About a Boy

He said, “Good night. Call me in the morning.” I said “Okay. Good night.” He won’t be going to sleep. Not yet. Or perhaps he’d fall asleep and then wake up in the middle of the night. I said “I’m coming to see you, tomorrow.” He said, “That would be nice.” Then immediately he regretted it, “No, you can’t come. The place is a mess. You can’t come.”

"I’m not there to inspect your place. I’m going to visit you because you are my friend. You are sick. I’ll bring food from Bristol Farm."

"Okay." He accepted my request.

"I’m waving goodbye." He said. I imagined he was indeed waving goodbye, raising his weak, pale arms.

I hung up the phone.

In a short but seemingly lengthy period, a friendship of a sort took roots. It would be impossible, or at the very least, unlikely. Hurdles after hurdles. First I was ill, then he was away, and then he was back and we fought and then we tried to reconcile our differences, and then just when things were turning around, he fell ill. We made plans. Each week a plan formed. He had become an accessory of a sort. He went wherever I went. A purse size puppy, they’d call him. He was young, energetic, cultured, flexible, impressionable, pleasing and incredibly pretty. Women threw themselves at him whenever we showed up; and men, inappropriate age men, men older than his father, were intrigued by him. He was the perfect decoration that wowed and wooed audience. He was an actor, a boy hoping one day to be a man. He was bisexual, and he put on a good show wherever he went.

I became the talk of the town, for having discovered him. I was congratulated and praised, for having found him.

But in truth he found me. I was simply there, and he approached me. He was young and innocent, and he was open and persistent. I was less than interested, but I was sad and lonely. I was missing a young student who used to stay with me, he filled the void. A young man who adored life, worshiped me and responded to me as if I was his master.

Soon a quasi but completely platonic relationship was formed. It was not romantic, yet we fell asleep together like a couple sometimes, with clothes on, when we were tired of talking. When we were out together, we put on a show for people, at first people were curious then they just accepted us. They would say, “you guys look so adorable together.” We had style and energy, we were the topic of the discussion after the events ended. People pondered about our relationship.

"Were they involved? Is he straight or gay or bi? What was his story? Her story?"

I was asked where he was if I showed up alone. Soon people started to refer us by our first names as if we were one.

He wore those big plastic glasses that made him look a middle schooler. When he smiled the room lit up. He told me stories that he would not dare to share with others. He was funny, charming and seductive among men and women, but privately he wanted to curl up next to me, with his arms around me, and he would look at me as if I had failed him, somehow. I began to wonder what he had thought of this, this odd relationship, or whatever you’d call it.

"What you said, what you did, broke my heart that Sunday." He began to tell me. One night, after a late outing, he told me what I began to fear.

Was there genuine emotions involved all along? Did I somehow miss it? Had I ruined something? Did I make a mistake? If I were to apologize, where do I start?

I laid on his bed, legs crossed and head behind my head. I asked what happened.

He explained. Scene by scene. Blow by blow.

I began to cry. I had no memory of it. He began to cry.

I did not know what happened. That evening we talked. But it was not about romance or love or even like, it was about what he said and I said. It was about something that was of greater impact. It was about a friendship that formed in the most unlikely circumstance.

It was about two people, getting to know one another, each fulfilling the needs of the other. It was about life. About a boy wanting to be a man. A woman wanting to feel like a woman.