Shattered Dreams – Lisa Lahey

Lisa Lahey crafts immersive worlds through her short stories and poetry, moving seamlessly between the eerie realms of fiction and human experience. She began writing in her late 50s when everything seemed to “come together” in this area. Her work has left a mark across more than twenty literary journals and anthologies, with recent appearances in eclectic publications like Spaceports and Spidersilk and Altered Reality, alongside reflective literary outlets such as Vita Poetica and Spadina Literary Review.

 

 

Sayad, a young Indian man, moves in across the street from me. I make sure I am out of bed early enough to catch him mowing his lawn in his short shorts and his under shirt. His thigh muscles strain through his dark skin as he pushes the mower. Sweat shines on his brown biceps and his forehead, making it appear that he is covered in oil, like an exotic wrestler gyrating in a ring. I sip iced tea and lick the drops off my dry lips.

When Sayad sees me, he flashes me a grin and I know what it means. We must be careful, especially in my neighbourhood where homophobes rule the crescent like evil kings. They walk by my yard, silently daring me to make a move. They don’t see the angst I suffered when I first realized I didn’t like girls. They don’t see the shame from years of insults and false insinuations. They don’t understand that I didn’t choose this pain. It was chosen for me.

Sayad is young and he is sexually very active. Different cars pull up to his house nearly every night and young men ring his doorbell. He answers it in his undershirt, wearing a broad smile. The men don’t stay long but when they leave his house, they are sweaty and satiated. The envy in my soul is excruciating. 

I think Sayad must be on Badoo or on OutPersonals except that would make no sense. Outing himself in this neighbourhood is asking for trouble. It might be OkCupid or Plenty of Fish. I search for him on my computer night after night, but I can’t find him. 

Saliva forms on my tongue when I think of his magnificent body, reclining on his bed with a sensual look on his face. He holds my head down with his hand while he writhes with pleasure. I ask for nothing in return. 

I picture us taking long walks while he tells me the story of his life. I show him photographs from my younger years, while he compliments the faces of my dead father and mother. We hold hands and talk of the things Sayad will do with his life; the very things I wish I had done. Tears drop from my eyes when we vow never to leave each other.

After weeks of watching Sayad invite men into his home, I sit outside on my lawn wearing my shorts and undershirt. I have a bottle of red wine beside me and an extra glass for him. When I nudge the empty glass, he shakes his head and goes inside his house. 

I don’t give up that easily. I know he is reluctant to start a relationship with me because we are neighbours. If it doesn’t work out, we will spy on each other as lovers come and go. It will be painful and lonely. 

One morning, I ask Sayad if he wouldn’t mind mowing my lawn. I tell him it is difficult with my arthritis; Sayad agrees and while he works, I slip my hand down my shorts. Sayad sees the invitation in the bulge. When I ask him if he is a friend of Dorothy, he shuts off the mower and goes home.

That night, the doorbell rings and I open the door to Sayad. He doesn’t wear his undershirt. He wears a shirt that fully covers his beautiful physique. His reptilian eyes glitter and his face is flushed. I breathe hard and close my eyes. I am ready for him.

He smashes his fist into my face. Blood spurts from my nose and drips down my chin. He shatters my ribs and blackens my eyes. He says that if he was gay, he would never want an ugly, wrinkled, old man like me. I try telling him through my split lip that I have money and can look after him. Years ago, that worked. 

Sayad wrenches my head from the floor and stares into my swollen face. His eyes have the amber glow of a ferocious wolf about to devour its prey. He tells me he will kill me if I watch him through my binoculars again. He tells me to mow my own fucking lawn, and he spits in my face. 

When he leaves, I cry harder than I had when I kissed my childhood friend, and, like Sayad, he also smashed his fist into my face. I cry harder than I had when my friends kicked me until they shattered my ribs and blackened my eyes. I cry harder than I had when I couldn’t tell my father why they had beaten me, knowing he would have beaten me even worse.

I know Sayad lies about being gay. I also know there’s no fool like an old fool. Sayad isn’t interested in an old man with a bumpy chest, white veiny legs and thinning, gray hair. I have always known this, but I never used to give up easily. 

Now I give up on life.

The next evening, a young, broad-shouldered man with smooth skin, and a full head of chestnut hair, arrives at Sayad’s house. Sayad opens the door wearing his undershirt and a broad smile. I turn away and close my blinds. Sayad is too young to know that, like me, he has a shelf life. 

I pity Sayad. He believes his suffering is over. I yearn to protect this young man from the suffering that awaits him, when it is far too late for us.