Like a Love Story(25)

It’s movie night, isn’t it?

Has Stephen shown you The Women yet? It’s my absolute favorite.

It’s a wonder we’re still together, him being a Joan fan and me being a Bette fan.

It’s so good to see you guys outside of a meeting.

Did you hear? AZT is 20 percent cheaper now.

It’s still 70 percent too expensive, but it’s a step.

Fur and Christmas sweaters are an interesting choice in this heat.

We’re both always freezing these days.

Who’s your cute friend?

Oh, this is Reza. He’s fresh off the boat from Tehran and Toronto.

Did he not want to stop off in Torino?

Art taps my shoulder and I blink my eyes. I say a meek, “Hello, nice to meet you.”

“I’m obsessed with that queen,” the man in the fur says. “Those outfits. The gowns, the hair. Honestly, that homely Queen Elizabeth should take some tips from her.”

“I’m sorry?” I say.

“Farah Diba!” he says. “Your queen. The glamour. The opulence. The extravaganza.”

“Farah Diva,” Christmas sweater says.

“Farrah Fawcett has nothing on her,” fur coat says.

“Thank you,” I say, as if he has complimented me. And then, stupidly, I say, “I don’t know her, though.”

The man in the Christmas sweater smiles. “Well, there’s still time. She’s not dead yet. Come on, baby, let’s let the boys be.”

“Wait!” Art says. And when he has their attention, he adds, “Could I take your picture? You just look so fabulous tonight.”

Fabulous? They look like they are going to die.

The men stand in front of the refrigerated section of the deli, which seems ironic since everything inside is fresh. Fur coat is taller than Christmas sweater, and so he rests his head atop Christmas sweater’s head. They smile. Art snaps.

“Glorious,” Art says.

“Make me look like Mahogany,” fur coat says.

The men hug Art before they leave, and I cannot help but watch as their skin touches his. One of them has a lesion just above his wrist, and it grazes Art’s neck as they hug. I want to push it away, to create a barrier between us and these men.

Art and I head to separate aisles. I find a bottle of nonalcoholic cider and purchase it with the money my mother gave me to take a taxi tonight. Art tells me he will be right out. As I wait outside, a group of people across the street are dancing, a portable stereo at their feet. And then I see a flower under my face. A single pink rose.

“A present,” Art says from behind me.

I turn around and see him smiling. “That’s a nice idea,” I say. “Does her uncle like flowers?”

Art blinks just once, then looks right at me like I’m an idiot.

“What?” I say.

“Nothing,” he says, his face reddening. “I just thought . . . It’s nothing.”

And that is when I realize that the rose was meant for me. My heart beats with equal parts excitement and fear. I can’t believe that this beautiful, fearless boy actually has feelings for me. “I understand.”

“Maybe I read the signs wrong,” he says.

Of course he didn’t. I feel frozen.

“But if I didn’t,” he continues haltingly, “then we can only do this on one condition, which is we tell Judy. Because I can’t live lying to her.”

Hearing him say the word “live” reminds me of what he represents. What all men like him represent. Death. I can’t do this. I have to stop him before it goes any further.

“I am sorry,” I say, my heart breaking a little more with each word I utter. “I think you are mistaken.”

“Oh,” he says, clearly hurt. “Okay.”

We stand in silence for a moment. I wish I could disappear.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” he says, shaking his head. “I guess I thought . . . I mean, the other day in the record store . . . and then I held your hand on the subway.”

He wasn’t holding my hand. His finger touched mine, that’s all. Now I worry, and I search his finger for any sign of a hangnail. If his hangnail touched my hangnail, and he has AIDS, which he probably does, then I have AIDS, and I have destroyed my mother’s life.

“I think we should go,” I say. “Can we please go?”

“I’m so confused,” he says. “What’s up with the Madonna thing?”

“I have a crush on her,” I say. “It’s normal. My mother’s first crush was on a French actor.”

He nods. Then he looks at me with anger in his eyes. “Just wipe the word normal out of your vocabulary, okay?” he says. “I hate that word.”

“And I hate being here,” I say, becoming angry myself. “I was supposed to take a taxi with air-conditioning. I was supposed to not arrive sweaty, and not arrive with you.”

“I didn’t make you come with me, you know,” he says. “All you had to say was thanks, but no thanks.”

“I thought you were my friend,” I say.

“I am your friend,” he says unconvincingly. “I guess I was just stupid, or selfish. . . . I just thought we could be more.”

I want to touch him and tell him how I feel. I long to take his rose, put it in water, and tuck it into my copy of The Odyssey when it dies, so it will be forever preserved. But I can’t, not without the fear.