The air conditioner spat an insect, a spider, into Ali’s mouth. One week earlier, he had seen a spider, perhaps the same one, skittering into the vents. In the Quran, there is a story about a spider protecting the Prophet Muhammad in some way; Ali forgot how it went. It was a story he had always doubted. As he attempted to push out the eight legs with his tongue, he understood that his skepticism had hardened into faithlessness at an exact but unknown moment before his current middle age. “At least you have A/C,” Theo said, flexing his body over the couch arm. “What’s in your mouth?”

“Nothing,” Ali said while walking to the kitchen. He pulled a paper towel.

“You know I can’t swallow pills or whatever.”

“Sensitive gag reflex?”

“Our ENT says it’s psychosomatic. When I get sick, my mother mixes my meds with oatmeal.”

“You’re a six-foot Yorkie.”

“Your ex, what was her name? She was a doctor, right?”

“Not all medication can be triturated.” Ali grabbed a bottle of painkillers from a drawer. “Here. Get up.” An ink-blue pill rolled in his palm.

“I really can’t. I swear.”

“You’re going to have to learn. You don’t want to be the only one snorting Molly in college.”

“You really don’t know anything, do you?”

“Open.”

Theo stood straining to swallow, once, twice, a third time. His mouth opened to reveal the pill lacquered in saliva, lodged in his tongue’s pleat. Ali noted where the teenager’s wisdom teeth would develop. Mouth wide, Theo’s pupils dilated. “Hsee? Wunf’t go dwn.”

“Try again.”

This time, Ali put his right hand on Theo’s throat, tweaking his esophagus. “Nt wurkin.”

“Just wait.”

The breath out of Theo’s narrow grin: fructose. They stood there for some time, with Ali’s hands on Theo’s, long enough for cuticles of sweat to begin forming under their arms. Ali’s grasp was comfortable and warm. Then, just as Theo was about to slip his finger into Ali’s belt loop and pull him close, Ali stepped hard on the boy’s foot.

“The fuck!”

“Open,” Ali said, expectant.

Theo’s eyebrows ticked inward as he swished spit.

“I’m cured.”

That night, Ali couldn’t find the story in the Quran. Rather, he found the opposite of what he had remembered. The spider’s web was described as “the frailest of houses.” Saliva and wind, essentially. More like nothing.

• • •

They had met on a late-running 1 train, shortly after eleven, brought together by a raving woman who had misplaced her reality somewhere near Chambers Street. She asked Theo what year it was. Theo looked up from his book, pink and popular, and told her it was 1969.

“No, it’s not,” she replied.

“It is,” he said, “Gaddafi just sentenced King Idris to death, Armstrong walked on the moon last week, or so they say, and Henry Kissinger is—”

She pressed toward him, a shouting collage of plastic bags. Ali had seen her on the train before and didn’t consider her dangerous. She stood over the boy and screamed something about his being sick, being a crime, telling him to get out of her city. Ali, reassessing her, approached the two of them palms out. “Ma’am. Don’t worry about him. Look at me. It’s 2018. You’re in midtown, heading up. I can help you find—”

The train came to a stop, and she trudged off, muttering, “feeling hostile.” Ali eyed Theo, returning to his seat. “I’m sorry!” Theo shouted, cuing the train’s lurch into motion.

Within a dense matrix of noise, Ali found himself studying the boy. White and necklaced. The manner his curls spread handsomely across his forehead meant he had no language for loss, most likely; his life had yet to grow teeth. Decontextualized, the boy was alluring, Ali decided. All the same, he noticed Theo’s annoyance upon realizing they were both getting off at 86th Street. 

Restless legs led Ali to the sea-dark bar a block from his apartment, to well gin and a fugitive stool set at some distance from the others. The establishment’s dachshund kept a listless watch. A scoff from the door. Before he could look over his shoulder, the boy had sidled up. “Theo,” the boy said, extending reedy fingers. Theo was taller than Ali by an inch or so and slimmer by more than that. Ali pulled at his shirt. 

“You followed me.”

“How do you know this isn’t, you know, my place, like the bar in Cheers.”

“The bar in Cheers is called Cheers.”

The bartender’s hand gripped the ridge of the counter. “Am I going to have to throw you out?” she asked.

 “I’m with him,” Theo said, jerking his chin at Ali.

“Don’t bother ordering,” she said, returning to her regulars.

“Why are you here?” Ali asked.

“To thank you. The Wicked Witch of the West Side was about to hex me. She was holding a filet of fenny snake,” Theo said, spitting a short laugh.

“You’re still making fun of her.”

“Am not.”

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

 Ali wasn’t going to call the boy out for lying but recalled his ex’s criticism: selfishly civil. “I think you’re lying.” 

“What do you do?” Theo asked.

“I’m an architectural designer.”

Theo glanced at the mute triangle of Ali’s hairline.

“Okay,” Ali corrected himself. “I was. They handed me a cardboard box on my way out. The kind that smells like copier toner, a mug that said Form Follows Function, two mechanical pencils, and a moribund fern.”

“And what do you do now?”

“As of this morning, I’m comparing shades of beige.”

“I see.”

The boy strained to look older, deepen a line on his forehead. Golden light from overhead tilted through Ali’s glass as he took a sip.

“Why did you tease that woman, really?”

“I wanted to make you laugh.”

• • •

Ali had made the mistake of calling Aisha on her birthday, knowing her hello would be cross and flat. “Look at who it is. How are you?”

“Happy Birthday?”

“Thank you, Ali. Kids, what do we say to Uncle Ali?”

“—THANK YOU, UNCLE ALI!”

The portrait of his sister teaching first grade was difficult to envision; she was libidinous and indolent. Her students couldn’t be learning much at all.

“I forgot you were at work. I can call back later.”

“No, it’s fine. They don’t mind.”

“OK. So, how are you?”

“Good, good.”

“It’s been a whil—”

“A few months, I know.”

“Missing the harpy?”

“I’m okay with it.”

“I miss the harpy, too. Kids, how much do we miss the harpy?”

“—A LOT.”

“I should have called sooner.”

“He gets it! I have developments of my own, you know.”

“Oh? Have you been forgiven for another affair?” Ali said, uncivilized.

 She took the phone off speaker.

“Don’t be a shit,” she said. “We’re trying to get pregnant.” Ali almost laughed. “Trying” implied one or both were reticent or broken, and Aisha wanted children so bad that she surrounded herself with other people’s. She believes, Ali thought, that they will devour her lust. His looping thoughts corralled his jealousy. He and his ex had discussed children, and Ali had conflated those conversations with plans. “That’s great!”

“It is. I’m excited.”

Ali grazed the blistered paint of his columned radiator, still off in October. Beyond his thin curtains, a splitting cold.

“Do you remember the story about the spider and the prophet? How’d it go?”

“Not much to it. Prophet Muhammed, peace be all-up-on-him, is getting chased by—Christians, I guess? Pagans? Who the hell knows—and hides in a cave. The cave’s spider senses the prophet’s generational importance and weaves a web at the cave’s entrance. The infidels don’t bother looking inside and the Prophet leaves a few days later. Goes on to marry his child bride, my namesake.”

“That’s not in the surah, actually. It’s not in the book. But what do you think happens to the spider in our version?”

“Are you seeing someone? You do this. It’s foreplay. It’s your habit. Since forever.” A laugh croaked in the air. “Do you think it means you’re going to hell? Crowbarring thighs open like this?”

• • •

After that first night at the bar, after watching Ali disappear into his lobby, Theo began appearing at random hours outside of Ali’s building. He ambled on the sidewalk, reading thick architectural monographs on nearby stoops. Ali noticed. His windows faced the street, and Theo had a memorable enough gait that Ali had noticed it. Ali began ordering in, timing his errands to avoid the teenager. It wasn’t so bad; he didn’t have many places to go. The stalemate ended when Theo spotted Ali peeking over his apartment’s narrow terrace and yelled, “DON’T JUMP!”

 

They had coffee at one of the neighborhood’s employee-owned cafes. As milk unwound in Ali’s cup, Theo spoke. Theo was seventeen, a senior at a good high school the name of which he repeated often in conversation. Theo wanted to take a gap year before college, much to his parents’ dismay; Theo was allergic to everything (fruit skins, penicillin, lentils); Theo liked what he thought was good music. Ali was charmed, listened with honest energy and revealed next to nothing about himself. When they—or, rather, Theo—finished talking, it was evening, and the city’s windows had been illuminated under a tight lid of clouds. A wave of pigeons rose above the pair as they neared Ali’s building. Stopping in front of his lobby as they had the first night, Ali said: “I hope you understand you can’t just show up here whenever you like.”

“I understand.”

“OK then.”

The next day, at about the same time they had returned from coffee, Ali’s buzzer sounded. The doorman’s grainy voice was confused. “A, uh, Mr. Theo here to see you…”

At the door of his apartment, Ali resisted moving the hair out of the boy’s face. “How did you know which apartment to buzz?”

“I waited outside for a bit after you went in. A window on this floor lit up. A quick search got me the building’s layout and the apartment letter. You pay 10% more than the unit one floor up.” He stalked around Ali’s furniture and esoterica—a tall, nebbish cat. There was nothing frivolous in Ali’s apartment. “Why do you keep it so dark?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I wanted some company, but I can leave if you want.”

“No, I suppose it’s fine. Are you hungry?”

“Yes, but I’m—”

“Allergic to everything, I remember. How’s yesterday’s butter chicken?”

“Works.”

• • •

By the time Theo’s parents grew curious enough about the thirty-five-year-old man spending time with their son that they invited him to dinner, the thirty-five-year-old man was himself questioning the nature of his and the boy’s relationship. Nothing had happened. Not much had happened. Five things had happened. Their legs had knowingly knocked under the table of the coffee shop; they had walked closely together in the Neue Gallery, grazing hands on three occasions; Theo had fallen asleep on Ali’s shoulder while watching Seven Samurai, and there was that business with the pill. Theo had tried to kiss Ali goodbye once, too, but Ali managed to duck out of the way. More than anything, Ali liked watching the boy eat.

As he walked, the fall night settled. A cart was selling mangos. Pale and honest expressions. The purgatorial creatures of New York summer remained, while the transient had vanished. New York again, and finally. Labor waited on bus benches and Ali knew he was meant to sit with them.

Theo’s parents lived ten blocks north of Ali in a building occupied by shiftless octogenarians and the renovation-obsessed—apartment 33D. Outside the north-facing windows, the skyline paled under a vagrant moon. Theo introduced Ali to his parents in the narrow hallway. There was an awkward shaking of hands before the foursome walked into the dining room. Father and Mother Reyes—this was how Ali thought of them—were in the last stage of their collective attractiveness. Mother Reyes forced her perfect carriage; Father Reyes had a boiled nose and wore a long-sleeved polo clumsily untucked atop flannel trousers. “It’s a pleasure to meet you finally, Ali…”

“Taufiq.”

“Taufiq, right, Theo told us,” Mother Reyes said. “Did you know your sister and I know each other? Well, through one degree of separation. I went to med school with her OBGYN, Kelsey. Our world is getting smaller by the day, don’t you think?”

“Your sister is pregnant?”  Theo asked, going through the plastic bags on the table, delivery from the ethnically confused restaurant on the corner.

“She is, yes. Found out a week ago.”

“I heard it’s going wonderfully. What’s her husband’s name? Omar? The playwright?” Mother Reyes smiled, putting plates in their places.

“Yes.”

Theo revealed rice, grape leaves, hummus, eggplant tagine from the bag. A vegan arrangement.

“Didn’t know if you were vegetarian,” Father Reyes said.

“I’m not.”

“We didn’t want to make any assumptions. Should have gotten the chicken skewers.”

The conversation swung between what Theo’s parents knew and what they did not know about Ali. Father Reyes offered a resumé consultation. Mother Reyes offered her single girlfriends. Ali interpreted their mechanical glare to mean he was being measured. Their lives had been organized to exhibit Theo as their prized possession, a laurel. Theo smiled a smile to embarrass Ali, but Ali had had enough of their performances. The night, the table, their bodies flattened into the rickety backdrop of a cheap theater. It seemed to Ali the aged give what little substance they have to youth and that each act of protection is a concession to loss.

“Theodore has been surprisingly quiet on the subject, but what exactly do you two talk about when you’re together? He’s bright but I can’t imagine he’d be good company for an adult, not one as thoughtful as yourself,” Mother Reyes said.

“Thanks.” Theo replied

“I’m his physics tutor.” Ali’s spontaneous lie sounded true. Theo blushed. “That’s how we met. I needed to make some extra money during my transitional period and posted an ad online. He’s a good student when he wants to be.”

“See, now that makes sense. Why didn’t you tell us that, T?” Father Reyes said, refilling his glass of wine.

“I wanted to make you two nervous before taking my year off.”

“You’re not taking a year off.” A slant of rain fell across the dining room window. “Dessert! Fruit flambé!” Husband and wife made for the kitchen in practiced synchrony. Theo and Ali sit silently, avoidant. A glass shattered. “—!” Ali joined the couple. Father Reyes was holding Mother Reyes´s bloody hand under the tap; the wound refused to run clean. “Mind helping? I must torch.” Ali was now holding Mother Reyes´s hand. He was staring at the back of T, Theo, Theodore. His legs, too long for his chair, were crossed; his flesh was freshly poured dough, pretzeled. Ali imagined all of them from above: mother, father, himself, the boy—an archipelago. He noticed the beginnings of wrinkles that striated the backs of Theo’s ankles. Where we age first, he thought, is where we most often meet the world. Ali forgot the reason for his presence at this dinner. Mother Reyes stared at her hand, her wound, which continued to seep. “Is this all the blood I have?” Ali pressed it with a towel. “No, it’s not. You’re fine.” He bandaged Mother Reyes, seemingly unaware that they needed to understand Theo’s inevitable abandonment as mercy. “I should get moving,” Ali said. “Thank you for the meal. Chicken skewers next time, definitely.”

When Ali reached his apartment, his thigh vibrated.

Nice Job, Teach.

• • •

When Theo didn’t reach out to Ali the next day, or any of the following days, Ali understood he had sinned in the boy’s eyes by lying about their relationship. Ali hadn’t a clue what Theo had wanted him to say, but it was apparent he had erred. On the last day of the first week, Ali spent the purple-hearted dusk looking out from his building’s roof deck, straining to hear Theo’s shout.

The following month opened with a job offer. A friend of a friend, out of pity or earnest sympathy, recommended him for a design position with a new firm specializing in fiber-based construction materials, creating tensile layers that held their form, allowing for the removal of steel armature. They had made the first completely malleable form light enough to attach to existing buildings and lace into the city’s very fabric. The novelty of this network—more aperture than structure —excited Ali.

 His new office was sparse with pistachio-green walls and a receptionist who wore heavy-rimmed glasses. He was given the option of working from home but chose to make the daily commute to Midtown, hoping to chance upon another conversation. With his third paycheck, he paid rent and bought groceries, including a six-pack of over-priced beer. A date with a coworker ended in guileless sex, an event that repeated itself a few times per week until the coworker transferred to the Scottsdale office to be closer to her family.

• • •

Aisha and Omar broke up over two loud weeks in May; Omar had been messaging another woman. To Aisha, this was intolerable, even if it made her a hypocrite. Her baby’s custody was a matter for later, for after her delivery date. “For now,” she said, stifling a yawn on her call with Ali, “it’s me and you, brother man.”

Ali ordered a bassinet, diapers, and a car seat that big enough to double as a baby bathtub. Boxes of child-rearing impedimenta stacked into a second skyline inside his living room, obscuring the windows, dimming his already dark apartment.

Toward the end of a pastel day in July, Theo and his girlfriend arrived unannounced and drunk. The girl was beautiful and looked fond of rumors. They were high. “Sorry, man, but can we stay with you for the night?” Theo asked, already inside, fingering a box of diapers. “We wanted to hang with my friend, George, but he’s not picking up.”

“What’s wrong with your house?”

“Kenzie and I are taking our year away together. Heading to Miami in the morning. This doesn’t sit well with our caretakers, obviously.”

Passing by him and into the living room, Kenzie thanked Ali and mentioned having heard good things about him. The teenagers sat on the couch, glancing at each other, breaking into laughter. “Lot of diapers,” Theo said. “We, I mean my parents, heard about Omar. Guess you’re the surrogate father? That’s great. You’d be good at it.”

“Strange that they keep such close tabs on your physics tutor, no?”

“They like to be informed,” Kenzie said. “I’m sure they did a background check on me, too.”

“What did they find, do you think?”

“They definitely know about her three abortions,” Theo said.

“My on-again-off-again relationship with amphetamines,” Kenzie added. The pair laughed again, cross-eyed with excitement. Theo picked up his phone. “Finally. It’s George.”

The buzzer sounded; the doorman’s voice was flat.

“Send them up,” Ali said, resetting the intercom’s receiver. “It’s your parents, Theo.”

“Shit. Please, please don’t tell them we’re here. We can stay in your room.”

“I don’t want to get involved.”

“Oh, come on,” Theo said, pushing into Ali’s bedroom for the first time, “Yes, you do.”

Mother Reyes spoke for the couple, taking a few steps into the doorway. “Our apologies, Ali, but have you seen Theo?” Ali waved them into the living room, but they stayed where they were, taking in the columns of boxes.

“No, I haven’t. Our last tutoring session was a few weeks after our dinner together.”

“I was afraid that would be the case. He really was using you to make us nervous, wasn’t he?”

“I suppose.”

“You’re getting ready for Aisha,” Mother Reyes said, pointing her chin at the bassinet. “You’re a good brother.”

“I don’t have much choice.”

“You’re making a choice, a decent one if you ask me,” Father Reyes said, his arms triangles at his hips. “Sorry again for disturbing you.”

 

Ali waited for the sound of the elevator doors before letting the fugitives out of his bedroom. “You’re a paragon, man! Not a snitch in your bloodline,” Theo said, leading Kenzie by the hand into the hallway. “George is ready for us. Turns out this was just a pit stop.”

“Of course.”

“Again, man, you really—”

Ali put his hand up and shook his head. There was no reason for another show of appreciation.

Though it was night, Ali kept the lights off. The windowpanes reflected the room behind him in faint outlines before yielding to the city. He saw Theo pause beneath an awning, caught between two directions, and then turn north. The whites of his sneakers flashed between parked cars. There was contentment and heat in Ali’s faint solitude. The traffic lights blinked through their cycle. A taxi idled by a hydrant. Across the avenue, a woman drew her blinds; a man washed dishes, sleeves wet at the elbows. Delivery bikes cut diagonally through the intersection, and from the floor above, there was the steady thrum of someone’s treadmill. He continued watching long after the young man had dissolved into the blue-black air, until threads of light crossed and broke against the buildings. The city held together, barely.