Like a Love Story(38)

“Celebrating and singing themselves,” Jimmy says.

“Every atom belonging to him belongs to you,” Stephen says, continuing the Whitman quotes. “He’s still here, a part of you. Just like José is still here in me.”

“Do you wish you had gone first?” Jimmy asks.

Stephen pulls Jimmy closer as they continue to walk slowly. Walking behind them, both with them and apart from them, I catch every single person who stares at them, some with fear, some with pity, some with compassion, some with hatred. I pull my camera up and snap more photos, but this time, I let Stephen and Jimmy be nothing but a blur. I focus on the background, on the pedestrians, on their gazes. I don’t want to run through my film too fast, so I wait until someone stares, and then I snap.

“Sometimes,” Stephen says, “I think it would’ve been easier to go first, but then I think of José here without me. I’d rather be the one in pain.”

“Me too,” Jimmy says. “I don’t know who the lucky one is. Walt, for being spared more of this. Or me, for getting a little more time.”

“Maybe we’re all the lucky ones,” Stephen says. “We had love.”

Jimmy lets out a hearty laugh. “Better to have loved and lost your love to Kaposi’s sarcoma than never to have loved at all.”

If they’re the lucky ones for having had love, then what does that make me? Will I ever have love? Probably not, because I’m a self-pitying narcissist. Look at me. I’m listening to two beautiful, noble, HOLY men who are not only facing death themselves, but also lost the loves of their lives, and what am I thinking about? Myself.

Two men in business suits walk past us. They look at Stephen and Jimmy with sneers that remind me of my father. I press my camera, hear it click, feel it capture the violence of their scrutiny. Stephen and Jimmy should be revered and worshipped, not feared and derided. They are the saints who belong in God’s cathedrals, they are the icons that belong on the posters on our walls. And that’s when I have an idea. A new project. I’ll photograph them and show the world how beautiful they are. I’ll pose them as saints, re-create old religious iconography. No, they’re too good for that. I’ll turn them into Dietrich and Garbo. I’ll light the photographs like the Old Hollywood photos of George Hurrell and Clarence Sinclair Bull, all haze and gauze and smoke and shadow. I’ll make the world see what I see, that these men and women are mythic, larger than life. Maybe I won’t have love, but I’ll have something else. A purpose. Love would just distract me anyway. Rage will be way more productive.

I make a choice. I choose rage.





Judy


I can’t believe I’m in Mr. Chow. I can barely focus as Reza’s stepdad orders food for everyone, imagining all the people who could have sat in this chair before me. Maybe Debbie Harry sat here, or Madonna, or Candy Darling. I don’t see anyone famous right now, except for a model I think I recognize from the pages of Vogue who is literally tearing a dumpling apart with her chopsticks and placing the wisps of lettuce within into her mouth. She’s very tall and very skinny, and I pity her. I want to ask her if it’s worth it, to eat shredded lettuce and champagne for dinner just so you can look like that. I don’t think so. “Judy joon, last chance. Anything special you would like to order? Anything you do not eat?”

I realize Reza’s stepdad is talking to me and focus back on our table. “Oh, I’ll eat anything,” I say.

I think I catch a smirk on Saadi’s face, but I’m not sure. He’s probably thinking some variation of: She looks like she’ll eat anything. Or, She’s already eaten everything. He doesn’t even have to say a word—I can feel the condescension emanating from his lacrosse body, from his beefy arms busting out of his polo shirt, and from his white baseball hat dangling from the back of his chair. Seriously. He wore a white baseball hat to Mr. Chow. He’s taken it off, thank God, at the urging of his dad, but still. I see vintage Halston here, and this season’s Gaultier too. I see bodysuits, palazzo pants, suede blazers, vinyl jackets, and deconstructed clothes that redefine geometry and the shape of the body. And Saadi wore a white baseball hat. But the best outfit in the whole place is the one next to me. Reza looks incredible in his shirt, like a star. Maybe it’s a good thing Madonna isn’t here tonight, ’cause she’d swipe him away from me and put him in her next video. And he’s mine. I have to keep reminding myself of this because it still feels so unreal to me. He’s mine, he’s mine, he’s mine.

“Judy joon,” Reza’s mother says. “it is so nice to finally meet you.”

“Oh, you too,” I say, a little too brightly. “All of you.”

“We’ve already met,” Saadi says. “We go to school together, remember?”

I nod and force a smile. “Of course I do.” How could I forget all the times his buddies called Art a faggot in front of me, all the times Saadi just stood there as Darryl Lorde spewed hate. Saadi never said a word to stop Darryl, which makes him an accessory to the crime.

Accessories. So many insanely fabulous accessories in this room, none more gorgeous than the brooch on Reza’s mom’s shirt. It’s a gold bird, with bright jewels filling in its features. It glimmers in the light and complements her silk shirt perfectly. The woman is stunning.