I was telling Bear about seeing Richard III and then looking up my journal entries from my freshman-year Shakespeare class, and discovering that I had loved Richard III, that I had written, "Richard III is very good, and will become my new favorite Shakespeare play, which was previously Twelfth Night."
And Bear, laughing until he sobbed at this Portrait of the Artist As A Young Man, pressed his hands against his chest and cried, "Oh! Oh, my heart!"
A week ago, we all went to the bar, and I ended up sitting next to him, and since we were all cheek-to-jowl in that booth, he had his elbows up on the table to avoid digging into me.
He's slender and delicate, and his hands are long and slim -- and absolutely covered in hair, dark and thick and deep and spiraling up the back of his wrist past his knuckle, and his hands were clasped loosely before him in the manner of a very elegant monkey.
Yesterday, as I frantically tried to finish this god damn paper and get it sent out, he went off to a campus screening of Persepolis. When he came back, he brought me a slice of the pizza that had been given out after the movie.
"It has, um, pineapple?"
"Oh," I said, tearing into it, because I hadn't eaten all day. "It's the most delicious thing I've ever had."
He cocked his head to the side and looked at me uneasily. "Is that...sarcasm?"
"No, I mean it," I said, and I felt a pang that he already knows me well enough to reflexively doubt everything I say. "Did you like the movie?"
"Oh, yes," he said. "It was beautiful. I cried at the end." He shrugged. "I am a crier, you know? I cry at everything. Movies, the evening news, pfffh, everything."
And I felt like squeezing my chest and going, Oh! Oh, my heart!