Other Colors - Ch. 17 - Sex Stories

Other Colors - Ch. 17

... have been anymore dissimilar if they tried, “And how's that?” “It’s just not that easy getting all chummy,” he stepped back onto the ladder, and gave me a lingering, sidelong look, “about the guy who’s sleeping with the girl you’re in love with…” I stared. It was really all I could do. I stared at him, my lips silent and slightly parted, because no combination of words, in any dead or Indo-European language could have spun together for me an appropriate response. So I stared. I stared until he picked up his torch again, and went back to climbing the ladder. About halfway up, he turned back, “Remember what I said, Penny. I wasn't kidding.” I smiled weakly at him, and nodded, “It was… nice seeing you Peter.” I swallowed, “Please. Be careful up there,” I nodded to the rafters, “I really don’t want you to get hurt.” He smirked, though his eyes were cheerless. I think he caught my drift, and we watched one another silently as he flipped his mask down, and I buttoned up my coat. And that was all. No goodbye, no au revoir. I turned away, and he kept climbing. My skin was crimson as I made my up the aisle. I heard him light his torch as I grasped the door handles, and finally fled the auditorium. I didn’t turn back. It would have been cruel to encourage him. I remember nothing of the ride back to Lacoste. My mind was a mess. I was just barely able to begin wrapping my head around Dmitri’s unlooked-for intercession at the theatre. I didn’t need Peter’s embarrassing confession to ...

... grapple with as well. It sounds a little callous, but I really couldn’t muster much sympathy for Peter. What he’d said—it struck me as selfish more than anything else. I could bring myself to believe that he was in love with me. Peter was in artist. He was a romantic. From the first grade on, he probably thought he was in love with every girl who’d so much as smiled at him. His feelings for me were nothing special, and he really ought to have kept them to himself. But Dmitri… Dmitri was not an artist. And he was definitely no daydreaming romantic. Dmitri was ice. He was stone. He was cold, and clear, and about as rough as an uncut diamond. I knew that the money he’d spent meant nothing to him. For all he cared, his handkerchief could be cut from the Shroud of Turin. But according to a tired platitude ascribed to all inappropriate gifts, it’s really the thought behind them that counts. And I had not the slightest idea of what he was thinking. Jules met me at the door. I greeted him absently, and he asked right away if I’d like something to eat. My stomach was in knots. I declined, and ambled my way upstairs to Dmitri’s study. I pushed open the door. I stood there a while at the threshold, trying to catch some lingering scent of him, then tiptoed over to his desk, and sank into his chair. The clock taunted me. I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to talk right away. But I couldn’t. All I could do was sit there in his chair, waiting on pins and needles for the phone to ring. I frowned ...