“It’s from Dorian Gray,” Michael explains.
“Oh, right.”
“Not far removed from your own philosophies, is it?”
Yes, sure. I’m baffled that he should pay so much attention to my stupid philosophy. He stares at me, expecting me to say something else, but I don’t feel like going into the details, especially without Tony around. He’s better at explaining it than I am. I feel I would just make a fool of myself.
“My cousins are in a band,” Michael says at last. “They’re not half-bad. I think they could make it big one day.”
What is that supposed to mean? That I won’t make it big? Or just simply that he likes artists?
“Oh, got you!” He whips around, brandishing The Picture of Dorian Gray. As I get up, he closes the distance between us in two strides. “This place is wonderful, magical,” he whispers, his eyes glinting. “It brings all sorts of wild ideas to my head.” He opens the book and starts reading a passage at random, seemingly unaware that we’re going to have to go through this crap many times as we work on the essay. His bent head, so close to my own, gives me a perfect view of his dark curls.
I wonder what they feel like. The flashing thought rips through me, thunder-like. Then it’s gone.
“Don’t you think it’s stifling in here?” Raising Bel-Ami between us, I begin to fan myself. The man’s face on the cover stares at me with disapproval.
“Are you going to buy this?” Michael asks.
It’s at this exact moment, and in this relatively awkward position, that golden child François glides out of nowhere, all pastel jumpers and toothy smiles. “Hello, there!”
I hadn’t missed his horrible French accent. François approaches, carrying his coat on his arm. There’s not a drop of sweat to him. Now sweating buckets and staring at his overjoyed goat-like face with a clenched jaw, I realise I never knew how much I disliked François until now.
“François!” Michael shakes his hand with a look of delighted surprise, the kind of expression you reserve for people you haven’t seen in a long time, and you really, really didn’t expect to meet at a bookstore, you know, not for fucking François, whom he heard butcher Spanish not an hour ago. “What are you doing here?”
François attempts a casual shrug. “Just hanging out. I love books, you know.”
“I love books too,” Michael says.
Oh, come on. What the hell is this? It’s obvious what he’s doing here. He’s stalking Michael. He’s a stalker. I’m seething.
“I know, it’s crazy, right?” François throws his head back and laughs.
This is stupid.
“And what are you doing here?” He asks in the tremulous voice of the unskilled liar. That means he knew exactly where Michael would be at this hour.
“Didn’t I tell you this morning?” Michael asks, frowning.
“Must have told someone else…” François’s face grows as red as shame itself.
“I thought I told you. Louis offered to take me to the bookstore to get a copy of Dorian Gray.”
François peers at me through squinted eyes. “Oh, Louis! I couldn’t see you in there, with all these books. I hope you’re not feeling too much like — how do you say — a fish out of water.” He pretends he’s happy to see me through a great deal of teeth-flashing. All that comes out of my mouth is a grunt. Michael is standing between us, a slightly frozen smile on his face as though the meeting of his two best friends is, despite his deepest wishes, not going as well as he hoped. François reaches for the books in his hand. “What do we have here… Oscar Wilde and William Shakespeare! I know them.”
He butchered both of their names with his impossible accent, but I guess it’s not totally his fault. He’s lucky Tony isn’t here, that’s all. The implication that he knows them, however, is unacceptable. I’m by far the laziest student in my class and even I know who these two authors are.
Michael attempts to take his books back, but François clutches them to his chest. “I love Shakespeare’s sonnets!” he cries. “Did you know Shakespeare was gay?”
I snort loudly enough for an old patron to glare at me in outrage. “Nonsense.”
“He was.”
“Wasn’t.”
“Why not!” François angrily stomps his foot.
Michael’s eyes dart from François to me, wide and afraid.
“Well,” I say, “he was married, for one…”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Michael disagrees. “Lots of gay men were married.”
“Have you even read his sonnets?” François asks, blinking fast.
“Do I look like a guy who reads medieval poetry?”
Michael looks away.
“He wrote poems to the man he loved. It’s all in here.” François waves the book in front of my face. I use my Bel-Ami to ward him off.
“They were probably just friends.”
Michael gives a little laugh. “Do you write poems to Tony?”
“What? No. No!” I ball my fists when François slaps a hand over his mouth. “No one writes poems nowadays. People are lucky enough to receive a text.”
François, smirking, turns to Michael. “Anyway, Shakespeare might not have been gay, but I am.” Gripping Michael’s arm with claw-like fingers, he erupts in laughter as I watch, stunned. Michael joins in mildly, as though François’s revelation is yesterday’s news. But is it?
François is gay. Why does this surprise me? And yet I feel like I was supposed to know. Staring at his laughing face, I try to imagine a François who would be gay, and one who wouldn’t be. But all I can see is his stupid face, and the way his fingers curl around Michael’s arm.
“I’m gonna wait for you outside. I can’t breathe in here.” I don’t wait for their reaction. With little regard for the other shoppers, my blood pounding in my ears, I retrace my steps toward the exit.
Outside, a breeze of cold air soothes my burning face. I dig out a cigarette, light up and take a long drag. What happened in there? They’re going to think I’m some sort of homophobe. But I can’t explain it, even to myself. I’m the same way with people who act all cheesy when they’re in love; it annoys me to no end. François has no class, no shame. To scream things like this from the rooftops. It’s vulgar, even. Whatever he does shouldn’t be any of our business, should it? None of our business. Why is he here anyway? He was definitely following us. “I love books” my arse. No. He had a motive in coming here, and … and … And it just dawns on me how thick I can be sometimes.
If he’s after Michael, does it mean that…?
Is it possible that…?
Is Michael gay too?
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