Feeling constrained by the beautiful, fussy bedroom, I slipped out of the bed I shared with Ayana, put on a pair of tights and a baggy tunic top and stepped out into the living room. Greg was already there, his lanky legs sprawled over the arm of the couch.
“Hey,” he whispered roughly, and I swore I saw streaks from tears on his homely face. “You might as well know the truth.”
I sat on the floor in front of the couch. “About?”
“About why I can’t see you in a romantic way.”
“Because I’m black?” I asked, beating him to the punch.
“No. Because you remind me of my little sister, Liliana.”
Of course. “I was afraid of that. Haven’t I told you I’m not a kid anymore?”
“That’s not it. Liliana was my favorite sister. And now she’s … gone.”
“What do you mean, gone?” I asked, trying to read his face.
I sat close enough to see the color of his eyes, an elusive hazel. A tear trickled from the corner of his eye. “Liliana and my other brothers and sisters and my parents were killed in an explosion. It was during the Street Wars in Poland, when the old guard communists fought the self-styled oligarchs with the workers and the educated classes in the middle, and they in turn fought for their lives. My family were in the theater — everything from plays to vaudeville revival. Because we were so well-known in Warsawa, we were thought by many to be spies for the workers. We were sympathetic, sure, and we even sometimes housed a refugee, but we were never spies. I was out of the street busking — I used to sing and play guitar — and I came back with my take of a handful of zloty to find our townhouse bombed and my family, my whole damn family dead in the rubble of the still-smoking ruins. And the worst part is that I didn’t know I could have brought them back, so they’re lost forever.” Greg closed his eyes and swallowed hard.
“Don’t think I’m trying to kiss you,” I said as I stroked his hair. “Why do I remind you of your sister?”
“She was the most alive person I’d ever known. She pulled no punches — she had a talent for saying what needed to be said. Frankly, she could be an unholy terror at times. We despaired that she would ever get a husband, even at age 10, which was how old she was when she was killed.”
“Yup,” I shrugged. “I doubt I'll find a husband either.”
“You shouldn’t worry about that, Gracie,” Greg grinned.
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