Extract from Only This Remains

Kyle Orosz

Once I was loved by a boy named Pelayo. For that brief, blinding moment, safe inside his love, I was happy. Now I have only the memory, like smoke lingering after the fireworks fade. I wander the streets of Madrid, a city that belonged to us, tracing the paths our feet once walked locked in rhythm. My fingers caress my palm, desperate for his touch; our joyful voices are no more than echoes lost to the sounds of those still alive. There above me, Calle de Pelayo; the photo I took of him beneath the sign – the passion of his stare – still so clear in my mind. ‘I think I look very handsome,’ he’d said when I showed it to him, as if he hadn’t known. Somehow I always knew that it would end, but how I loved believing the impossible, in the dream of the future. Now my body aches for the past, for a way to extend time backwards, adding yesterdays behind us, knowing there will be no tomorrows.

For weeks after he left, I sat in my apartment, haunted by his absence – the chair where he ate, the box of his cookies, the pillows he’d arranged still holding his scent. It was as if everything, like me, was waiting for his return. He’d come through the door, his face full of mercy, his voice soft and pining – ‘Baby, I miss you,’ he’d say, and in the warmth of his embrace all would be right. But he never returned; there was no resurrection. And in this foreign city, where no plaque marks the place we first met, no monument rises to commemorate our love, where only the stones of the buildings we passed bear witness to our brief union, I am left clinging to remnants. And if all of it is lost to him, washed from his mind like stains from a shirt, what are my memories but personal delusions? Without him, everything we had begins to feel like a lie.

When I think back on the night I first saw him, standing there outside the Chinese bazaar in the pride-filled plaza of Chueca – his tall, slender body leaned against the wall, dark hair falling into his eyes as he scrolled his phone – my God, it was only a year ago, but it feels as distant and untouchable as another life. And I suppose, in many ways, it is. How naïvely unaware I was of the perilous beauty that lay ahead. But to look back now is to risk fixing it in place, reducing it to a story with its beginning and end already written. To see it as such is to diminish it, to strip away the life that burned through every day we spent together. Yet, already there are gaps when I dare to recall it, important moments more blank spaces than memories. And I fear that if I wait too long, it will all vanish, like words written in sand at the tide’s edge. So I must try now, as one who summons the dead, to bring forth that first night, that night and the many nights and days that followed. And hope that, through remembrance, the fullness – the truth – of what we had, what we were, might endure.

It was only the day before that I had arrived in Madrid, Spain’s pulsing heart, after leaving the coastal city of Barcelona. Cataluña’s palm trees and long, sandy beaches had brought to mind the California coastline of my childhood – though the beaches of Barcelona felt more like an accessory than a way of life. Happily, there was little else about the city that had felt familiar. I hadn’t gone there to recollect; it was the unknown I was after. Gaudí’s surreal vision guided me throughout the city; I lost myself in the clustered, dilapidated romance of the Barrio Gótico, imagining the lovers that once walked its narrow streets. Balconies draped in plants hung over the streets, inviting me, under lamplight, to peer into apartments and imagine the affairs within. But my heart song, like that of the nightingale’s, was sung alone. I yearned for connection, to feel grounded in a place. In Barcelona I was just another tourist in a town full of them.

‘You should try Madrid,’ a German girl working at the bakery near my Airbnb told me. ‘It’s much more Spanish. Less of the general European influence. Especially if you want to learn the language. Everyone here will just speak English to you once they know you’re not Catalan or Spanish. But in Madrid, most people only speak Castellano.’

The next day I was on the train to the capital city. Barcelona, with its damp, salted air, and nostalgic cries of seagulls soaring overhead, receded like the tide behind me. Through the windows Spain’s countryside unfurled in vast, fleeting scenes – steeples reaching toward the heavens; plains blurring into hillsides; castles perched high, relics of a bygone age. But my thoughts drifted forward, to what lay ahead. Madrid, a city of museums and parks and football, yes, but what else? Sex was on my mind, both as a remedy for loneliness and, perhaps, as a way to immerse myself in this new world. Is it shameful to have surveyed the profile pictures of a dating app before the works of El Bosco? I can’t say. But in those first quiet hours after my arrival, alone my in Airbnb, it was the app’s glowing promises that I turned to, filling my imagination with possibilities of connections.

His account was no more than an image of a bare, headless torso, smooth and lean, draped seductively in a towel – a shade of blue too innocent for the intention behind the photo. His name, I learned, was Pelayo, derived from the Greek Pelagio: ‘of the sea’, fittingly; though he’d never heard that. Despite the suggestiveness of his profile picture, our conversation was unexpectedly friendly, even chaste. We spoke about our lives and he told me about the city. His English, better than most of the Spaniards I chatted with, was the result of years at a bilingual school, studying all but one subject in English – though we agreed that his Romance language was superior to my native tongue. He taught me some words in Spanish; I made him laugh with the vulgar phrases I’d already picked up. At some point he sent some pictures of his face – youthful and friendly, but somehow withdrawn; his smile always restrained, as though the gesture had been rehearsed. I told him he was handsome, though I hadn’t yet made up my mind. He offered to show me around the next day, and while I happily agreed, I couldn’t ignore a nagging apprehension: not yet twenty, he was, perhaps, too young for me. Might our pairing not provoke the judgement of others? But if there was a line I wasn’t meant to cross, I found I no longer cared to recognise it. If he didn’t mind, neither did I. Besides, a date made through an app was rarely a promise; hardly a thing to depend on. Still, I found myself wanting to believe.

But morning passed without a word; so too did the afternoon. I told myself not to care. You just got here, Alex. There’ll be others. Pelayo I would soon forget. But disappointment lingered, sharp and undeniable. Then, finishing my dinner alone, I received his message. How suddenly it lifted my mood. He was nearby, he said, his friends were headed home, and he wanted to see me if I was free. Whatever annoyance I’d carried throughout the day over his silence quickly dissipated. I didn’t know what he was expecting, but the promise of a drink, a conversation, possibly some laughter, was enough to lure me out. I quickly finished my wine and paid.

I’ll wait by the metro stop in Plaza de Chueca

Chueca, I’d read, was the gay neighbourhood of Madrid. A place I once would have avoided, burdened by the weight of my own self-loathing. But something in me had shifted. Let the past hold my shame. Tonight I would step into that openness, feel the joy I had so often denied myself. And this stranger, I hoped, would see only this version of me, unburdened and free. The plaza erupted before me, spilling into the streets around it. How fully the Spanish occupy the night; life too large to exist indoors. Locals and tourists alike, their voices loud and unrestrained, rose into the haze of cigarette smoke wrapped around their tables, cluttered with beer and gin-tonics. There was a kind of solidarity in their shared pulse, one that should have been inviting, but as I stood at the edge of it, I knew that this wasn’t my world. Yet, how I wished that it could be. 

Somehow I found him through it all, alone yet unabated, utterly at ease in his solitude. His eyes lifted from his phone as I approached, as if drawn by some shift in the current, recognising the foreign aura of my presence. Then he smiled, and at once I could see the allure uncaptured by the pictures he’d sent. A smile like a revelation, instantly exceeding, not just my own, but my entire self. It was a smile I would come to know so well, and one I felt forever fortunate to inspire – however hard that fact was to believe. His beauty had its flaws – his teeth a bit large for his face, his frame a touch gangly – but those imperfections, unguarded by vanity, only made him shine more brilliantly. I felt exposed, my shyness magnified under his confidence; vulnerable in a way I hadn’t anticipated. But it didn’t matter, already he’d embraced me and taken my hand as if it had always belonged to him. No words were spoken – none I remember – but our connection was immediate. How proud I felt his hand holding mine, proclaiming us with a gesture so simple, yet fearless. But the shame I still carried scratched at me. The scars of a thousand small wounds etched onto my skin from the childhood teasing, the pointed questions from my sister, the disapproval from my mother and father. I’d lived so much of my life like a penitent, bowed beneath the burden of judgment. But here was Pelayo, offering absolution with his touch. He belonged to a brighter world, one I could scarcely believe existed. The woven rainbow bracelet on his wrist, frayed at the edges, flashed against the black hairs of his arm like a banner. And I, ten years older, felt not the confidence of maturity, but my body tense in response to the innocuous act of his warm, welcoming hand holding mine. How was it so easy for him to live life without apology? He moved through the crowd with a certainty I’d never known, pulling me into a rhythm that instantly felt inevitable. His palm anchored me, and in that moment I chose his world, chose the safety and danger of being seen. I chose him.

We held hands that night and, for the year to come, it was as if we never let go – through the streets; down the escalators of the metro, or barreling down the dim stairs of my apartment building; in taxis speeding toward some uncharted destination. Always and everywhere his hand sought mine. And slowly, the weight I carried began to lift. At times, it felt as though the city itself was our audience: the waitress at a nearby cafe who smiled and waved from the window when we passed; abuelas that stopped us in the street –  ‘What a beautiful couple,’ they complimented; the older gay couple who asked, ‘Why can’t we be like them?’ as they passed. It wasn’t just love they saw, it was defiance. Where once I’d felt unworthy, I now felt chosen.

The entirety of that first night we were unable to look away, our smiles locked in unison as we charged through the streets and burst into a restaurant we found on a corner, attracted by the liveliness within. Though there was nothing special about the place – just another long-distance interpretation of Mexican cuisine with a cocktail menu – we returned to it again and again in honour of our first time; even if, much to Pelayo’s bemusement, I could never remember it by name. We stood at the bar and ordered two of their strange, proprietary cocktails: his, most memorably, came in a plastic bag on ice. We drank and talked and laughed, and the whole time he kept his hand on me, never allowing the flow of his energy to cease.

‘I wasn’t going to meet you,’ he told me. ‘But my friends encouraged me.’

‘I’m glad they did,’ I said, feeling buoyant.

That night, the three of them had come into Madrid from their small, suburban pueblo, drawn by the life and lights of the city centre. Pelayo had spent the evening telling them about me, showing them my pictures, and imagining, together, the potential. He’d only once before taken his flirting beyond the safety of the app; an experience that had left him hesitant. My own history wasn’t much better. Yet, as we stood together at the bar, caressing fingers reached in back pockets, his eyes excavating mine, we both understood our luck. How astonishing it is that two strangers could cut through the vastness of space and time to find each other – a marvel I spoke to and honoured throughout our relationship.

We finished our cocktails and left in search of a new setting; the night air alive with possibilities. We moved with no clear destination; each street, each corner, ours to choose from; our shared excitement for whatever came next acting as our guide. A seedy older man handed us drink tickets to a bar he promised would be fun. ‘Dónde está?!’ Pelayo demanded with a unique mixture of assertiveness and youthful detachment. There was nothing about the man – thin hair and a thick moustache, laced with the stench of cheap tobacco – that promised the reward of an entertaining venue. But we followed him, hopefully, around a corner and down a small street to a door where his portly colleague eagerly attempted to shuffle us into an empty space. We hesitated, looking at each other with doubt, then burst into chaotic laughter and, like children, quickly ran away.

‘Okay, so where to now?’ I asked, breathlessly as we eventually slowed our pace.

‘We can go back to your place,’ Pelayo suggested, his voice calm and easy, as though he’d made up his mind long ago.

I fumbled for a reason to refuse. ‘I don’t have anything to drink,’ I said, still grasping at formality.

He smiled, unshaken. ‘It’s okay’ – his voice carrying a quiet certainty – ‘we can just spend some time there.’

I hesitated, unsure of what he truly meant or what I was ready for. The attraction between us was undeniable, but I had entered the night with so little expectation, that now, the possibility of something more felt both thrilling and unreal. I was also worried about leading him somewhere he didn’t fully want to go. But Pelayo, I soon learned, young as he was, wasn’t someone to be led. ‘Okay,’ I said, submitting to the unknown. ‘It’s back where I met you.’

As we walked toward my apartment, a silence settled between us, thick with unspoken desires. His hand was still gripping mine, stealing glances at me under dim streetlights, each time making me smile. When we reached the door to my building, I fumbled with the lock, mumbling about how it always stuck; then we climbed the dingy staircase, nervous, yet undecided. Inside, I flipped on a single lamp, hoping its glow might soften the room’s impersonal decor. Pelayo looked around, taking it all in with quiet curiosity.

As we settled into the small sofa, I brought out my phone, like some tool to secure myself against touch – ‘What do you want to listen to?’ I asked him. He suggested a Spanish singer, wondering if I knew her. I didn’t, but started playing her songs as he stared into me with his dark brown eyes. Nervously, I tried to comment on her sound, her folk vocals with auto-tuned ornamentations; but he wasn’t interested in my attempts at music journalism, and neither was I. The pull of our bodies was certain, drawing together like two drops of oil coalescing in water. We merged, joining at our mouths. My heart beat into his as we drew closer, his body pulsating onto mine; now him in my lap, pushing my back against the sofa, his hips thrusting toward my face – I grabbed them, then the back of his head. We kissed as I stroked my palms upward along his body, removing his shirt and hoodie. Through my arms he reached, pulling at my own clothes until both our torsos were bare. His thin frame reminded me of a friend I had long desired, but whose body was never mine to have – not to touch, nor to inhabit. That bizarre trait of gayness where the desire for another’s form is inseparably webbed into the longings one has for himself. Here, however, was Pelayo atop me, his legs straddling mine. I rubbed the damp, hairy pits of his arms with my thumbs, before grabbing his lean biceps, containing them completely in my grip. A kiss away from my face was the buckle of his belt; I pulled the leather tip from the loop, but he put his hands over mine, stopping me—  

‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s perfect like this.’ 

I held his eyes for a moment to register my understanding, then communicated it back at him. ‘Yes, okay,’ I said, then smiled. ‘But just the belt,’ and quickly pulled it out from his jeans, the movement making a swift, dramatic sound. He came closer, pressing his warm skin into mine and kissed me. I wrapped myself around him and shifted his body to my side, moving our merged forms into the short length of the sofa, where there we continued, searching for something found only in the continued repetition of wet lips on foreign skin.

The music had shifted – another artist with the same name, but the style had changed, pulling us from the trance we’d settled into. ‘Why don’t we go to the bedroom?’ he suggested, his voice soft, unhurried. ‘It’s probably more comfortable.’

At every moment I’d let him guide us, unwilling or unable to direct. But the bedroom carried an intimacy, a vulnerability I wasn’t sure I was ready for. Our connection was undeniable, but we had spoken so little that I questioned its nature. Was it merely physical desire, a fleeting chemistry that would dissolve with the night? And if it was only desire, he had already drawn its boundaries, set its limits. What, then, could be gained from crossing into that more intimate space? I wonder now about that reluctance, that resistance to exposing myself fully to a stranger who had asked for nothing more than for me to simply be. Yet I followed him, abandoning my hesitations like distant echoes. His body felt right next to mine, and whatever my hesitations, I looked only toward the continuation of our connection.

In the room we quickly stripped to our underwear and got onto the bed. His legs were long and sturdy, thicker and more substantial than his upper body; covered entirely with dark, smooth hairs like those of his arms. I moved from his feet up to his electric blue briefs, kissing every inch. I was desperate to have him naked, to taste each part of him. But I was also enjoying the boundaries he’d set – how they shaped what was possible, and what was possible to stretch. I slid my fingers under his briefs, entangling myself inside him while avoiding what was forbidden. We both smiled at my brazenness. I kissed his smile, and with the tip of my tongue touched each of his teeth, playfully, as if a game, but also to catalogue his entirety; to know that, when later I recalled the night – after the inevitable end – that every nuance of his body had been considered. Hours went by like this, strange hours that exist only in the middle of the night, stretched out to impossible lengths. Two people together, escaping time. Perhaps something was uttered, but it’s also likely we remained silent. Words had no meaning, no purpose. His mind, I imagine, was thinking in Spanish, and mine in English, and the distance between the two languages would only have created a false divide between us. We were in harmony; something beyond the corporeal had united us. 

But just as the night can feel endless, so too can it pass in an instant. The early morning light began to seep in through the curtains; sleep seemed necessary, if not desired – ‘We should try,’ I told him, my voice unfamiliar, breaking the spell of silence. Yet it was hard to pull away from our mutual adoration. We curled into each other, searching for calm, but found no respite. Sleep offered no serenity, only a lonely void, and neither of us was ready to let go. The stroking of skin, the smelling of hair; back and forth we grabbed at each other’s bodies, holding the other tighter; kissing necks and limbs. As one fell into sleep the other pulled him out again. Organically we twisted into some form of comfort impossible to translate as natural: his head resting on my right inner thigh, my left leg over him; his perfection framed by his messed hair and my flesh. It was likely a desire for proximity, the intimacy of a face near the groin. His expression was the simplest and purest of satisfaction. I felt an urge to take his photo then, to capture the beauty of that moment, but I wouldn’t dare move, lest I ruin it. ‘I’ll never forget this view,’ I thought aloud, both as a declaration and a promise to myself. He recalled my remark some time later, as if to ask if I still held the image in so high regard. ‘It was beautiful,’ I reiterated, seeing it still clearly. ‘Completely perfect.’

By late morning we agreed to emerge, though neither of us showed signs of the exhaustion that should have followed a sleepless night. Such is the drug of love. We gathered our clothes, strewn along the path we’d trailed the night before. The strong Madrid sun blazed through the windows, its light unforgiving, demanding answers to questions I hadn’t yet dared to consider. The intimacy I’d shared with this stranger, so natural in the dark, now felt raw, invasive.

‘Do you know your metro station?’ I asked, fumbling. Of course he did; it was his city. 

‘It’s where we met last night,’ he said, his tone edged with reproach, masking a wound. But I hadn’t expected him to stay so long, and his unhurried movements left me unsettled, caught in the fragile space between what we’d been and what we now were.

‘And didn’t you tell me you had plans with friends that day?’ I protested months later, desperate to explain myself when he revealed that he’d wanted to stay, but had felt pushed out. But by then, what could I do? Regret has no power to rewrite the past. Still, that morning gnaws as me; an ache time has only increased. Had I to do it over again, I would stay with him – go for a late breakfast; wander through Parque del Retiro; let the hours of the day stretch onward as those had from the night – even as I know that what I’d wanted that morning was solitude. But reasons from the past dull over time, and what wasn’t done weighs heavier than what was.