Page 17 of Exquisite Things
“You’ll have to read it to find out.” She grabs her papers. “I’ll leave you to it. It’s time for me to go hand out some leaflets. You’re all right in here?”
“I’m more than all right,” I say. “I love it here. I could move in if you’d put a mattress on the floor. All I need is a piano.”
“There’s a piano in the main hall. They love it when someone plays for the crowd.” She offers me her hand. “I’m Edna, by the way.”
“Oliver.” I take her hand and give it a squeeze. When she leaves me alone, I start to read theSymposium, curious about why she chose it for me. As I take in the words, I feel as if I’m ascending into some other time. Or perhaps just deeper into myself, into a part of me I’m just learning about. I can’t help but shed happy tears at how beautiful it feels. I let the tears roll down my freckled cheeks, not bothering to wipe them.
Then I hear a slight creak. I look up and see him standing there. The mysterious dark-haired kid.
Embarrassed, I quickly wipe my face dry. “How long were you standing there?” I ask, annoyed.
“Long enough to want to join you,” he says. “May I?”
“You stood there staring at me while I cried.” I feel exposed and raw. “It’s not right to watch a person like a spy.”
“You looked so peaceful,” he says. “I couldn’t disturb you.”
“I don’t always cry like that,” I say defiantly. “Only when a book moves me.”
“And I don’t always spy like that,” he says. “Only when a person moves me.” He smiles. “Am I forgiven?”
“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. “Nowam 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.
