Note:Should be read following the previous three stories. Don't ask questions. Just do it, for your own sanity. Thank you.

Please Don't Leave Me

There comes a time in a man’s life when he just wants to sit back and survey the fruits of his labors. Some men, when they reach a certain age, buy red sports cars. Some run off with women half their age. Some pick up and move to Florida.

I buy hockey teams. Hell, I’m rich enough, what’s your problem?

The offseason had been getting boring. Terribly boring, in fact. I missed Dom. I missed games. I (kind of) missed my teammates. What do I do?

That’s right, I hop on a plane to have a visit with my team, and although I could have visited home in Quebec City, I chose not to, because I really wasn’t interested in dealing with my relatives. It’d be hard explaining Game Six and Game Seven of the semifinals. Bloodsucking relatives.

“Why’d you let in all those goals? Some crunch goalie.” Over and over and over again. So I thought the wiser decision would be just to zip in, see some of the team people, and zip out. Simple, no?

I arrive at Jean-Lasange Monday evening, and I’m tired. I’m not overly fond of planes, and it’s just been a long day. Taking advantage of the privacy in the room, I dial the fifteen digits burned into the forefront of my brain.

“Hello, Dom?”

Two hours and an astronomically high hotel phone bill later, I hang up. Or try to, at least.

“How long are you there, again?” he asks. For the fifth time.

“Until Wednesday night. I’m only going to check on the team. I just wanted to call and say hello,” I complain. I’ve been trying to end the call for ten minutes now. I’m tired, dammit!

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I miss you. A lot. I guess I just don’t want you to leave me.”

“I wouldn’t leave you. Remember, that was like the first thing I said when I went there to see you? That I wouldn’t leave you? That I would never leave you? That I didn’t want to leave you?” I insist. I hear him sigh heavily.

“I know. But you’re over there. And I’m over here. And they say that long-distance relationships never work.”

“You’ve told me all this already. More than a few times.”

“You insensitive prick.”

“I’m tired. I’m allowed to be an insensitive prick. It’s ten o’clock here. I want to go to bed. And why are you still talking to me? It’s like four in the morning there. Why did you pick up the phone at all?”

“I don’t know.”

“Good. Good answer.”

“My Caller ID said it was a hotel in Quebec City. And I thought ‘hmm, who do I know in Quebec City’? And I almost went to get my address book, but decided against it, because—”

“I trust that you had a thought process connected with the phone ringing, and that’s why it took you so long, but please, please, please let me hang up with you now. I promise to call you tomorrow. At a normal time,” I groan.

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“Do you special promise?” he teases, and I’m reminded of when we first started sleeping together. God, it seems like ages ago. I don’t even remember which one of us made it up, or who or when or why.

“I special promise. With all my heart.”

“And all your head?”

“And all my head.”

“Then say it.”

“I make a promise with all my heart/ that from you I will not depart/ Not in the night or in the day/ love should always be this way. I’ll stay with you for all my life/ and never cut you with a knife/ I promise to you I will stay true/ even if you’re sent to Kalamazoo,” I say, the rhymes flowing through my brain almost against my will. “Who made that up?”

“You did the first verse. I did the second.”

“I thought so. Now that I’ve special promised, can I go?”

“I suppose. I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“I love you more, but now I’m hanging up, OK? Night-night.” I hang up the phone with mixed feelings. If I let him continue for one more second, he’ll never stop, but I do miss him and enjoy talking with him.

Never mind. I am going to stop worrying and sleep now.

The next day is long and tiring. Breakfast alone, lunch with the president of the Remparts, and dinner with the other two owners; by seven I am beat. Let’s face it: working vacations are actually pretty damn hard work.

I wander back to the hotel and stand in the lobby, waiting for one of the ancient and therefore remarkably slow elevators to be bothered to haul itself down to this floor.

“Wait! Wait! Mr. Roy?” the concierge desk asks. “Someone dropped something off for you.” He ducks behind his little concierge-type desk loaded with brochures for kitschy tourist attractions in the area, then pops back up with a box.

“Here, this was dropped off for you.”

“By who?” I ask, genuinely curious. I never get packages at hotels—or even that much at home, for that matter.

“We didn’t get his name,” the man apologizes.

“Well, thank you,” I say, gingerly turning the box over. I don’t think it’s a bomb. And besides, if it is, well then this is it, isn’t it?

Once the elevator gets a mind to pick me up, it slowly and painfully grinds up to the ninth floor. I take the time (which could also be measured in geological ages) to open the box.

How odd! It’s a typed-up copy of Evening Song by Sidney Lanier. I recognize it as soon as I read the first line.

What’s odder is that I can’t recall ever telling anyone how much I like this poem.

I stroll down the corridor, wondering about the mysterious box with only a sheet of paper inside, and fumble in my pockets for my credit-card key. Or I wonder until I come to the door.

Taped to the handle is another sheet of paper, rolled up this time. Damn. This is starting to get a little odd, but nonetheless, I make an idiot of myself standing in a hotel hallway reading a sheet of paper.

“As I woke up this Monday morn/ I recalled someone I know who doesn’t do porn. Then I thought ‘Hey, I should talk with this guy/ In person, and see him with my own eyes. So I hatched an ingenious plan/ to see this guy without seeming like an obsessive fan.”

Let it be noted that at this point I began to get worried.

“I put my great plan into motion/ and wondered how long it took to cross an ocean. Never mind I’ve done it lots before/ but this time was different because I was coming to see the man I adore. The airplane dropped me off in Quebec City/ and I put my plan into motion within that lovely city. First I hailed a cab to take me to Beauport/ and used my status to avoid getting taken to court/ when I asked for your room number/ for the room where you slumber.”

I was getting a clue by this point.

“Then I asked the concierge to be a nice man/ and hold this box and give it to another certain man. I then taped this poem to the handle of the door/ and open it to see your visitor…”

I launched myself into the room to a non-surprise. Dom. On my bed. In his underwear. Which could be a fairly disturbing sight to other people, but fortunately, I am his boyfriend and not, for instance, the maid.

“You’re the worst poet I ever read,” I say softly.

“But I wrote it for you, and isn’t that what counts?” he says.

“Yeah.”

Don’t I know it.

*

*

*

*

*

*

*

It must be at least a few hours later that I get around to properly saying hi.

“Hi, Dom. How’d you know where I was? I missed you,” I say happily. He turns on his side and looks at me a little oddly.

“I’ve been here at least five hours now. Why the sudden hello?” he asks quizzically. He is so damn cute when he looks like that.

“Because the only thing we really said was a little bit of talk about what a bad poet you are, and then we commenced fucking,” I remind him.

“Oh. Oh yeah. Well, you told me where you were last night, and I was ‘Hey, I could go surprise him!’ and I did. Were you surprised?”

“Very.”

“Could I do this again sometime?”

“Well, it’s really up to you,” I point out.

“Oh, yeah,” he says quietly. “Then I think I will.”