Date: Sat, 15 Sep 2001 23:56:57 +0000 From: Darren Talbot Subject: the library part one The Library. Part 1 The smell of books often brings something back to me. A time when I was younger and practically lived in the used bookstore just down the street from the apartment where I grew up. It was a refuge from the Arizona sun; it's quiet used to soothe me after the continuous noise of my home. I used to sit there for hours and listen to the books whisper. It was through the ammount of time that I spent there that my own youth was spent learning about the great works of literature in the English language with a man named Mort. He taught me to love language, and about Judaism. I never converted, which was his fond hope, but which he never forced on me. "Daniel," he would say, "you have to make your own way in this world." And I loved him. We never touched, though I wanted him to. I remember going into my own little world as he would read to me from 'The Great Gatsby' and from 'A Tale of Two Cities', and I would listen to his delicate, deep voice without paying attention to the words. And I would desperately wish for him to caress my cheek, or touch my shoulder. Sometimes he would, but in that way that an uncle touches his favored nephew: close, but not close enough for my surging fourteen year old heart. Soon, though, it was time for my father to transfer again. After a year of being in Mort's care, his favored student, I had to leave him. I was devastated. I went on to discover my own homosexuality, and found love, lost love, and found it again, only to lose it once more. It was an October night, some twenty years later that I found myself in sitting behind the counter of my own used bookstore that the rain started. The rain that brough with it the answer to a question I'd long held: why could I never love others as much as they loved me. It was pouring outside. The kind of storm that gets into your bones and on your skin and leaves you gray inside. I was just finishing with a customer, a regular, and admiring her new purchases as the bell above the door sounded. I didn't look up, even though there was a little voice inside of me screaming for me to. "Looks like you've got yourself about a months-worth, here, Donna!" I exclaimed, smiling. "Yeah. When I'm not grading papers, I like to have something to do, you know." She said. She and I both turned at the sound of books falling over. Standing just inside the door was a boy with black hair, cut in the rounded off and shaved up underneath style that was popular in that day. He was pale, and very lean. He was also soaked to the bone. With his back turned to look out the door's glass parition, he hadn't noticed how close to the display table I kept of new trades he'd gotten, and he'd toppled them with one backward step. He turned at this, and flashed a set of eyes so icey blue and clear that I was entranced. I couldn't remove mine from his. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He said, in a voice high and sweet, like a girls, almost. He bent down to pick the mess up. "Josh?" Donna asked. He looked up at her. "Oh, hi, Mrs. Dammon," he said, then looking at me, again, "I'm really sorry." "It's okay," I said, coming out from behind the counter. I stooped to begin picking them up, as well. He was literally soaked, his shirt sticking to him. It was with more than a little anger at myself I noticed that I was staring at the way it clung to his back. It was also with a pang of hurt that I noticed I could count his ribs, each, as they stood prominently out. It was because I was looking at him, stunned, that I didn't notice that we reached for the same book. My hand touched his, which was cold and soft from the rain. I didn't jerk back right away, and he looked up. Our eyes met and locked for a second. I removed my hand, then, and put them on my knees as I stood up. He looked down, quickly. Picking up the last of the fallen books, he stood, his knees popping loudly. I rose with him to discover that he was only five foot five or so. He reached up and brushed his long, thin fingers through his hair and grinned a tight lipped grin. "You mind if I hang out in here a bit until it stops raining?" He asked me. "No. Not at all." I returned behind the desk and began totalling up Donna's bill. I subtracted her credit from the total. While I did this, she was talking with this boy. "So, Josh. Did you get started on the essay?" She asked him. "Yes, mam. It's hard, though. I like to read and all, but I don't really think about the books or anything. I just like them." He replied. "Well, that's what getting an education is about, young man. Learning to think for yourself." "Yes, mam." He said. He had one of those voices that you could hear the smile in. "Two fifty-five, please, Donna." I said. As she reached into her purse, I caught myself looking over at Josh. He was walking next to the large bookshelf on the wall. What caught me was that he was running his delicate hand over the spines of the books, touching each one as he went along. "There you go." Donna said, cheerily, jerking me back to reality. I took the three ones from her, and reached into the drawer to produce her change. "Thanks again, Donna!" I said, as she turned to leave with her armload of books. "Bye, Daniel. Thanks, again. I'll see you in class, Josh." She said, leaving. "Bye, Mrs. Dammon." He said, not looking. He had selected one beat up paperback from the shelf, and was reading the back cover. He was absolutely hynotic to me, and I was ashamed of myself. As the bell for the door sounded, there was the awkward silence that descends over a room with strangers in it. My eyes were still roaming over his form even as I tried to stop myself. I couldn't manage to get control of my desire for this boy. I was also very curious as to which book he'd picked up, so I busied myself by reshelving some books that Donna had decided not to purchase at the last minute. "Whacha got there, young man?" I asked, as I passed by. "Hm?" He asked. I stopped. He'd actually been reading. He had been so lost in the book that he'd chosen, he didn't hear me. "What have you got there?" I asked again, smiling and craning my head as if to look from three feet away. I used the excuse to move closer. He moved the cover so that I could see it. He's pulled down a book called 'Before Night Falls' by an author named Reinaldo Arenas. I was stunned. "Ah. An Arenas fan, huh?" I asked, stepping a bit closer. I smelled his rainsoaked skin. "No. I've never heard of him before." "Really? Are you interested in his story?" I asked, stepping a bit closer. I couldn't believe myself. What was I doing? I was now close enough to hear his breathing. I reached out and very gingerly took the book from his hands. My thumb brushed against his fingers for a second. I remember the smoothness of his skin, like stones from a river. He was still looking at me, and his eyebrows were quirked a little. I held the book up to him, saying "Reinaldo, like all authors, has a story to tell. If you listen to thier stories and read what they write, then you get a piece of thier lives." I said. He had leaned in closer as I was speaking, and his thin shoulder was now resting on mine. "Really?" he asked, quietly. "Yeah. Reinaldo Arenas was a writer in Cuba at the time of the revolution that put Fidel Castro in charge. Do you know who he is?" "Yeah, I'm not stupid, you know." He replied. I could see his shoulders lose some of their tension, and his eyes relaxed at the edges. "I see, " I said, handing the book back to him. He took it from my hands very softly, as if it had acquired a new weight that he was unsure of. "You're name is Josh, right?" I asked. "Yeah. And you're Daniel." He said, adding "so, what is it?" "What is what?" I asked. "Reinaldo Arenas's story?" "Well, besides being an amazingly powerful writer, Reinaldo was a homosexual." I replied. "Oh." He said, quietly. "Does that make you less curious about the book?" I asked, looking into his eyes. "No. I dunno." He replied, looking away. "So, you're in Donna's class?" I asked, seeing his discomfort. "Yeah." He replied, still looking at the ground. "So that makes you, what...in the eighth grade?" I asked. "Yeah. You have lots of books." He said, and then seemed to grow rigid for a moment, "I'm sorry. That was really stupid." I stopped shelving books and looked directly at him, "Why?" "Why? Because it was. It was stupid to say something so obvious." He said, walking toward me. He had lost some of his shyness suddenly. "Is it?" I asked, now turned to him. "Well, yeah. You own a bookshop, so it's stupid to say you have a lot of books." "Some of the best books ever written are great because they aren't afraid to state the obvious, Josh." "So, it's okay to say something really obvious, sometimes, if you think you need to?" He asked, stepping closer. "Yes. I think it is." "Oh, " He said, pausing, then "You like me." I dropped the book I was shelving. I just stood there for a second, stunned. He bent down and picked the book up, and handed it back to me. He was standing so close that I could feel his breath. I could smell the slightly sour milk smell of him that only boys can have. "I'm sorry...I...I..." I stammered. "It's okay. I don't mind. Lots of guys like me." He said, putting his hand on my elbow. The delicate warmth of his fingers was deep inside me the instant the touch happened. Then he craned his head up, stood on his toes and kissed me, lightly, on the lips. His lips were that smooth firm rose-colored pressure that only boys lips can have. And like that, he stopped. His thumb caressed my elbow for a second, then that, too, was removed. I can still feel that lingering touch to this day when I close my eyes. "The rain's stopped," he said, turning, "Can I borrow this?" He asked, raising the book a little bit. "Yes." I said, not really realizing what I was talking about. "Okay. I'll bring it back soon." He said, and walked toward the door. "But..but wait...I don't know anything about you..." I managed to get out. As he reached the door, he turned and said, "I'll bring the book back. I promise." he said, with a little grin at the edge of his lips, and walked pushed the door open with his back. In the time it took me to blink, he was gone. The only thing that made it seem real was the sound of the bell above the door clanging, and all I could do was wonder if I would ever see him again, that is, until he came back three days later. -end chapter one- Questions? comments? Feel free to write!