Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 51507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 258(@200wpm)___ 206(@250wpm)___ 172(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 258(@200wpm)___ 206(@250wpm)___ 172(@300wpm)
Minutes later, when we were both sated but still looking forward to our second bowl, Christopher asked in a deliberately casual voice, “So what’s this I hear about you dating Anthony?”
My spoon clanged noisily into my bowl. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he admonished gently. “You guys went out to Luciano’s week before last, and went to a movie last weekend.”
“Jeez, Christopher, stalking me any?” Startled but not angry, I got up and headed for round two of everything.
I could hear his snort behind me. “Small communities make stalking a waste of energy,” he called then appeared at the kitchen doorway, content to wait while I served myself.
“Uh huh. Lovely. I’d forgotten the gossip quotient in this place.” I moved past him, back to the living room.
“Yep—so get ready to spill when I get back in there.”
I tried to busy myself with my soup, but no such luck.
Christopher positioned himself back in his chair, and even before he took his first scoop of melted cheese and broth, he stared at me and said, “Dish.”
Although I tried to downplay what was going on, Christopher wasn’t buying any of it. He listened politely to my glossed-over version of what had happened, then said, “Okay, now tell me what’s really going on.”
Leave it to Christopher to want to delve into the meat of the matter. He wasn’t the type to put up with casual niceties. He didn’t believe in putting a face on things. He was the most honest person—intellectually and emotionally—that I’d ever met.
Our friendship had developed strangely. He had been a regular at the restaurant where I worked. He was a lot older than I was—like Anthony—and reminded me of my father in many ways. He was always more than polite, and was an extravagant tipper, and he started to always sit in my section. We chatted, and eventually he asked me if I would like to go to a gallery opening with him the next Saturday.
He seemed harmless enough, and I had never seen him in the restaurant with anyone else—male or female. And he had hit on my weak spot for anything involving any type of art. It seemed highly unlikely that a gallery opening would end up with me dead in an alley, so I said yes.
That was the beginning of a beautiful, if somewhat unusual, friendship. Christopher had never made any sort of overture toward me that smacked of anything but friendship and affection. I had known him for a long time, and I’d never heard of him dating anyone. I had come to the conclusion that he was pretty much asexual, which I assumed was highly unusual, especially in a man. But there he was. It was also very likely he was gay, but I didn’t feel it right to ask unless he wanted to offer. It didn’t matter to me... he was my friend, and that was what was important. Sexuality never played a part in how I saw anyone, and frankly, I enjoyed the platonic nature of our relationship.
He was actually the best friend I’d ever had. He was warm and truly affectionate, and I never had to worry that his hands would wander during one of his phenomenal hugs. He was supportive, but also forthright, but not pushy. He had told me that I should shop my paintings around; that I was very good to his amateur eye, and that he thought I should try to contact someone and see if they would show my work.
But he never overstepped his bounds.
Christopher knew I sometimes forgot to eat—especially if I was in the grip of a creative streak. So he’d started leaving pots of food on the stove for me—on the stoop until I gave him a key—stews and pretty good Kung Pao chicken and jambalaya. Sometimes they were the only meals I ate all week. He consciously made sure they were things I could ladle into a bowl and shove in the microwave. That was the full extent of my culinary talents.
I bit my lip, debating about whether or not to really spill my guts to Christopher. On impulse, I ran into my bedroom and finagled the portrait of Anthony out of my closet, bringing it back into the living room to stand in front of Christopher with the painting facing me.
Christopher was just licking his fingers from the buttery garlic bread, and looked up at me with his index finger still in his mouth. I turned the picture around and heard Christopher’s indrawn breath as he stared at it for the first time.
“Wow—it’s gorgeous!”
He stood and took the portrait into his own hands, trying to see it in a better light. Then, seconds later, he looked up from Anthony’s face and into mine, then back down and up again.
“You love him.”
I didn’t say a thing, but I knew Christopher knew the truth in his heart.