Years, decades ago. We’re at a playground. It’s night, cold and breezy. I wore two jackets while he donned my thickest coat; whenever he’d fly south to me for those weekend visits, he never packed his own, he always assumed it’d be warm. We’re on a balance beam, the type my friends and I played on as kids, trying to knock each other off. But as we, two adults, teetered on opposite ends, he asked, “You think we can walk past each other without falling?” What did he expect? We could barely stand without wobbling. First, we tried a no-thinking, no-hesitation approach, going straight and ducking quickly past. No dice. So we took it slow. Coordinated dance steps: face-to-face, we’d step out our left feet, I’d hold his sides while he held my shoulders, then we’d lean back and rotate. Smaller in stature, I’d lean further as we rotated, trusting that he’d pull me back once we switched spots.

It worked. We made it past one another on this inches-wide beam; no falling.

Well, mostly. During one attempt, as we were rotating, a sudden gust smacked us. I leaned back too far and let go. Flailing, I grasped at air. “I got you,” he said. His hands slipped off my shoulders and grabbed my jacket. I kept reaching at nothing for a few dramatic seconds before simply stepping off. He reached for me, wobbled, then straightened back up. “You could’ve stayed on,” he said. I could’ve. But I had realized that in those seconds while I circled my arms like an erratic windmill, I felt just as unstable as when we held each other, rotating around some invisible point.

•

Later, we lay in my bed, listening to music from his playlists. We were smoking, so the windows were open. Soft light from the streetlamps illuminated fuzzy dark shapes. It was frigid. Under the blanket, we still wore all the clothes we had on outside.

I sat against the pillows. He sat in front of me, between my legs, leaned back onto my chest; I had to labor my breaths.

“I feel so comfortable,” he said.

“Two jackets,” I said. “Otherwise, you’d feel my ribs.”

“No,” he said. “I mean, I don’t feel this comfortable with anyone else. Girls usually say they’re surprised I like Enya. Surprised.” He spat the last word.

I was silent for a moment. “I wish it were different,” I said and kissed his warm scalp.

He shook his head. “Can you rub my back?”

“Sure.” I placed the cigarette between his lips. He pressed at a spot where his left shoulder curved into his neck.

“Here,” he said. “It’s really bad here.” Right hand kneading his neck, I positioned my left thumb at the sore spot, anchored the rest of the hand over his shoulder, and pushed. He exhaled and closed his eyes, leaning his head further back. My lips settled in his hair.

Eventually, I rested my sore hands on his chest. He lifted his arm. Thinking he wanted to move, I lifted my arms too. “Oh,” he said. “I was just…” He placed the extinguished cigarette between my lips and reached for my arms, laying them back on his chest. He wrapped his fingers over mine and rubbed the muscles between the bones of my hands. I held my breath. He paused every now and then to interlace his fingers with mine, our palms embracing.

After a particularly long pause, he said, tentatively, “Will you keep going?”

My left hand, still tender but refreshed, returned to the spot on his back, pressing with the hope that these few moments could reverse years of stooped posture. My right
hand stayed interlocked with his.

His head drooped to the side. His eyes remained shut.

“Hey,” I whispered. “Hey.” I listened to his breathing. My throat was dry. “I love you.” I tightened my grasp on his hand. “Do you know that?”

“Zzzzzz,” he replied. I let go. His hand slipped down his side, where, I tell myself, it preferred to be.

•

When he flew back up after that weekend, I was depressed and weepy. I got that way after each of his visits throughout the years we kept in touch. I’d talk about him again with friends. Most would tell me again that he’s bad, that it’s all bad. I’d be with my housemate who, like him, was milking dating apps for the right woman, and he’d tell me to get the fuck outta the situation; I’d be with a good pal and his wife, and they’d say I deserve better, someone honest about themself; it’d be me with three girls from work and their boyfriends, and they’d say it sounds abusive. To all of them, I’d smile and reply something.

Another friend, he’d hold me and wipe my cheeks as I rambled. His husband would bring me a tissue. They wouldn’t say anything because they knew what I was feeling. They’d left that feeling behind; they knew that addressing it would be to rip out the stitches.

And another friend. She’d been in a relationship with a man for years. She’d tell me how she always thinks about women, beautiful faraway women, and she’d hold my hand, saying, “I know.” She understood me best, because she understood him, too. The three of us, with all our freedoms, nonetheless trapped between what we wanted and what was easier.

•

That was back in the 2020s in Foster City, before it was reclaimed by the Bay. I lie in bed now, an old man. Asleep next to me is someone whose face doesn’t tense when I stroke his jaw, whose face doesn’t skew when I say I love him. He snorts, sighs, and scoots closer, pushing his behind against my thigh. He and I have what I’d always wanted. But I think about you sometimes—how we had something special, something nameless. I wonder if you have the wife and child you always wanted, what everyone always wanted for you. I wonder if the spot on your back still hurts. I wonder if you’re comfortable.

•

“Comfortable” by Benjamin Jin and the artwork titled Sudden Fiction Spread by Erin McCann appeared in Issue 43 of Berkeley Fiction Review.

Benjamin Jin is a biologist at UC Santa Barbara studying phytoplankton–underappreciated little marine bugs that serve as the base of many ecosystems and give the world a good bulk of its oxygen. They love all things about people and relationships and have started conceptualizing the importance of fiction as a companion to scientific knowledge, and so have very recently began writing as a way to explore conveying complex themes and emotions in the same language used to communicate facts. They would love any feedback on their first steps into the land of fiction; if you have thoughts, you can email them at benjamin.jin18@gmail.com and they will assuredly reply with love and appreciation.

Erin McCann (she/hers) is a sophomore illustrator and graphic designer. She studies cognitive science and enjoys finding creative ways to apply her design and illustration skills.