and threatening.
“Do you want to end up in the hospital again?”
“That’s far more preferable to being eaten alive by this giant moth in your kitchen,” David hisses.
A giant moth had, indeed, taken up residence in the corner of Patrick's ceiling a few hours earlier. David’s harsh words reverberate off the walls and the moth twitches its large, brown wings once in silent protest.
“Okay, you know moths aren’t actually carnivorous, right? I mean, I just... I don’t know... if, like, that’s why you’ve been afraid of them this whole time? Because you think they eat humans. They -- they don’t eat humans, David.”
“I know that, Patrick.”
"So then why don't you put down the fruit so I don't have to call an ambulance, and I can, instead, have a normal conversation with my boyfriend?"
"This is a normal conversation. This is how all of our conversations will be from here on out. Over the phone, with you miles away, because I will never forgive you for bringing this monster into the apartment."
“What? How is this my fault?”
“You knew he lived outside your window, and yet... you told me to just crack it wide open this morning! ‘Let some fresh air in,’ you said.” David waves his hand around derisively, forgetting for a second that he has Patrick on FaceTime. The camera rattles back and forth violently.
“I said I see him occasionally , David. That doesn’t mean he lives out there.”
“In the three weeks that you’ve been living here, how many times have you seen him?”
There’s a long pause. David can’t tell if their connection froze.
“Uh, seven... nine… ten… times, maybe?” Patrick’s voice pitches higher and higher and he fixes his gaze somewhere off screen.
“Oh my God. Are you trying to kill me?”
“Again, David, moths can’t actually kill you, and --”
“-- Is this whole house-sitting thing a setup?”
They’re talking over each other, their voices sparring cacophonously through the phone line.
“-- I'd say you might have more success with the killing thing --”
“-- Are you even at a retreat right now?!”
“-- considering the fruit in your hand.”
David gasps suddenly, glancing down at the fruit. His voice is soft, cool, and tinged with suspicion.
“... Patrick, why do you even have these plums in the first place? You know I’m allergic… ” He places the plum down cautiously on the table and takes a wary step backward.
“David,” Patrick says rationally. “I’m not trying to kill you. The moth won’t kill you, and the neighbors gave the plums to me as a welcome gift last week. You were there.”
David opens his mouth, his eyes narrow, an all too familiar tell that he’s about to give some kind of scathing rebuttal. But, he doesn’t.
Patrick exhales long and hard and David can see his large eyes soften even through the small screen on his phone.
"Look, I'm sorry, David," the image shifts a little on Patrick’s end and it looks like he’s pulled the phone in closer. "I know you hate moths. I honestly just forgot that this guy comes by every once in a while, and if I had remembered, I definitely would have told you," he says earnestly. "But, really, they’re totally harmless, and as long as you don't bother it, it'll probably just stay in that same spot the whole time. I'll come save you when I get back," he promises with a wink.
David visibly relaxes. He thinks of Patrick’s hands on his shoulders, imagines himself steady and quiet under the warmth of his palms. He basks in it for just a bit then eyes the moth one last time before walking toward the refrigerator.
“I’m sorry, too,” David breathes out his apology. He sees Patrick's small smile through the screen. “Anyway, how’s… ‘Eat, Ray, Love’ going?” he swallows around the words as he stares at the flyer on Patrick’s fridge. He makes a face at the excessive and egregious use of Comic Sans, and for a brief, fleeting second, his eyes drift back to the plum on the kitchen table.
“Oh, it’s great,” Patrick beams. “Lots of eating, definitely lots of Ray. We’re just taking a break right now from our patents and licensing workshop. We ran out of popsicle sticks so Ray went to buy more.”
David grits his teeth. “Popsicle sticks? ”
Patrick laughs again. “Really puts your whole moth situation into perspective, huh?”
…
“Grendel's gone."
"Hmm?"
"I came back from work this afternoon and he was gone.”
“I’m sorry, who’s Grendel?” Patrick asks, mostly vowels, his mouth full of what looks like a generous bite of a juicy hamburger. His phone must be propped up on something on the table because he’s using both hands to hold his dinner.
“The moth.”
“You named the moth?” He takes another bite, then moves his mouth open and closed quickly like a fish in an attempt to stop a piece of his burger from falling from his lips onto the table.
David grimaces. “Mm, this must be all of that eating you were talking about earlier,” he says. “Anyway,” he regroups. “Yes , I named the moth. I also Googled the moth,” he takes a deep breath, steels himself, and then speaks slowly.
“Patrick, apparently some cultures believe them to be a harbinger of death."
There's no response from Patrick’s end. David sees him reach for something on the ground then duck down and out of the frame.
"Patrick? I said a harbinger of death,” he shouts louder at the phone.
“No, yeah, I heard you the first time,” Patrick says, still off camera. His head finally pops back into frame and he’s dabbing his mouth with a napkin now.
David’s eyes are focused on something just above his phone. “They are often believed to forecast death, death of oneself or of a loved one, especially when found inside a house. Within some folklore, they are viewed as symbols of death or messengers of the dead.” Patrick thinks he’s probably reading through some random article on the Internet.
“David, are you reading random articles on the Internet again?” He dusts off some crumbs from the table in front of him. “I mean, you don’t really believe that, do you? They’re just moths. They’re no different than any of the other bugs and insects out there.”
“Okay, but why was this one in the apartment?”
“Because you opened the window.”
“But --”
“-- David, please try not to worry about this. It doesn’t mean you’re going to die. And hey, the moth is gone,” he reminds him cheerfully. “Right? Don’t give yourself another thing to stress over.”
“Okay, have you met me though? And also…” he adds, “… it’s not -- I’m not actually worried about... me dying.”
Patrick smiles. The laugh lines at the corner of his eyes are less prominent now through the high contrast of the phone screen, but David has them memorized like the lines of a well-read book. “Just one more day and then I’ll be home on Monday, alright? I promise I won’t die before then.” He sucks loudly on the straw of his drink, slurping up the last dregs of soda and melted ice.
They hang up and David heads out to the cafe for dinner with Stevie, but not before sending off a quick text for good measure.
David [6:44 PM] Just be careful, Patrick
David [6:44 PM] Please
Patrick [6:46 PM] I’ll try
Patrick [6:46 PM] Just for you
Patrick [6:47 PM] But you know how rowdy Ray’s retreats can get
…
The next morning David peers outside the window for any signs of Grendel, sends Patrick a series of three “are you alive?” texts, and, upon finally receiving an answer in the affirmative, trudges toward the kitchen for whatever morsel of breakfast he could find. It’s a futile attempt, he knows, considering what was in the fridge when he went to sleep. A styrofoam takeout container with two days’ old pasta, a slimy head of lettuce in the crisper, two cans of beer, and a carton of orange juice. Not exactly the breakfast he had in mind, and normally he'd grab something to eat on the way to work, but he hadn’t been sleeping well since Patrick left and it was leaving him hungrier than usual.
After a hearty breakfast of leftover linguine puttanesca, a quick shower, and yet another “are you alive?” text, David heads out for work, only running 10 minutes late.
At the store, David’s day passes sluggishly. He knows he’s probably being irrational but he can’t stop thinking about the moth, about that damn Moth Lore website. Worry sours at the bottom of his stomach, a familiar feeling. He takes a large swallow of water then grabs his phone.
David [12:34 PM] Still alive?
A group of customers breeze in and he puts on his best customer service voice, flashing them an exaggerated, cheeky smile. A woman, Lauren, apparently, talks loudly about skincare and sunscreen, her sharp S’s piercing his ears. She’s hanging onto a man dressed in a garish Leafs sweater that he must have gotten straight from 1999. David smiles to himself. He'll never understand the aesthetic appeal of sports attire. He wishes Patrick were there next to him so they could argue under their breaths about the sartorial value of the sweater, how absolutely abhorrent it is, and how no, come on, David, it’s a classic.
“I like your sweater,” he tells the man.
David [12:50 PM] ????
As soon as the swarm of customers leave, he flips the sign and prepares to walk over to the cafe for lunch. He’s craving burgers.
Patrick [1:12 PM] Sorry
Patrick [1:13 PM] Been listening to Bob share business secrets for two hours
Patrick [1:13 PM] So, barely
Patrick [1:14 PM] But yes, still alive
David [1:15 PM] Good
…
The leaves crunch on the sidewalk under David’s feet as he makes his way home from work toward Patrick’s apartment. The street is lined with an eclectic mix of buildings, various facades that appear to be from different architectural points in time. Faint bits of orange and peach sunlight fall across the side of Patrick’s building as he makes his way inside.
David [5:22 PM] Still alive?
He tosses his keys onto the kitchen counter. The apartment is quiet, the patches of early evening light from outside growing more distinct now against Patrick's cream-colored walls. No signs of Grendel, thank God.
Patrick [5:26 PM] Would it be easier if I just text you if I’ve died?
...
Patrick doesn’t die. He comes home the next day, a little later than scheduled, a fresh cup of tea in one hand, caramel macchiato in the other, his weekend bag slung over his shoulder.
He sees David sitting at the kitchen table, bowl of plums in the center. A lone plum is stranded on the outside. It’s just before 4:00 in the afternoon on Monday but the apartment smells of burnt coffee and pancakes, an 8:00 Sunday morning smell.
“Welcome back,” David says, smiling.
Patrick walks over to him, places his bag onto the empty chair and sets the two cups down on the table. In one swift motion, he steps between David’s knees, bends down, takes his face in his hands and kisses him eagerly. David rises up to meet him, his hands automatically finding their way to his hips.
“Did you make breakfast at four in the afternoon?” Patrick asks, a little breathless, when they break apart.
“I did,” David nods. “I went shopping today, stocked up on some pantry staples. You have no food here. It was a terrible stay. I’ll need to speak with the manager.”
Patrick laughs and threads his fingers through David’s hair. He presses a soft kiss there, breathing in his scent. He glances around the room and then notices David cleaned up quite a bit while he was gone, even hanging up a few black and white photos above the bed and mantel.
"Wow, David, you --" he stops abruptly, mid-thought, when his eyes land on something on the coffee table.
“Uh, what’s -- what's that?”
“What’s what?
Patrick straightens up, pointing over the couch. “That. ”
There’s a bowl at the center of the coffee table, but it’s larger, glass, and instead of plums, there’s something else in it.
“What is that, David?”
“Oh, that? That’s a fish.”
“You got a fish?”
“I got you a fish.”
They make their way over to the center of the room. Patrick looks down at the bowl, confusion playing loudly across his face. The bottom of the bowl is lined with shiny, glacier white and seafoam green pebbles. Swimming back and forth, round and round, is a bright orange goldfish, its mouth bobbing open and closed lazily. David squints and cocks his head to the side, feeling something like deja vu at the sight.
“Why’d you get me a fish, David?” Patrick’s face seems to have graduated from sheer confusion to a mixture of confusion and gratitude. Gratefully confused.
"I told you I went shopping today.”
Patrick simply stares, waiting for him to continue. His index finger is still subconsciously pointing at the fishbowl.
“After all that Googling I did on the moth, I... well, I did more Googling, and, um, apparently goldfish are supposed to symbolize good luck and strength.”
"And you --”
“And so do, like, rabbits and pigs,” David waves his hand. “But Ted said a goldfish would probably be the easiest to take care of.”
“You consulted Ted?”
“Yeah, he gave me these,” he holds up a container of fish food and two pamphlets on proper fish care.
"Anyway, I just thought… I just wanted something good to balance out the… um, bad. You know, ward off all the… death," he looks down, maybe a little embarrassed.
“I didn't know you were so superstitious, David."
"I'm not. Usually. But um, the stakes were too high this time," he looks up. "I just… I couldn't take the chance with you." His voice is soft, so soft Patrick barely catches that last bit.
Patrick smiles, fully grateful now, a kind of quiet awe in his eyes. He places his hands around David’s waist and nudges the toe of his shoes against his. David widens his stance and Patrick fits comfortably between his legs.
“Thank you, David. But I think I'm pretty lucky already."
"Mm, that's sweet.”
Patrick leans in, but David pulls back. “But you're keeping the fish. The pet store doesn't take returns and I already spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to acclimate it to its new surroundings."
Patrick grins, leaning forward again, laughing against David’s mouth.
"Alright, David. Thank you for the good luck fish,” he closes the gap between their lips with a gentle kiss. “You know, I was a little worried when I didn’t get any texts asking if I was alive this morning,” he says. He pulls back a little, his eyes shining with amusement.
David laughs softly. “Yeah, I know…” he looks down again, trying to hide a self-deprecating smile, Patrick’s fingertips still warm against his back. “I know I was being a bit ridiculous these past few days. I’m sorry. I think I just… I just really missed you?”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Patrick sounds tickled. “I missed you, too.”
David lets out a long sigh, slouching further into Patrick’s grip. "Obviously this house-sitting thing did not go as well as expected.”
“No, I’d say this was all pretty par for the course,” Patrick says with a quick laugh.
“Okay, what did I say about baseball metaphors during moments of sincerity?"