The Pairing

by Casey McQuiston

While I was mourning my exploded thyme on the sidewalk, Theo was substituting a spoonful of Aleppo pepper flakes in total disregard of my vision. It was improvised on instinct, and it was better.

Taste is what I do; Theo makes me better at it.

Theo counts the steps, finds a spot, then lays their long body down. “What are you doing?” “The Godfather Part III,” they say, as if this should be obvious. They speak up into the sky, their head nearly resting on the stone. “This is where Mary dies at the end.”

“He’s definitely getting laid tonight.”

I’m gathering valuable intel, go get cannoli and I’ll tell you what I find.

A few extravagant cakes are topped with piped curls of white icing and piles of sugared fruit—a sign declares these TRIONFO DI GOLA—TRIUMPH OF GLUTTONY. God, if I could title my memoir.

Theo tilts their head. “Is it supposed to look like—” They glance up at the saint in the fountain, then whisper, “—a titty?” “Yes, they’re called St. Agatha’s Breasts,” I say. “I saw them and knew you had to see it too.” “I extremely do,” Theo says, taking it from me happily.

Seems like a waste to never have sex with the person who pulled you from the mouth of a shark.

It reminded me that Timo hadn’t yet had their Michelin star when I left California. Theo helped them get it.

Nothing could convince me that isn’t some kind of sign.

I understand, finally, in the heat of their mouth. They love me. I love them. It was always as simple as that.

I spare half a breath to thank Italy for inspiring us to button our shirts less, because those are gone in seconds, whipped over our heads so we can press chest to chest, skin to skin, lips sliding wet and raw into another fit of furious kissing.

I have long believed that being eaten out by Theo Flowerday is enough to make a person understand why erotic writers of history called an orgasm a crisis. The dedication, the skill, the endurance, the total uninhibited enthusiasm, the swimmer’s breath control—they lavish me with it, rim and tease and press with their tongue until I’m whimpering and sinking down onto my elbows, widening my legs and rolling my hips.

They were already the best fuck I ever had, and now they may be even better.

I’m kneeling before I know it, half hunger, half supplication.

One roll of my hips and I sink to the hilt, and we’re there together, fluid and engulfing and known.

Love took root in me before I learned its name, and I’ve sat in its shade for so long now without eating its fruit. This feels as if I’ve finally taken a piece into my hands and split it open. It’s so sweet inside. Sour too, slightly underripe—but so, so sweet.

They taste of coffee and pistachio and sunscreen, like the love of my life.

But in my bed in the desert that unthinkable summer, I knew that no matter what happened between us when we were older, they would always be the person who did this for me. That would always matter more than anything.

We kissed, and we cried, and we told each other we were doing the right thing. That these are the kind of painful choices adults learn to make to keep something for life. One day it wouldn’t hurt so much, and we’d be grateful we had done it.

“I made friends with a guy at the enoteca, don’t worry about it,” they say dismissively, as if charming a stranger into lending out a boat on a remote Mediterranean island is something anyone could do.

“I’m sure I can figure it out. I’m the Crocodile Hunter.”

“Sometimes, a perfect sandwich is not just about the sandwich itself, but about the setting. The experience of eating the sandwich. Context can elevate a great sandwich to a spiritual experience.”

“Onion agrodolce, on the fly.” “Well, I already said, I would take the onion agrodolce and make a baby.” “Something you can eat, Kit.” “Why not the baby? Like Saturn devouring his son.” “Kit devouring his onion baby,” Theo imagines. “I can see the painting now.” “Art historians hate him.” “And they’re right to.”

I smile fondly. “Oh, Florian.” “Oh, Florian,” Theo echoes. “Be honest—did he take it better than me?” “Not better,” Theo says fairly. “But like a champ.” “Maybe I’ll go back to Bordeaux one day.” “Send me a video if you do.”

Rilke wrote, He makes a home in your familiar heart, takes root there and begins himself again.

“Salute!” the room calls back, and we drink to our dear, delicious, devastating Fabrizio.

“You used to get this look on your face when you were baking—this smile, like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.” I consider this, the differences between now and then, when I was baking my own recipes in my own kitchen. I think I could feel that way again, under the right conditions.

I fall asleep thinking of them. The curve of their shoulder, the slant of their smile. Their hands covered in pizza grease, an apricot-flavored kiss. I miss them so badly already. But I’ve learned to love that ache.

If I can give my whole heart to love without fearing the cost, I will regret nothing.

The worst mistake I could ever make is pretending I’d be happy as just your friend for the rest of my life.

Their hair is dirty from traveling, their face red from running, and if I could commission an oil painting of them in this state of absolute, screaming perfection, I would.

“To be clear,” Theo gasps, breaking away from my mouth, “when you said you were going to the airport—” “I was coming to get you,” I say. “You keep beating me to it.” “Nice. I love winning,”

“There are so many things I want to ask you, but Theo, I swear to God, if you don’t get in my bed right now I will die.”

(Sometimes we’d get naked. For an intermediate French speaker, I have acquired a truly impressive vocabulary for dirty talk.)

He was the first great thing I ever let myself want. This time, I’m keeping him.