Page 10 of Exquisite Things

“I don’t know,” I say. “Can I trust you?”

“I’m not sure I can trust myself.”

I laugh wryly at the truth of that. Every young man in this establishment can’t trust themselves. We’re all breaking someone’s

heart simply by being here.

“You shouldn’t feel embarrassed by your tears,” he murmurs. “A great piece of writing should make you cry. Or laugh. Or rage.

I certainly cry reading Walt Whitman and Wordsworth. Every time. Have you read them?”

“I have,” I say.

He begins to recite poetry to me. Wordsworth. I know the one. Mother loves it. “ Though nothing can bring back the hour. Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower. ”

“ We will grieve not ,” I continue from memory. “ Rather find strength in what remains behind. ”

He smiles. I do too. “ Now am I forgiven?” he asks.

“If you promise never to spy on me again,” I say.

“I promise,” he assures me. I look up and focus on his eyes as they catch the light of the corner lamp. They’re brown, but

when I stare at them long enough, they seem to turn orange. Maybe it’s the red lights from the main room still playing tricks

on my vision.

“Were you looking for me?” I ask. “Is that why you came back here?”

“I didn’t want to leave before saying hello,” he says.

“Well then, hello.” I quickly stammer out, “That wasn’t, uh... meant to inspire you to leave.”

“May I sit?” he asks. “I much prefer reading to... whatever is happening out there.”

“What is happening out there?” I ask.

“Oh, just boys being boys. People chasing the thrill of immediacy when it will just leave them feeling lonelier. I know you

agree. I liked the passion and intelligence with which you took on that buffoon out there.”

“Jack Whitman?” I ask.

“His last name is Whitman? Like the great Walt. What a shame.” He throws his face in his hands.

I laugh. “Jack could be worse. His parents are wildly wealthy. All things considered, he turned out better than one might

expect.” I’m not even sure why I’m defending Jack. I guess I do have a soft spot for the outspoken way in which he lives.

I also loathe the way he treats me like an object. Treats us all like we’re his playthings.

“Give him time to become fully corrupted,” he says. “I know the type. Their kindness is predicated on their power. Once they

feel the power slip, they’ll cut even their closest friends to hold on to it.”

“Gosh, I hope that’s not the case.” I hear the longing in my voice, and suddenly realize how invested I am in the well-being

of all these friends. Brendan, Cyril, all of them.

“Trust me,” he says. “Nothing is more dangerous than the wrath of the powerful who are feeling their supremacy slip.”

“He’s not a good friend of mine or anything, but he’s my cousin’s roommate. It would break my cousin’s heart if Jack turned

out to be as awful as you think he is.”

“Is your cousin in love with him?” he asks.

“I—I don’t know, honestly. We talk of fashion and music, we make jokes and mock each other mercilessly. But as you heard out

there, talk of love... well, sometimes I think that in this world, our kind of love is the ultimate taboo.”

His eyes light up when I say this, like he’s sure that I’m a kindred spirit now. “And the sweetest one too. May I sit with you?”

“Yes,” I say. “Thank you for asking.”

“Thank you for giving me another chance.” He sits next to me. Eyes the open book. “Good old Plato.” He says the name like

he’s referring to an old friend.

“You’ve read it?”

“I’ve read everything.” The sly smile on his face is intoxicating. “Well, everything I’ve gotten my hands on.” He places his

hand on the right side of the book. Mine rests on the left side. Our fingers almost touch as they wander across the words.

Words like the power of love and love is our best friend and children of the sun . “What do you think of it? His theory of who we once were?”

“I love it,” I say excitedly. “I don’t know if it’s true but imagine if it is. It would explain everything, wouldn’t it?”

“And you...” He hesitates. “Are you a child of the sun?”

I glance over the passage our fingers rest on again. It says that in the beginning, we all had two sets of arms and legs and

faces. There were three sexes then. The children of the sun were two men. The children of the earth were two women. And the

children of the moon were a man and a woman. Being whole like this made us powerful, and that scared the gods. So Zeus split

us in two, leaving us searching for our other half. “Yes,” I whisper. “I am a child of the sun.”

“And your other half?” he asks. “I take it you believe he’s out there, since you believe this is all more than a romp.”

“I have to be believe it,” I declare. “If I don’t, then I’ll lose all hope. And if you have no hope, well... how do you

move forward?”

“Hope is the only thing that’s kept me going all these years.” He sighs.

I laugh. “ All these years ,” I echo. “How old are you? Eighteen? Nineteen?”

“Seventeen, actually,” he says, and for the first time, I notice him blinking. Finally, those feline eyes look calmer, less

precise in their stare.

“Me too!” I squeal, excited to have found something in common with him, even if it’s just a number.

“But I’m a very old seventeen,” he says wearily.

“My mother sometimes says I’m seventeen going on forty, but that’s because I work so hard. But in so many other ways, I feel

like a kid, honestly,” I confess. “I know nothing of love. Of intimacy. I hadn’t read Plato until a few moments ago. I haven’t

read any of the material in this room. Havelock Ellis—”

“Overrated.”

“Freud.”

“Complicated.”

“Wilde.”

“Wild indeed.” His eyes crackle like fireworks.

“Your eyes,” I whisper. “Am I imagining it or are they...”

He closes his lids self-consciously. Turns away from me. I suppose, like so many of us, he’s scared of being seen. “They’re

brown,” he whispers, eyes still shut. “But when you look at them long enough, they turn orange. I’ve been told it’s frightening.”

“No, it’s beautiful. Like a kaleidoscope.” There’s awe in my voice. “Or like a cat?”

“With nine lives.” He finally turns back to me. Opens his eyes and looks at me with heartbreaking tenderness.

“I’d like to have infinite lives,” I say. “I’d like to live everywhere, see the world.”

“Traveling the world alone can be very lonely,” he says. “You should start your adventures once you’ve found your other half.”

From the main room comes the sound of Edna’s voice. The music has stopped and she’s giving a speech to some groans and some

cheers. “Now, now, boys, I know you want to get back to getting sozzled and fondled, but this is important,” she bellows authoritatively.

“This country asked its ladies to step up when the boys went to war. There’s no going back now that the boys are home.” A

few loud groans can be heard. “Apologies for bringing down the mood, but guess what? One copper walks in here and you could

all be in jail. They’re burning Negro churches in the South. Lynching human beings. Your rights are our rights are their rights.

It’s time to stand together as one human race.” When she’s done, “Tiger Rag” begins to play.

The speech changes the mood in the back room. What felt private suddenly feels public, like we’re not alone anymore. “Shall

we go back out there?” I ask. “My cousin is probably wondering where I am.”

“Do we have to?” he asks. “I like it much better back here. With you.”

I blush. “You’re very forward.”

“I just know what I want. More of your company.” His eyes are locked on mine. “You’re magic.”

I bask in the glow of the compliment, which felt sincere, with none of the laced irony that is a trademark of boys like us.

I enjoy the playful sarcasm and wit, but I think I like earnestness even more. It’s important to be earnest sometimes.

I see him shift his hand a little closer to the spine of the book.

I move mine toward his. Our fingers find each other at the center of the book, like we’re uniting its two sides.

He lifts my hand up to his face and rubs the back of my hand to his cheek as he reads from the book.

“ And when one of us meets our other half, we are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy, and would not be

out of the other’s sight even for a moment. Your turn.”

“Oh, you want me to read?” I ask. He just nods, and I oblige. “ We pass our whole lives together, desiring that we should be melted into one.”

He skips ahead a beat. “ And the reason is that human nature was originally one and we were a whole, and the desire and pursuit of the whole is called

Love. ”

We gaze into each other’s eyes for so long that his become a swirl of brown and orange and rust. They seem to have their own

light inside them, an electrical charge that moves through him and into me, emblazoning me from within. I’ve never been kissed

but I’ve seen the way it happens in pictures. Slowly. Passionately. With closed eyes. And yet, we don’t close our eyes. We

keep them open just like our mouths. I want to see him, and he seems to want to see me.

“I’m sure he’s in there reading,” Brendan yells as footsteps approach. I quickly pull away before the boys find us. They’re

each holding two cups of soda. They place the cups down and Jack fills them to the top with liquor. “And like I said, there

he is. I take you to an establishment of questionable moral value, little cousin, and you treat it like a library.”

“Perhaps he wasn’t just reading,” Jack says. “Our hopeless young romantic seems to have found a delicious new friend.”

“Please, not now, Jack,” I beg. I want to introduce my new friend, but then I realize I don’t even know his name, and I feel so foolish.

Just moments ago, we were ready to kiss each other.

We were reading words of love like we were the characters in some romantic play.

Now I’m reminded he’s nothing but a stranger.

Sensing my sudden nervousness, he stands up and holds out his hand. “I’m Shams.”

“Shams?” Jack asks. “What kind of name is that?”