I was still babbling when Boris said: āPotter.ā Before I could answer him he put both hands on my face and kissed me on the mouth. And while I stood blinking ā it was over almost before I knew what had happened <ā¦>
We stood looking at each other ā me breathing hard, completely stunned.
āGood luck,ā said Boris. āI wonāt forget you.āĀ
Later ā in the cab, and afterward ā I would replay that moment, and marvel that Iād waved and walked away quite so casually. Why hadnāt I grabbed his arm and begged him one last time to get in the car, come on, fuck it Boris, just like skipping school, weāll be eating breakfast over cornfields when the sun comes up? I knew him well enough to know that if you asked him the right way, at the right moment, he would do almost anything; and in the very act of turning away I knew he would have run after me and hopped in the car laughing if Iād asked one last time.
But I didnāt. And, in truth, it was maybe better that I didnāt ā I say that now, though it was something I regretted bitterly for a while. More than anything I was relieved that in my unfamiliar babbling-and-wanting-to-talk state Iād stopped myself from blurting the thing on the edge of my tongue, the thing Iād never said, even though it was something we both knew well enough without me saying it out loud to him in the street ā which was, of course,
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