“I’m afraid there’s not a lot here for you to choose from. Would you like to go somewhere else?”
We didn’t have time to find another restaurant and still make it to the theater before the curtains opened. And this was your favorite place.
“It’s fine. I can just order a baked potato and salad.”
You frowned and studied the menu. When our server came by, you very charmingly asked if the chef could provide something vegetarian for the both of us, and our server said he would ask. A few minutes later he returned to tell us your request had been granted. I wasn’t surprised. You usually got what you wanted.
“Fixed,” you said happily. I smiled. You made everything easy.
Well, almost everything.
“So, how did you and Bruno meet?” I asked. Since our first encounter at the pool, I’d been trying to determine the nature of your relationship with him. You only ever referred to him as your friend. When I’d come out to you in middle school, you seemed pretty unfazed by it, so I didn’t think you were trying to hide your sexuality from me. But then, you never really talked about that either.
My question prompted another one of those sudden silences. You studied my face so intently that I had to replay my words back in my head.
“Is that inappropriate to ask?” Papa was always getting on me about what was appropriate or not. I didn’t always know when I was being rude.
“No, not at all.” You took a sip of wine and swilled it around your mouth before sucking it down. Stalling. “Bruno and I met through a mutual friend. Someone who was very dear to both of us.”
“Oh. That’s cool. What’s their name?”
You pressed your lips together so tightly that the normally pink flesh paled.
“His name was Orlando.”
Orlando.The name rippled through me like an electric current. There was power in names, you’d told me. Mater had said the same, had taught me how to summon her in dreams by name alone. This name—Orlando—was sacred to you. I could tell just by the way you’d said it.
“Was?” I asked. It sounded grim. And why had you never mentioned him to me before? “Where is he now?”
You closed your eyes. When you opened them again, they were full of pain. Old pain. Deep too. Another swallow. Another long look.
“He passed away before you were born.”
You’d loved him. I didn’t know how I knew it, but I did.
“How did he die?” I asked softly. I wanted to be respectful, but I was curious. You didn’t talk very much about your friends, at least not with me.
You took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “He was a beautiful dancer,” you said, as if that answered my question.
“A ballet dancer?” I asked and you nodded. “Is that why you love the ballet so much?”
“Yes.” You stared at your hands folded in front of you. There was so much more you weren’t telling me, but I didn’t know the right questions to ask or where to even begin. “Can we talk about something else?” you asked with so much heartache. Like you were drowning in it.
“Yeah. Of course. I’m sorry for asking.”
You grabbed my hand suddenly and squeezed. “Please, don’t be sorry.”
“Okay,” I said cautiously. Everything about that conversation felt stilted and strange. But exciting too. Another glimpse into your mysterious past, one that you all but hid from me. And why? Maybe you were trying to protect me. Or you were ashamed.
We talked about other things, mostly me trying to fill the silence and lighten your mood. But the knowledge that you’d had a lover who passed away, one whose death was so painful that no one ever spoke of him… it bothered me.
Later, in the theater, as we sat together in the dark auditorium and watched Bruno dance the role of Apollo, I glanced over to see you were crying. A tear trailed down your cheek and was absorbed by your golden beard. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen you get emotional during a performance, but it was the first time I felt like I understood where it was coming from. I wanted to kiss away your pain like you used to for me when I was little and fell down and skinned a knee. Instead I reached for your hand. You brought my fist to your face and rubbed your cheek, drying your eyes with my knuckles.
“This was one of his favorite roles,” you said softly, “but he never had the opportunity to dance it.”
As I watched Bruno, I felt your grief—as powerful as if it were my own—a deep longing for a life that had ended too soon. How strange that I would mourn the loss of a man I’d never known. It must be our bond causing me to feel such sorrow.
Later, I licked my fist to taste your tears. You’d been crying over him—Orlando. And I was mad at him—a dead man—for causing you so much pain.
