Like a Love Story(24)

He looks at me with interest. “You made a good choice,” he says. “And it fits you well.”

I don’t know what to say to this. I just smile.

“Come on, let’s get on the subway here,” he says. “He lives too far downtown for us to walk.”

He runs down the steps, so I do too, though I don’t skip the way he does, like he’s running on a trampoline. His jeans fit so well from behind that I find myself staring at him, wishing they would fall down. Maybe I can add sorcery to my list of sins and make that happen.

On the train, he asks, “So what has Judy told you about her uncle?”

“She said he has movie nights,” I say. “And that they are always old movies.”

“Did she say that he was gay?” he asks.

“She did mention that,” I say.

In front of us, a young couple kisses each other aggressively, sucking each other’s bottom lips like sliced oranges they want every last drop of juice from.

“And did she tell you that he has AIDS?” he asks.

“I, uh, she did not say that,” I say, my heart beating. I had gathered from some of what I read that Judy’s uncle wrote those notecards, and I had guessed from what he wrote that he has AIDS. But now I realize that I am about to be in a room with a person who has AIDS. I want to turn around and escape to a safe place. I want to go back to Canada, before I knew about this disease. I close my eyes and imagine that poster of Madonna. HEALTHY.

“I’m not trying to scare you or anything,” he says. “I just think it’s good to be prepared. ’Cause he looks sick, you know. Have you ever met someone with AIDS?”

I shake my head.

“You probably have and don’t know it,” he says. “That’s the thing. Nobody goes to get a test. And people can have HIV for years without knowing it, and then suddenly, they die. But the thing is, it’s not sudden. They’ve had the virus for years. Anyone could have it.”

He isn’t making me feel better. I wish this subway were air-conditioned. Sweat is sticking to me, to my clothes. I feel suffocated.

“You okay?” he asks.

“I’m just hot,” I say, too quick.

“Hey, you know you can only get AIDS from sex and needles, right? You need semen or blood involved. You won’t even get it from kissing. You’re not gonna get it at a movie night, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I said I’m just hot,” I snap back.

“Got it,” he says, an edge to his voice.

We don’t talk after that. We watch the couple across from us kiss so aggressively, I’m sure they are drawing blood from each other and getting AIDS. And what about the hangnail on my finger, which is red from all the times I’ve picked it and is now touching the dirty seat? What if someone else was sitting here before me, and they had a bleeding hangnail in the same exact spot? What about toilet seats—people could bleed on them, or worse, masturbate on them? What about cuts on fingers when we shake people’s hands? What about . . .

I pull my shaking hand up quickly, off the possibly bloody seat, and place it on my lap.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks.

I nod. I wish he would stop looking at me like this, like he can see inside me. I wish he were not sitting next to me. I wish the train weren’t bouncing up and down, forcing my body to shift closer to him with its movement.

Then he takes his own hand and puts it on my lap. “Hey,” he says, with tenderness that only serves to underline my discomfort. “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

I don’t say anything. His hand feels so good on my lap, his temperature cooler, his grip stabilizing. Our hands are just inches away from each other, but with each bounce of the train, they shift closer, like magnets drawn to each other, until finally they touch. One of his fingers now rests atop my hand. Just one finger, and yet it ignites my whole body with excitement. His skin is rougher than mine. I don’t dare move. I let our skin touch for the few seconds it takes for the subway doors to open, and for him to declare we have arrived at our stop.

He looks at me as he pulls his hand away, and I can’t take my eyes away from his. Then he smiles, nods, and leaps up. He throws his arm between the doors as they’re about to close. They reopen and I rush out, already wishing I could remain here underground with him forever.

He leads the way to the apartment. I have not been to the East Village yet. It’s like stepping into a music video. It’s colorful, and loud, and smells like hundreds of spices being cooked into one hot stew. He stops me in front of a Korean deli. “Hey,” he says. “Hold up a sec. I need to get something here.”

I realize I was going to bring one of Abbas’s bottles of wine with me as a gift for Judy’s uncle. My mother insisted I bring something. And of course, I forgot it. “Good idea. I forgot a gift. We should get some wine here.”

“Reza, delis don’t sell wine.” He laughs. “And anyway, you look like a kid.”

“You’re right,” I say, immediately wishing I hadn’t said something so dumb in front of Art. “We can bring something else. Let’s look.”

We go inside, and I hear two men say his name.

“Art!” one says.

“Art?” the other asks.

I turn to face the men. One is a tall black man in a fake fur coat that reaches his feet. The other is a freckled redhead who wears a red knit Christmas sweater, except the Santa Claus on the sweater has lipstick and earrings on. Their faces are gaunt, like skeletons. Skin clings tightly to their bones. Eyeballs seem to pop out of their faces.