Blip’s Break

by Angel Cetorelli

‍“Teary-eyed twink, why do you cry?”

‍Ara had come up from behind the teary-eyed twink, gingerly placed her palms on his shoulders, and curled her neck around his. He shrugged off her intimacy and wiped his under-eyes.

‍“Don’t tease me.” Blip made an exaggerated angry face over his shoulder, one that betrayed a genuine sensitivity. He was, after all, very hurt as of late. He scooted his chair closer to the dining table to put further distance between them. Ara knew that some people needed prying for their own good, so she persisted.

‍“Teary-eyed twink, tell me your woes.” She delivered the line with the requisite melodrama.

‍Silence from Blip, then a long sigh.

‍“I’m unraveling.” He pulled out a little clump of russet hair to punctuate the statement, looked at it with no emotion, then dropped it on the tabletop. “Am I dying?”

‍In the kitchen, Ara filled the kettle and set it on the stove. She popped her face through the serving window to the dining room—a bland frame for a portrait so fine—and blinked a couple times at Blip.

‍“Maybe.”

‍A tear shot down Blip’s right cheek. He shivered.

‍“But I don’t want to die.”

‍Ara slinked behind Blip’s chair once more and wrapped her arms around his drooping body. He wriggled, but she didn’t relent, instead lifted the lithe man up to standing height. Only once he had planted his feet on the drab linoleum did she let go. He turned to face her.

‍“Then don’t, Honey.”

‍Blip’s stained cheeks rose with a forced smile.

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***

‍A deep scream cut through the drizzly night, followed by a crash, a clap, and a thud. Ara rushed into her guest bedroom to find Blip on the floor, curled up in a nest of crystal shards from a freshly broken vase, red palmprint visible on his face.

‍Her voice was a harsh whisper: “Clean up this mess. I’m not having bloodstains on my floors.”

‍She grasped his hand to pull him up, softened her tone. “I love you, but you have to think. A neighbor might call the cops.”

‍Blip sobbed into her collarbone. “I love you, too.”

‍He awoke the following day at 2pm. Ara wasn’t home, had texted that she would return from her Sunday shopping and HIIT class around 3. Still in bed, Blip assessed his new wounds. Nothing too bad: Last night, he’d bandaged up the few slices on the left side of his torso where he’d lain in the glass, and this morning there was no bleed-through. With great effort, he sat up and swung his legs out from under the covers. A wave of nausea hit, and he vomited on the patch of carpet he’d cleaned only 10 hours before. Good thing Blip could stomach a gross clean-up job: He wouldn’t have been able to get his Visual Arts degree without the money he earned cleaning the dorm bathrooms. Well, that and the loans.

‍He draped the latex gloves back over the sink in the adjoining bathroom to dry and shuffled out of the bedroom toward the kitchen. He would make Ara a surprise brunch to atone for last night’s explosion.

‍In the refrigerator were eggs, vegetarian sausage links, a quarter loaf of rye bread, and some good orange marmalade.

‍That’s a nice brunch, he thought.

‍He took them out and set them on the counter. A bottle of prosecco loomed over Blip from the top shelf. He grabbed the butter dish and shut the door.

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***

‍Ara popped her head into the bathroom, calling through the steam at a showering Blip.

‍“Tonight, my Darling, we go out.”

‍“Out?” Blip stuck his head under the shower. With sight and sound distorted by the rush of water, he felt himself in a safer alternate world.

‍Ara raised her voice to cut through the torrent. “Yes, out. You’ve barely left the house”—she very generously avoided a possessive adjective here—“in the month and a half you’ve been here. We are going out!”

‍Ara loved nightlife. She was magnetic; people flocked to her. The atmosphere of the club felt to her like a pulsating embrace of social-sexual energy. There could be nothing more healing than a night of conversation and dancing with new acquaintances and one’s dearest friend. Blip would come to see it that way if she could just drag him out of her house, she was sure.

‍“I’m off to manicures with Lynn. We’ll probably go for dinner afterward. But fear not! I will return with ample time to tart up together. Au revoir!” She stamped a big smooch of beige gloss on the glass of the shower door and skipped out the room, keys jangling in her handbag.

‍Twenty minutes later, Blip worked up the strength to shut off the water and step back out into the real world. He owed it to Ara to make the effort, but his grand reentry to society was going to require a lot of mental preparation.

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***

‍The Wet T-Shirt was running its usual Friday night Visible Nips party, where patrons who go topless or in see-through shirts get in for free. It always drew a crowd. Ara, who loved to show some skin, loved even more to stand out and gladly paid the $15 cover to enter in an oversized men’s dress shirt buttoned all the way up. His unemployment insurance recently exhausted, Blip stripped his shirt at the door.

‍Ara bounded straight past the line to the ground floor bar and cheek-kissed Tony hello. Tony was a chaser, but he hated to see Ara dressed in anything remotely masculine, so she always made sure he saw her when she switched it up. She only let him see her when she switched it up. Despite her outfit and her drink order, he comped her hazy IPA, which she passed off to an acquaintance as soon as she’d escaped his field of vision.

‍Blip found her in the club’s basement, chatting with a couple dressed in neon animal-print onesies stripped down to the waist as she waited in line for the Cosmo she actually wanted. Thinking it best to avoid that area if at all possible, Blip plopped himself on a rickety chair along the dancefloor’s perimeter and waited, avoiding any potential eye contact by staring at the ground. Soon, two patent leather kitten heels inched their way into his personal space, came toe-to-toe with his busted sneakers. His eyes climbed past them and up the legs of a pair of baggy khaki cargo pants, ascending the dress shirt’s ladder of buttons to arrive on Ara’s grinning face.

‍“Don’t you just adore the Miu Mius, Doll? Especially when she’s butch up top!” Ara popped her collar and thrust her chest out with a bright laugh. “Here’s a soda.”

‍She pulled a can of ginger ale from her shirt pocket with the drama and suspense of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a top hat. Blip smirked and cheersed her.

‍“Alright!” Ara clapped. “Let us schmooze.”

‍She yanked him off the chair and led him to the lounge area opposite the dancefloor. Drinking buddies recent and past were there, yapping over the music and gesturing largely. Because she went out regularly, Ara kept up with most of them—as much as one can ever really keep up in these types of relationships. Blip had forgotten more than a few of their names.

‍Ara rushed off to greet someone, and a leather daddy with hungry eyes immediately swooped down on Blip.

‍“Hey hey, boy. Haven’t seen you out in a while; you must be back on the market.”

‍Blip writhed. “Yeah… I guess I am.” His throat felt like it was closing up, but he forced words through the constriction: “How are you, Dom?” Instant regret.

‍The expression soured under the man’s leather cap. “Dominic. Not Dom, I hate that shit.” He cracked his neck and took a breath. “You know, we never had our moment. Let me give you my phone number. You can come by my condo sometime. I just finished redecorating my playroom.” He winked.

‍Blip took his number even though he already had it and made a mental note to delete both contacts from his phone when he got back to Ara’s place. The connection made, Dominic darted away to the next.

‍A call from the other end of the room: “Blip!”

‍Ara swiped the air with her sharp black nails, beckoning him to a long sofa upholstered with cracking off-white pleather. He sat between her and Marcus-with-the-face-tattoo. Ara greatly preferred him to Marcus-with-the-neck-tattoo, who was seated by the lounge’s entrance.

‍“Hello, Marcus-w—Marcus. It’s good to see you.” This Marcus had a gentle soul, a steady job, and a hard body. Ara deserved a quality guy, and Blip didn’t want the raincloud over his head to hurt her prospects of seeing him more often. Plus, he knew she liked him, despite her refusal to ever seriously discuss her dating life. So, he was going to try his damnedest to make this good conversation a good one.

‍“We were just discussing the absolute phenomenon that is our district’s new councilwoman. What say you, Blip?” Ara asked.

‍“Oh, well—uh, I mean, I voted for her—”

‍Marcus graciously cut in. “It’s wonderful how hard Councilwoman Brown has been advocating for a larger share of our budget to go toward mental health resources for people without insurance.”

‍“She’s a total gem,” Ara said.

‍Blip’s lip quivered. “Yes, that is really important…” His face went wan. He excused himself and rushed out of the room.

‍Blip burst through the door of the ADA-compliant single bathroom and slammed it behind him. He’d never turned a deadbolt so fast in his life. Alone and safe, he slid down the door and sat on the grimy checkerboard of chipped tiles, pulling his knees to his chest. He couldn’t stop the tears.

‍Vibrations and a plinking ringtone emanated from his pocket. No doubt it was Ara. He didn’t even take his phone out; this torment was a solitary journey. Like everything else since Pablo decided he just couldn’t endure it, not a moment longer. Why didn’t he say goodbye? Leave a note? Make some sort of gesture, a warning or subtle shift in his being that could’ve served as a hint or something? Blip’s phone rang and rang, alternately blending into and clashing with the House beat playing over the club’s massive speakers. He couldn’t answer it even if he wanted to. He felt like an ice sculpture. Frozen, trapped in a single position, a single emotion; his body shrinking, blurring, melting away at an agonizing pace.

‍Melting – Exploding – Unraveling.

‍Dying.

‍It is all too much, Blip thought, and Pablo’s way out is the only one.

‍A bar napkin slid under the door. It snapped him out of his trance. Through smudged ink and the condensation from a pint glass, Blip could just make out the scrawl: Please Honey, let me in.

‍The pounding on the door must’ve been going on for quite some time. He unlocked it and moved aside to let Ara enter, then quickly shut it behind her. She kissed the top of his head on the way down to join him on the floor. Ara smoothed his hair, hushed him, held him tight as he drenched the two of them with his tears.

‍“I know, Baby, I know.” She wiped his cheeks with the pads of her thumbs. “Can we stand? We can stand. Let’s stand up, hm?”

‍Ara slowly rose to her well-adorned feet, holding onto Blip’s arms to help him off the floor. Once he was steadily upright, she grabbed a wad of paper towels and dabbed his face dry. She took a tube of concealer out of her purse. The shade was far too pale for her.

‍“I swiped it from your things, just in case.” Ara’s eyes twinkled as she dabbed away some of the redness in his face. Her cool fingertips soothed his skin and his nerves.

‍“Alright, Hon,” She looked him square in the eyes, “it’s 2:19 A.M. Will you dance what little’s left of the night away with me? Can you do that for me, Sweet?”

‍Blip nodded and wrapped his arms around Ara’s neck, kissed her cheek. He unlocked the door. Ara grabbed him by the hand and led him, dance-walking, to the creaky nightclub floor bathed in red and gold lights, where 15 or so dancers moved their bodies instinctively to an aggressive instrumental track. Ara held Blip’s hand tight as she danced, willing him to release himself and become one with the magical atmosphere of that basement. For his part, Blip committed to swinging his shoulders and rocking his head to every other beat.

‍The song ended abruptly with a shriek of feedback from the mic. After some fumbling, a bro-y sounding DJ announced, “Alright you guys, last song of the night. Thanks for coming out!”

‍He pushed a button on his laptop and an unremixed “With Every Heartbeat” by Robyn and Kleerup divided the room. Some dancers cleared out, deciding it wasn’t the vibe for their night’s finale. The handful that remained luxuriated in its hopeful melancholy.*

‍Violins announced the coming of the song’s climax. Blip’s face got hot and a cried stripe glittered under each of his eyes. He surveyed the creatures flitting around him. Ara, Marcus-with-the-face-tattoo, that girl he used to buy coke from whose name he’d long forgotten, strangers he might never speak a word to or see again but could bare his soul to with the expression on his face and the movement of his body. Compelled by the music and his desolation, Blip lowered himself, laid down with his eyes closed. Streams of tears ran across his face, traveling down his neck to mix with the dirt and remnants of spilt drinks on the dancefloor and creeping into the canals of his ears, softening the impact of the bass ever so slightly. The others encircled him, beheld the peace in his smile and the sadness at his core. Ara grabbed Marcus’ hand with her right and the coke dealer’s with her left; the strangers followed suit. All souls linked, they finished the song out stomping so hard to the beat that Blip felt himself rise from the floor, soaring through memories of sloppy drunken nights, the dream illustrator job that he’d thought would be his ticket to a stable life cut short, winter afternoons spent curled up in blankets with Ara doing jigsaw puzzles on her living room floor, and Pablo’s beautiful laugh.

The song ended. The dancers untwined their fingers, and Ara caught Blip as he fell back down to the present. The floods came on, leaving only the two of them on the dancefloor. She searched his eyes in the hideous clarity of the light and nodded to herself.

They walked the 40-minute walk back to Ara’s hand-in-hand, mostly in silence. Blip wasn’t going to die.

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* If you’d like, I encourage you to listen to the song from timestamp 2:07 as you keep reading.

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BIO: Angel Cetorelli is a writer based in Seattle, WA, USA. “Blip’s Break” is the first piece in a series he’s writing that celebrates the queer nightclub for the electrifying potential and powerful emotions one can feel there. More forthcoming.