An indefinable expression appeared on the boy’s face, a mixture of pleasure and irritation. He mumbled something and then, as if resigned, stepped aside to let her in.
“Who is that crazy old woman?” asked Inès, gesturing to the old woman.
“Madame Appleblossom,” replied Milo.
“Yes, I know, my brother told me her name. But what does she do there all day?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Have you ever spoken to her?”
“Nope.”
“Don’t you want to know?”
Milo shrugged. “What difference would it make?”
Inès looked at him. “You’re so weird.”
The young man didn’t reply and pushed the front door shut behind them. They stood there in the entryway, ill at ease. Milo shoved his hands into his pockets to give himself a sense of composure. Inès seemed to be waiting for something to happen. After a few moments of awkward silence, she took the lead.
“Can I see your room?”
“Yes...No!”
“You don’t want me to see it?” Inès exclaimed, alarmed by this unexpected rejoinder.
“It’s not that,” Milo stammered. “It’s just...it’s a mess.”
Inès laughed. “Who cares if it’s a mess? You should see mine.” Without waiting, she walked to the stairwell and up the stairs. Discomfited, Milo followed.
Both houses having been built according to the same plans, she saw immediately that Milo’s room was exactly the same size and configuration as hers. But that was the only thing the two rooms had in common. The young man’s bedroom was furnished in a no-frills, functional way, with a few ungainly decorative touches: some posters pinned haphazardly to the walls; his childhood curtains, with their jarringly naïve design; a cluttered shelf displaying a few books and a jumble of disparate objects; a large, unspeakably untidy desk; and the obligatory unmade bed. Inès was careful to make no comment. She glanced around the room and then went to look at the books on the shelf.
“Viper in the Fist. Have you read it?”
“Yeah, I had to.”
They both laughed. Gradually, lulled by Inès’s easy manner, Milo let himself be won over. Inès had a knack for talking about anything and everything without sounding frivolous or inappropriate. He cast shy glances at her, touched by her gracious chatter, the enthusiasm she put into everything she talked about, the questions she asked, the way his brief responses didn’t seem to irritate her. She seemed to like him as he was, without judgment, and Milo felt his defenses melt away like snow in the sun. God, he liked this girl! How gratifying it was to give in to the thrill of flirting, even more so when it was without any insincerity or pretentiousness. For the first time in a long time, Milo was enjoying hanging out with a young person who seemed also to like his company. Being weird was his hallmark, and yet now here he was enjoying a normal conversation, relishing the surprising pleasure of what was, for most young people his age, completely ordinary. His unremitting preoccupation with death was diluted by the buoyancy of the exchange, and all of a sudden life seemed strangely uncomplicated.
An hour or so later Inès decided it was time to go home.
She told Milo and he nodded, though his heart sank at the thought of her leaving. They went back downstairs. She was about to leave and he wanted to stop her, or at least tell her how much he’d enjoyed spending time with her.
“Well, bye then!” she said, rising slightly on tiptoes to kiss him goodbye. He felt her lips, too fleetingly, graze his cheek. It was one of those moments when the seconds flee like thieves in the night, when it’s obvious an opportunity is presenting itself, but by the time you realize and try to grab hold of it, it’s already too late.
“Bye,” he replied awkwardly. She had already turned away. Then she stopped and looked back at the young man with a touch of reproach in her eyes.
“Do I have to do everything myself, then?”
“What do you mean?” Milo asked in bewilderment.
She sighed loudly, retraced her steps and, rising on her tiptoes again, placed a kiss on his lips as if leaving an offering on an altar that she feared might be unsound.
Milo’s heart exploded in his chest.
He couldn’t breathe, was paralyzed with emotion. He felt like he’d been turned to stone, even though neurons were firing in his brain, telling him to react. This was his chance, and if he missed it he’d have no choice but to disappear off the face of the earth. The fear of regret was stronger than panic and so, his body inflamed with desire, he leaned toward Inès, who lowered herself back onto her heels. He took her face between his hands and returned the kiss, in an embrace whose awkwardness was equaled only by its passion. The sensations going through him were so intense they seemed to destroy any possibility of conscious thought. Of this first kiss, Milo would remember an explosion of emotion that contained as much joy as terror.
When their faces separated, it felt like his lungs, deprived of air for too long, were at last able to take in life-saving oxygen. He looked at Inès, who was smiling at him mischievously, a bit like in her Facebook profile picture: she looked like she’d enjoyed the embrace, and Milo would have given anything for it to be true.
