The Pairing(75)
My phone buzzes with a text from Theo: a grainy, zoomed-in photo of the David’s cock and balls.
Nice, I reply. I send back a photo of Calumny of Apelles, a dramatic painting of hot people in billowing robes fighting one another in an ornate throne room. This is how I picture Númenor. Theo replies, nerd, and, <3, and then sends a photo of the David’s ass.
Finally, when the crowd thins out, I reverently approach The Birth of Venus.
As I take my first, long-awaited look at her windswept hair, that iconic, brassy shade of blond, I realize I’ve seen the color before. Three times, actually, on Sloane, Este, and Theo.
Venus is a Flowerday strawberry blond.
It feels strange to see something of Theo in a depiction of the divine feminine. I’ve never really seen any woman in Theo (here, Theo would say well, technically, and mention one of the times we brought a girl home together), but I have occasionally seen something else. Some eternal, ineffable quality present in this painting. I see Theo in the way Venus leans her weight to one side and juts her hip out in the contrapposto stance, Theo’s jaw and chin in Venus’s face, Theo’s subtle smirk in the shape of Venus’s mouth, Theo’s laughing vitality in the way Venus’s hair flies.
The longer I stare at her, though, the more I begin to see bits of myself too. Her gaze, the fluidity of her body, the way her fingers lay on her breast. If Theo were here, would they recognize me the way I recognize them? Would they wonder, the way I’m wondering, how it can be that we’ve met here in a Botticelli, curling out of the sea-foam?
I picture them a few streets away beneath David, that monument to masculine beauty, finding us in him like I’ve found us in Venus. Comparing their thighs to his thighs, my lips to his lips, their knees, their shoulders, my waist, our collarbones. I hope Theo looks at that lovingly honed marble and sees the places where their own body holds as much of the divine masculine as he does. I hope it makes them feel known.
I stay there with Venus until two minutes before aperitivo, unwilling to look away. She fills me with dreams of Theo and me on a beach strewn with petals, fills my mouth with the taste of sea salt and rose water and citrus blossoms. An idea for a pastry comes to me unprompted: a featherlight, shell-shaped madeleine infused with rose water and lightly salted, kissed with lemon crémeux and flecked with candied primrose. I write it down, though I don’t know what I’d ever use it for.
In France, we take an apéro before dinner. In my family, it was kir in a juice glass with a splash of Lillet Blanc. Crème de cassis, white wine, a hint of orange peel and honey. Maman said an apéritif should be sweet to ease you into your meal gently, though I suspected she just liked the taste of Lillet.
In Italy, an aperitivo should be bitter. Vermouth, Campari, Aperol. The philosophy is that bitter herbs prime the palate by shocking it into a blank slate for whatever flavors come next. This is what Fabrizio tells us outside a café near the Duomo, where we meet to sip bitter, orange-red Campari spritzes at flimsy café tables that wobble on the piazza’s stones.
Evening sun lights Theo from behind as they lean back in their chair. I watch them laugh at Dakota, who discovers that a spritz is the only way to get a full glass of ice in Italy and orders three more in rapid succession. They take notes on flavors, push their fingers through their hair, recline into their typical legs-akimbo Theo posture, take out a bandana and tie it around their neck. When I first moved to the US, I thought Theo might have been one of those cowboys from the American books my dad bought me.
Cowboys, flowers. David, Venus, Theo.
I don’t know how I didn’t guess it sooner. I certainly felt it long before Theo put a word to it. How could Theo not have always had everything I want? Everything I’m most attracted to, every aspect of masculine and feminine I like best. I don’t know if I love Theo because I’m queer or if I’m queer because I love Theo, but I know there’s nothing I need that Theo doesn’t have. If I’m a man in constant pursuit of decadence, Theo is the ultimate. The most of everything.
I wonder, if Theo had never been on their own, would they have ever discovered this? Or did safety and familiarity keep them smaller? Would there have always been a limit to how much they would know of themself, how much of them I would get to know?
What tragedy that would have been, a comfortable, diminishing love.
I’ve always agreed with the French that a meal should begin with sweetness, but I’m beginning to wonder if the Italians have it right—if, sometimes, discovery wants bitterness first.
“Theeee-oh, Theeee-oh, Theee-oh!”
It was the Calums that got the chant started, but our entire table has joined in, banging their fists until plates rattle. Theo stands, flushed but clearly pleased with the attention.
“Fine, I’ll do it!”
Fabrizio passes down three empty glasses, and Theo turns away while I pour a different red wine into each. When I’m finished, they sit back down, and everyone leans in to watch.
Theo picks up the first glass and swirls the wine.
“Oh, baby. Deep ruby in color, fading to a garnet rim. Brilliant in the light. Already thinking Sangiovese is the main grape here, and like, duh, Tuscany.” They bring the glass to their nose and take a whiff. “Whew. Okay, off the rip, lots of dark fruit. Black cherry for sure. Blackberry, maybe pomegranate. Hold on.” They tip the glass to their lips and close their eyes to taste. “Mm. She’s got a lot going on. Full-bodied and intense, and those fruits are preserved. Bit of balsamic, bit of oregano, bit of leather. A lot of tannins, but they’re gentle, like they’ve had a long time to think about it. Long finish. Sort of like making out with a sexy nun. Gotta be Brunello, Riserva. Around ten years. Slightly candied, actually, which makes it a warm vintage, and 2014 was a cooler year, so maybe 2015?”