Page 140 of Two Marlboros

We set off again and the world flashed before my eyes like a spinning top gone mad, too fast for me to discern anything. I attempted to do so, once or maybe twice, but certain memories began to surface and intruded on my mind, so that the next moment I was already staring into space.

It was the evening of August eighteenth. He had arrived at the house, and I just wanted to run away. He had opened the Plastic Materials handouts - yes, then we had gotten to rolling cigarettes. His tongue had run across the paper, right to left, a couple of times. At that moment, something inside me had moved. Then we had sat on the couch - I had stroked his legs. After that there were a lot of useless memories, until I got to his profile, in that parking lot, that niche where maybe I had thought for a moment...

“I, on the other hand, think that something could be born between you. And besides, in my opinion, he likes you.”

The spinning top slammed straight into my face. “Did he tell you that?”

“Uh-huh,” Ash replied, in a tone that implied something else. “See that you’re interested?”

“Mine is simple curiosity. And anyway, we’re not compatible. We’re opposites, we’d end up arguing about everything.”

Out of the corner of my eye I could see the smirk plastered on Ash’s face. He had been pissed off about this whole thing between Nathan and me from the very beginning, starting with the blind date he had set up, but in that moment, I could see that he had really gone for it.

“You can only know if you date. Or if you had the power to predict the future, but then you wouldn’t be just a simple agent.”

He laughed at his own joke, and so did I. Mine was only an external laugh, though. What was it that kept me from asking Nathan out? What was really keeping me from doing that?

“And he’s with Harvey anyway,” I added.

“You mean that guy he never talks about? Come on, it’s just an excuse.”

In my head, there was me asking Nathan to meet. A casual thing, between friends. And suddenly it was all there:the atmosphere, the moment, that look in his eyes... It wasn’t a backstabbing kiss like his had been: I knew it was going to happen and he knew it, so I moved closer, until I could feel his breath as well, the skin of his nose against mine, his smell, mine... And he pulled away. “Maybe it’s not the case,” and he would dismiss me like that. How could I dare to look at him in the eye again?

“Alan?”

“Hmm?”

“Look, there wouldn’t be anything wrong with that, Nathan is a nice guy. So, listen to me, write to him to apologize and invite him somewhere.”

Everything I wanted to say resulted in a dry sigh. The truth was that I didn’t stand a chance if he liked guys like Harvey. I was the classic “nice guy”, by definition nothing special, almost insignificant. He, on the other hand, was a whirlwind of colors and emotions, and if he got too close to me, I would end up turning off that light that was illuminating my days, I was sure.

The old bookstore hadn’t changed much since the last time I had been there. The sea-green plaster was as peeling as ever and, where it had withstood the ravages of time, the layer of copal revealed the true nature of the paint, dull and brittle. The sheet metal, semi-lowered, was stained by the claims of local hoodlums, to the tune of spray cans and graffiti.

I lowered my head and entered. The bookstore smelled as stale as ever, perhaps because of the antique book section upstairs. Those who had the courage to leave that bustling city behind climbed the now-worn wooden steps, listened to their creaking, and entered what had alwayssmelled like heavento old Bartz. There was a shelf on that floor, in the left corner near the window, in front of which was a three-legged wooden bench that had belonged to their family for decades. It had broken on acouple of occasions already, and whenever old Bartz sat on it, he always sent a prayer to God and Superglue. He always repeated that his back would not hold another fall.

Among those shelves was fiction, but mostly essays, embellished reprints of some famous work or even just the novellas of American propaganda during the war period. There was everything inside that little piece of heaven, the pride of Nelly’s father, cut down by a stroke one day.

I found Nelly hunched over the reference desk, her lit-up head shadowing the paper where she was jotting down who knows what.

“Hey there.”

She lifted her head and smiled at me. She perked up in the half-light and walked over to me, then threw her arms around my neck.

“Alan! So good to see you.”

She barely parted to look at my face, but neither of us continued. Her expression changed and I was sure she could read something in me, even though there was not so much light. Indistinct, muffled noises came from the street, like a chattering of people locked in a box.

She loosened the embrace and ran her hands down to my wrists. “I thought you wouldn’t come by anymore, you know?”

“I thought so, too.”

On the shelf immediately next to the box were a couple of volumes tilted to keep the rest from falling over. They must have been that way for a long time, and I imagined they would be that way for just as long. I thought I would stay that way, too, a musty old book in the midst of that surging, pulsing river of life. Instead...

“Did you come by to pick up my brother’s things?”

I looked at her for a moment. She didn’t wait for my answer and started walking toward the crate.

“No,” I replied, and she stopped short. “I didn’t come for Oliver.”

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