Page 3 of Those Eyes, That Mouth

My coffee cup was empty now, crushed in my fist.

We reached our building—the back entrance, the one the guys on our floor all used because it avoided the lobby and the RA's room. As always, the stairwell door was propped open with a brick. We climbed the two flights, our footsteps echoing on the concrete steps. The metal railing smelled like pocket change.

I unlocked our door and pushed it open.

Alone together in our private world.

Big gold rectangles of sun fell through the tall paned windows, leaving everything else in shadow. The windows on two walls made the space feel larger than it was, almost deluxe for a dorm. One window overlooked the cemetery, the other faced the alley behind the football stadium.

The Smiths poster—the one from their first album with the shirtless Joe Dallesandro—dominated the wall to the right of the door.

Our room was cluttered—clothes draped over chairs, books and cassettes stacked everywhere, full ashtrays needing to be dumped. Nathan's expensive stereo system sat on top of our shared dresser, flanked by stacks of his CDs. My vinyl collection lined the baseboards in wooden crates.

He set the bags on top of the desk and toed off his shoes.

I tossed the empty coffee cup into the trash and pulled out Love’s Easy Tears. I held it up, an offering.

He moved to the window—his spot—and leaned against the broad sill. It was wide enough that he could sit up there if he wanted to. Sometimes he did.

He turned. Framed by the cemetery view, the light brought out the green in his eyes. He saw the record and smiled. "Play it for me."

TWO

The record cover was a late-afternoon blue with abstract orange clouds and no text at all—no title, no band name.

I went over to the stereo, slid the vinyl from its sleeve, and, holding it carefully by the edges, set it on the platter.

I'd been trying to describe it to Nathan for weeks—the way Liz Fraser's voice layered over itself, the way the final track tore me up every time I heard it. He'd asked why I didn't just play it for him, and I'd had to admit I didn't have it anymore.

I’d told him the short version of how I’d given that asshole Tyler the most important piece of music I owned, and he’d broken it. I hadn’t mentioned how stupid I felt for going after these guys who acted like I didn’t matter.

I definitely wasn’t going to be sharing Love's Easy Tears with just anyone anymore. And Nathan wasn't just anyone. He’d never made me feel like that.

He was perched in the window now, one foot up on the sill, the other leg stretched down to balance on tiptoe, leaning back against the frame. With his face in the sun, staring out at the cemetery, he looked like he was waiting for something. He did this all the time. I'd told him once he looked like a Spiegel catalogue model, and ever since, he'd kept perfecting the pose.

I lifted the arm of the record player and paused, needle hovering. I said, “Prepare yourself.”

He turned his head and grinned.

I set the needle down.

The first crackle of static, and then⁠—

The sound filled the room like water, like light, like something that had always been there but we'd only just learned to hear.

I turned from the dresser and watched Nathan's face.

His grin of anticipation faded. He gave himself over to it—eyelids lowering, lips parting, just breathing. The sunlight caught in his lashes, turning them gold.

It seemed almost a shame I’d have to darken them with mascara later.

I looked away and dropped onto the edge of Nathan’s bottom bunk. The old steamer trunk we used as a coffee table was right in front of me. I grabbed my bag of DRUM tobacco from it and opened a rolling paper on my knee.

I'd only recently switched to rolling my own cigarettes. I knew it was a totally poser thing to do, especially since anybody who watched me for five seconds could tell I wasn’t very good at it.

Nathan didn't give me shit about it.

I tried to focus, but I kept fucking it up. Strands of tobacco spilled onto my jeans, and I had to keep pinching them out to start over.