please call me by your name

Girls together, we even feel happy.If I didn't screw things up, we could ride into town every day and come back together, and I'd take that as much as he'd give—or even less, if only I could have the shards of those wishes.

We rode into town that morning, and it didn't take him long to finish translating.After we had a hasty cup of coffee at the coffee shop, the bookstore was still closed.We continued to wander around the little square, me staring at the war memorial, he looking out over the speckled bay, Shelley's ghost trailing us through the town step by step, louder than Hamlet's father's call, and neither of us word.Without thinking, he asked how could anyone drown in such a sea?I immediately responded with a smile, because I caught him trying to backtrack, and then both of them smiled awkwardly for it, like a passionate and wet kiss between two people talking, neither of them thinking much, just to avoid it. Investigate each other's defenselessness, and deliberately place the hot and fiery snacks between the two, looking for each other's lips.

"I thought we didn't…" I start.

"Don't talk, I know."

Back at the bookstore, we left our bicycles outside before going in.

It feels special.It's like showing people around your private chapel, your secret base that you frequent, like the Cliff Drive.We come here to be alone, dreaming of others.This is where I dreamed of you before you came into my life.

I like his demeanor in the bookstore.He was curious but not focused, interested but calm, and suddenly turned between "Look what I found" and "Of course, how could there be a bookstore that didn't sell such and such a book".

The bookstore owner bought two copies of Stendhal's "Amons", one in paperback and the other in expensive hardcover.An impulse made me blurt out that I wanted both and put it on my father's account.Then I asked my boss to help me find a pen, opened the hardcover, and I wrote: Between Eternity and Nothingness. Somewhere in Italy in the 80s, silent for you.

?Stendhal (Stendhal, 1783-1842}: whose real name is Marie-Henri Beyle, a French writer.

Years from now, if he still has the book, I want him to be miserable.Even, I hope that one day someone browses his collection, opens this little "Amons", and asks "tell me, who was silent somewhere in Italy in the 80s", I want him to rise up like As sudden as grief, more violent than regret, maybe even pity for me, because this morning in the bookstore, I might be open to pity too.If only mercy was all he could give, if only mercy would make him put an arm around me.Beneath this wave of pity and remorse is a vague undercurrent of lust that has been brewing for many years.I want him to remember that morning when I kissed him on the Cliff of Monet, not for the first time, but for the second time, my saliva flowed into his mouth, how much I longed for him.

He said this gift was the best thing he had received all year and so on.I shrugged, dismissing the perfunctory thanks.Or maybe I just want him to say it again.

"I'm glad then. I just wanted to thank you for this morning." Before he thought of cutting in, I added, "I know. No words. Never."

On the way down the mountain, I passed "my place". This time, I turned my eyes away, as if that incident had long been forgotten.I'm sure if I had looked at him then, we would have exchanged the same contagious smile; the kind that wipes off your face as soon as you mention Shelley's death.It may bring us closer, but only to remind us how far apart we must now be.Perhaps when we look away and know that we are avoiding "talking", we can find a reason to look at each other and smile. I know he will understand why I avoid mentioning Monet's cliff path, and I am sure he understands I understand what he was thinking. This kind of avoidance, which would have hastened the parting of the two, turned into a completely synchronized intimate moment that neither of us wanted to drive away. "It's also in the picture book of this scene", I might have said that, but I tied my tongue.not talking.

But if he asks when we ride together the next morning, then I'll confide in everything.

I would tell him that although we ride our bikes every day and take them to our favorite little square where I make up my mind not to speak lightly, I still open the French windows every night when I know he is in bed , walked to the balcony, hoping that he could hear the vibration of the floor-to-ceiling windows in my room, followed by the creaking sound that the old hinges of the floor-to-ceiling windows could not hide.I'll wait for him there, in pajama pants only.If he asks me what I do there, I'm going to declare that the nights are too hot and the smell of citronella oil keeps me awake, so I'd rather stay up, not sleep, not read, just stare.If he asked me why I couldn't sleep, I'd just say "you wouldn't want to know," or, in a roundabout way, just say that I hadn't promised him a balcony, either for fear of offending him or not. Because I don't want to test the invisible fuse between us.What fuze did you say?That fuze, that if one night I had too intense a dream, or drank a few more drinks than usual, I'd probably easily cross the line, push open your glass door, and say, Oliver, it's me, I can't sleep, let I am with you.It's the fuse!

The fuze loomed all night.The hooting of owls, the creaking of the shutters in Oliver's room in the wind, the music from an all-night disco nightclub in a nearby mountain city, the sound of cats shuffling in the middle of the night, the creaking of my bedroom door... a little sound could wake me up.But these are the sounds I have known since I was a child, like a sleeping deer flicking its tail to flick off annoying bugs, I know how to get rid of it, and soon I fell asleep again.But sometimes, when I'm doing everything I can to get back into a dream that I'm ready to re-enter at any moment, and could almost rewrite if I tried a little harder, a trivial feeling like fear or shame slips out of my sleep and hovers over the I looked around me sleeping, then leaned over and whispered in my ear: I didn't intend to wake you up, I really didn't, go back to sleep, Elio, continue to sleep.

I can not sleep.One, or even two disturbing thoughts, like a pair of phantoms emerging from the fog of sleep... Desire and Shame stood watching me.I longed to push open the French windows of my own room and rush into his room naked without thinking;The relics of youth, the two mascots of my life, "Hunger" and "Fear", watched me and said to me: Many people have taken risks and got paid, why can't you do it?I don't answer.Many people have suffered setbacks, why should you?I don't answer.Then came that sentence, still laughing at me: Elio, if you don’t try again, when will you wait?

That night, the answer did come again, though it came in a dream that was itself a dream within a dream.A certain image awakened me, and it told me more than I wanted to know; although I confessed to myself what I wanted from Oliver, how much I wanted it, there were still a few corners I avoided.In this dream, I finally knew what my body had known for sure from day one.We were in his room, and, contrary to all my fantasies, it was not I but Oliver lying on the bed; I was above him, watching;Although in my sleep my emotions were all torn out, and I knew something that had been impossible to know or guess so far: not giving him what I longed to give no matter the cost might be the most important thing in my life. commit the worst crimes."Acceptance" seemed so mundane, so easy, so mechanical compared to my desperate attempts to give him something.Then I heard the words, the words I knew I was going to hear. "If you dare to stop, you might as well kill me first." He gasped, realizing that he had said the same thing to me in another dream a few nights earlier.But since he said it once, every time he comes to my dream, he is still able to repeat it freely, although neither of us seems to know that it is his voice from inside me, or my memory of these words exploded inside him.His face seemed to incite my passion while enduring it, giving me an image of kindness and fire that I had never seen nor imagined on any face before. .It is this image of him that is like a night light in my life, quietly guarded on days when I almost give up; rekindled when I would rather my desire for him die; Add fuel to the embers of courage when one seems like a sham of self-respect.The expression on his face is like a snapshot of a sweetheart taken by a soldier to the battlefield, not only to remember that there are good things in life and that happiness is waiting at home, but also to remind himself that his sweetheart will never forgive them for coming back in a body bag.

Those few words made me want to try something I never thought I would be able to do.

For the time being, no matter how much he wants to get rid of my relationship, he doesn't care about those people who are his friends and sleep with him every night.The man in the real world is no different from the man who lay naked under me in the dream and exposed everything to me.This is the real him.Other appearances are just incidental.

No, there was another side to him, the side when he was in the red swimming trunks.

I'd like to see him without his trunks at all - but I don't allow myself to wish for that.

The morning after the little square incident, even though he obviously didn't bother to talk to me, I was able to muster up the courage to insist on following him into the city, just because I watched him and watched him silently write the words he wrote on the yellow legal pad , I remembered that he (in the dream) also said that sentence - "If you dare to stop, you might as well kill me first".The reason why I gave him books at the bookstore, and later even insisted on paying for ice cream, is because this can prolong the time of reunion, and I can walk through the narrow and shady alleys of City B with my bicycle, and it is also to thank him ( In the dream) said to me "If you dare to stop, you might as well kill me first".I teased him and promised not to talk to him, also because I was secretly nurturing "If you dare to stop, you might as well kill me first".This sentence is more precious than any confession of his.That morning, I wrote this sentence in my own diary, but skipped that it was a dream I had.I hope to reread the diary years from now and believe that he really pleaded with me, if only for a moment.What I wanted to preserve was the turbulent panting in his voice that haunted me for days afterwards and told me that if I could have him in my dreams like this every night of my life, I would bet my life In dreams, give up all the rest.

We sped down past my secret base, past olive groves.Surprised sunflowers watch us as we glide through the sea pine forest.We passed two old train carriages that had lost their wheels many generations ago, but still hung the emblem of the Royal House of Savoy?; passed a group of gypsy peddlers who shouted "killer" because our bicycle almost scratched his daughter, I Shouting at him, "Kill me if I stop."

?Savoy royal family (House of Savoy): Italian nobles originated in Savoy in the early eleventh century, gradually expanded from a small place to become the ruler of the Kingdom of Italy, and its rule ended after World War II in [-]. The oldest royal family in Europe.

I say this to put his words in my mouth and savor them before they are properly put back in their secret hideaway, like a shepherd who takes his sheep up the hill when the weather is warm but drives them into the shed when the weather turns cold one night.By calling out his words, I enrich the words, prolong the life of the words, as if they had a life of their own, longer, more ostentatious, unruffled, like echoes, bouncing off the cliffs of City B and leap down the distant shallows where Shelley was shipwrecked.I gave him back his things, gave him his books, and silently hoped he would repeat the words, give them back to me, as if in a dream, because now it was his turn to say it.

At lunch, there was not a word.After lunch he sat in the shade of the trees in the garden, as he announced before coffee, to work for two days.No, he's not going into town tonight.Maybe tomorrow.No poker either.Then he went upstairs.

A few days ago, he stacked his foot on top of mine.Don't even bother to take a look now.

Near dinner, he went downstairs again to find something to drink.He had just showered in the evening, and his hair glistened. "I'll miss it all, Madam Professor," he said, wetting his head, and our "big star" looked all smiles.His mother also smiled and said to him with an Italian accent: "Big stars are always welcome." Then he went for a small walk with Vimini as usual and helped her find her pet chameleon.I've never quite understood why they liked each other, but it felt more natural and less artificial than what he and I shared.After half an hour, they came back.Because Vimini climbed the fig tree, her mother made her take a bath before dinner.

Not a word at dinner.After dinner he disappeared upstairs.

I swear he's going to sneak into town around ten o'clock.I saw light and shadow floating on the balcony beyond him.The moonlight cast a blurred zigzag of orange light on the landing by my door.Occasionally, the sound of his activities can be heard.

I decided to call my friends and ask if they wanted to come to town together.The friend's mother replied that he had left, yes, probably to the same place.I called another one and he was gone too.The father asked: "Why didn't you call Marcia, you hide from her?" Not hide, but she seemed complicated. "Aren't you complicated yourself?" He added.I called Marzia, and she said she wasn't going anywhere tonight, with a gloomy indifference in her voice.I'm calling to apologize. "I heard you're sick?" That's okay, I replied.I can pick her up by bicycle and ride to City B together.She said she would come with me.

My parents were watching TV when I went out.I heard my own footsteps on the gravel.I don't care about the noise.Noise is my company.He'll hear it too, I think.

Marcia was waiting for me in her garden.She was sitting in an old wrought-iron chair, with her legs stretched out and only her heels on the ground.Her bike is leaning against another chair, its handles almost touching the ground.She was wearing a long-sleeved sweatshirt.You often keep me waiting, she said.We left her house by the shortest way, which was a steeper road, but it was a short walk into the city.The sound and light of the noisy nightlife in the small square overflows the alleys.One of the restaurants moved out small wooden tables and placed them on the sidewalk whenever the seating area in the plaza was full.When I came to the souk, the noise and commotion filled me with my usual anxiety and low self-esteem.Marcia may run into friends unexpectedly, and the others are sure to make fun of it.Even being with her was kind of a challenge for me.I don't want to be challenged.

Instead of joining the group of friends sitting at the coffee shop, we lined up for two ice creams to take away.She also asked me to buy cigarettes for her.

We wandered aimlessly through crowded small squares and alleys with ice cream rolls.I loved the way the cobblestones gleamed in the dark, and I loved walking idly through town with her on my bike, listening to the muffled blare of the TV through the open window.The bookstore was still open, and I asked her if she minded.No, she doesn't mind, she is willing to go in with me.We parked our bicycles against the wall, opened the beaded curtain at the door of the bookstore, and walked into the smoky, musty store, where the ashtrays were full of ash.The boss said it was about to close, but Schubert's quartet was still playing in the store. A male and female passenger aged 25 or [-] browsed the English book section quickly, perhaps looking for novels with local flavors.The bookstore this night was so different from that morning when there was no one around, the sun was dazzling, and the fragrance of coffee filled the air.I picked up the collection of poems on the table and read one of the poems. Marcia stood behind me and read.I was about to turn the page and she said she hadn't finished reading.I like this feeling.Seeing the couple next to us about to buy a translation of an Italian novel, I interrupted their conversation and advised them not to buy it. "It's much, much better. It's probably the best Italian novel of the century, even though it's set in Sicily instead of here." The woman asked, "We've seen the movie. Is it as good as Calvino's?" "I shrugged.Marcia, still interested in the same poem, read it again. "In comparison, Calvino seems redundant and vain, nothing at all. But I'm just a kid, what do I know?"

Two other young men, all wearing smart summer jackets and no ties, were discussing literature with their boss. All three smoked.The table next to the cash register is littered with wine glasses, mostly empty, next to a large bottle of port.I noticed that the two travelers were holding empty glasses. They had apparently been offered drinks at a book launch.The proprietor looked our way, quietly apologized for disturbing us with his eyes, and asked if we'd like some port, too.I looked at Marcia and shrugged at the boss, meaning: She doesn't seem to want to drink.The boss who still didn't say a word pointed to the bottle, shook his head and pretended to disagree, implying that it would be a pity to lose such a great port tonight, why not help him finish the wine before going to bed?In the end I accepted, and so did Marcia.Out of politeness, I asked him which book launch is tonight?Someone I hadn't noticed before said the title of the book: "Just Say It's Love." "Is this book any good?" I asked.

"It's rubbish. Trust me because I wrote it," he replied.

I envy him.I envy his reading clubs, presentations, and friends and book lovers who come from the surrounding areas to this small town and this small bookstore near our mini square to congratulate him.They left over fifty empty cups.I envied his privilege of self-deprecation.

"Would you like to write an inscription on the book for me?"

pleasure. The author replied, taking out his Pelikan fountain pen before the boss handed over the signing pen. "I'm not sure if this book is for you, but..." His drawn tone is full of humility and slight pretense. The arrogance that came out seemed to say: You want my autograph, and I'd be happy to play the part of a famous poet, but we all know I'm not.

I decided to buy a copy for Mazia too, and asked the writer to inscribe it for her.He did so, adding endless scribbles next to his name. "I don't think this book is suitable for the lady either, but..."

Then, I asked the boss again to put both books on my father's account.

We stood by the checkout counter and watched the owner spend hours wrapping the two books in glossy yellow paper, adding a ribbon, and affixing a silver bookstore label sticker on the ribbon.I approached Marcia quietly, or because she was standing near me, I couldn't help but kissed her behind the ear.

She seemed to tremble slightly at my action, but she remained standing at a distance.I kiss her again.Then, thinking I had done something wrong, I asked her in a low voice: "Did I make you uncomfortable?" She also answered me in a low voice: "Of course not."

Leaving the bookstore, she couldn't bear it anymore. "Why did you buy me this book?"

I thought she was going to ask me why I kissed him.

"Because I want to."

"Yes, but why did you buy it for me? Why did you buy me the book?"

"I don't know why you ask?"

"Any idiot knows why I'm asking. But you don't! No wonder!"

"I still don't get it"

"you are hopeless."

I stared at her, surprised by the sudden flutter in her manner and the annoyance in her voice.

"If you don't tell me, I'll be cranky. I'll be sad."

"You're an ass. Give me a cigarette."

It's not that I haven't guessed her mind, but I can't believe she sees me so thoroughly.Perhaps it was the fear that I would have to take responsibility for my actions that kept me from believing what she suggested.Am I being dishonest on purpose?Can I continue to misinterpret her words with a clear conscience?

Next, I have a great observation.Maybe I ignored her every signal in order to get her to tell the truth—a tactic that shy and incompetent people call it.

At this moment, I had a flash of inspiration and realized: Could it be that Oliver is also like this?Seduce me by willfully ignoring me?

He said that he had already seen through my attempt to ignore him, didn't he just imply this?

Marcia and I left the bookstore and lit two cigarettes. One minute later, a loud metal rattling sound was heard, and the iron door of the bookstore was slowly lowered. "You really like reading so much?" she asked as we wandered absently in the dark toward the little square.

I looked at her as if she was asking me if I liked music, bread, salted butter, or summer fruit. "Don't get me wrong, I like reading too. But I won't tell anyone." Finally, someone told the truth, I thought.I asked her why she didn't tell anyone. "I don't know..." It was rather her way of hoping others would give her time to think or dodge questions before answering. "People who like to read books are good at hiding their true selves. People who hide themselves may not like themselves."

"You hide yourself?"

"Sometimes. Don't you?"

"Will I? I think so." Then, out of impulse, I inadvertently asked a question that I would never dare to ask: "Are you hiding something from me too?"

"No, not to you. Or, yes, a little."

"Like what?"

"You clearly know."

"Why did you say that?"

"Why? Because I know you might hurt me, and I don't want to be hurt." She thought for a moment. "Not that you mean to hurt anyone, but because you keep changing your mind and sneaking away and no one knows where to find you. You scare me."

We walked so slowly that we didn't pay attention to the steps pushing the bicycles and stopped.I leaned over and kissed her lightly on the lips.She led the bike, leaned it against the door of a closed shop, leaned against the wall and said, "Kiss me again?" I parked the bike in the middle of the alley, walked towards her, held her face in both hands, and pressed against her Kissed, hands tucked into her blouse, she tugged at my hair.I love her simplicity, her straightforwardness.The truth is shown in every word she said to me that night, free, frank, and human; it is also shown in the way her hips respond to me at this time, without suppression, without exaggeration, like the gap between lips and hips. The connection to her is fluid and momentary.A kiss on the mouth is not a prelude to a fuller encounter, but part of it.We were only separated by clothes, and she slipped one hand between us, down into my pants, and said, "You're so hard." I wasn't surprised.It was her frankness, freedom, and unrestrainedness that made me stiffen even more at this moment.

She touches my most intimate part and I look at her and look into her eyes and tell her I've been wanting to kiss her and say something to prove that the person who called her tonight and picked her up is not the same person A cold and dull boy.But she interrupted me: "Kiss me one more time." I kissed her again, but my heart flew to the cliff first.Should I suggest that?Even if you take a shortcut and go straight through the olive groves, you still have to ride for 5 minutes.I know I'll meet other couples around there.Otherwise, go to the sea.I've done it at the beach too, and everyone has done it.Maybe propose to my room?No one in the family will know and won't mind.

An image flashed through my mind: she and I were sitting in the garden after breakfast every day, she was in her bikini, and she kept urging me to come downstairs and swim with her.

"Do you really care about me?" she asked.Did this sentence come out of thin air?Or is this wounded face in need of comfort the same face that has been following us since we left the bookstore?

I can't understand how boldness and sadness, "you're so hard" and "do you really care about me" can be so thoroughly combined?It's also hard for me to fathom how someone who appears so weak, hesitant, and eager to reveal so much of his uncertain self can use the same gesture, without shame and recklessness, to reach into my pants and squeeze my place.

As I kissed her more passionately, our hands running up and down each other's body, I pictured in my mind the content of the note I had resolved to shove under Oliver's door that night: The silence was unbearable.I must talk to you.

By the time I was ready to slip the note under his door, it was dawn.Marcia and I made love in a deserted place by the sea.Everyone nicknamed it "The Aquarium" because the condoms left over from the night inevitably accumulate there, drifting among the reefs, looking like returning salmon caught in a net.We plan to meet again later that day.

I walk home.I like her scent on me, on my hands.I don't wash it off on purpose.I'm going to keep that smell on me until the two of us meet at night.It pleases me, and makes me realize how capricious I am, that I still wallow in this unprecedented and salutary wave of unhappiness, bordering on disgust, toward Oliver.Maybe he sensed that I just wanted to have sex with him and be done with it, so he instinctively cut me off.Thinking of the nights before, I had such a strong desire to receive his body inside me that I almost jumped out of bed and went to find him in his room.Now the same thought is unlikely to arouse my desire.Maybe the longing for Oliver was just a summer rut that I was about to shake off.On the contrary, I just need to smell the smell of Mazia on my hands. I love the authentic femininity that every woman has.

I know the feeling doesn't last, just as it's always easy for people who have just used drugs to swear off drugs.

Less than an hour later, Oliver flew back into my mind.I want to sit on the bed with him, stretch out my palm, and say to him, come on, smell and see, and then see him gently hold my hand in both hands to smell, and then I will put my middle finger on his lips, suddenly stuffed into his mouth.

I tore a sheet from my school notebook.

Please don't hide from me.

Then rewrite another one: Please don't hide from me.That would make my life worse than death.

I rewritten it as: Your silence erodes me bit by bit.

too exaggerated.

I can't bear the thought of you hating me.

so sad.No, don't make it so tear-jerking, but the old-fashioned looking for death and life must continue.

Knowing that you hate me, I would rather die.

At the last minute, I went back to the original version.

The silence was unbearable.I must talk to you.

I folded the note, and with my thoughts of Caesar's resignation as he crossed the Rubicon, I slipped it under his door.There is no turning back. Iactaaleaest.Caesar said that the dice are thrown.The thought that the Latin iacere for the verb "to throw" has the same root as the verb "to ejaculate" makes me howl.I realized right away that I wanted to give him not only the smell of Marcia's scent on my fingers, but also the traces of my cum drying on my hands.

Fifteen minutes later, two competing emotions tormented me, and I regretted sending that message, and regretting that it didn't contain a hint of sarcasm.

At breakfast, he finally showed up after jogging.Without looking up, he just asked me if I had a good time last night. "Simply put, so-so," I replied, trying to be as vague as possible, and thus implying that I was trying to simplify what might otherwise be a lengthy report. "It must be very tiring." Father said ironically. "You play poker, too?" "I don't play poker." Father and Oliver exchange meaningful glances before discussing the day's work.I lost him because of it.Another day of torture.

When I went back upstairs to get the book, I saw the same folded note lying on my desk.He must have walked into my room through the French window on the balcony and put the note where I can see it, if I read it now, my day will be ruined.But if I watch it later, the whole day becomes meaningless, unable to think about anything else.Nine times out of ten, he throws it back without writing anything, saying "I found this on the floor. It might be yours. I'll talk about it later", or more directly: no response.

Be more mature.See you at midnight. —He added this sentence below my message.

It turned out that he had delivered it before breakfast.I just understood.But my heart was immediately filled with strong desire and apprehension.He made an offer, and that's what I want?is this real?How am I going to stay up until midnight today, whether I want to or not?It's only ten o'clock in the morning, and there are still fourteen hours... The last time I waited so long was my report card.And one Saturday two years ago, a girl promised to go to the movies with me, but I kept me waiting for so long, I'm not sure if she forgot.Spent half a day watching my entire life hang in the balance.How I hate waiting, letting the whims of others determine my fate.

Should I reply to his message?

Isn't this meaningless!

Is the tone of his message pretending to be relaxed?Or do you want to act like you scribbled a sentence just a few minutes after your jog and seconds before breakfast?I didn't miss the little sting he left behind my operatic sentimental sentence, which carried confidence. , "Let's get back to basics" or "See you at midnight." Which one is a good sign?Which one will win in the end?A sarcastic thump?Or a confident "let's get together tonight and see what happens"?We're going to meet and talk -- just talk?Is this the command or consent to meet me at the appointed moment in every novel, every play?Where shall we meet at midnight?Will he find a chance to tell me during the day?Perhaps, sensing that I was agonizing all night and that the fuse separating the balconies at our respective ends was a complete sham, did he assume that one of us would end up crossing the road that was never spoken or blocked? Human line of defense?

How does this affect our ritualistic morning bike ride? Will "Midnight" Replace the Morning Joyride?Or are we the same as before, as if nothing has changed, except that now we have "midnight" to look forward to?If I met him now, should I smile a meaningful smile, or, as before, give him that cold, glazed, wary American gaze?

However, the next time I meet him on a narrow road, I also want to express my gratitude to him.Can I express my gratitude without coming across as bothering or bossy?In other words, as long as it is "thank you", no matter how restrained it is, it always has a hint of extra sweetness of Mediterranean enthusiasm. word……

Say nothing and he'll think you regret writing that note.

No matter what you say, it seems inappropriate.

So, what to do?

wait.

I knew it from the beginning.Just wait.I'll work and swim all morning.Maybe play a few games of tennis in the afternoon.Go to Marcia.Come back before midnight.No, eleven thirty is fine.bath?Not taking a shower?Ah, from body to body.

Isn't that what he might do too?from one to another.

A strong panic seizes me: will the midnight talk be our moment to clean up the grievances?Well, cheer up, relax, and grow up!

Then again, why wait until midnight?Who would pick midnight to say this?

Or will midnight be "midnight"?

What should I wear at midnight?

The day passed like I dreaded.Immediately after morning, Oliver sneaked away behind my back and didn't come back until noon.He sat in the old seat next to me.A few times I tried to talk about something lighter, only to find that while we both wanted to show that we were no longer pretending to be silent, this would be another "let's not talk to each other"