The Sentimental Education

“How old did you say you were, again?” came floating through the dimly lit room, muffled by the heavy carpet and pillows and drapes and ornately carved furniture that seemed much too large for the size of the apartment, and the size of the man speaking.

Mark paused before answering. He thought about his real age, the age he looked, and the age the man might most hope him to be. Some complex algorithms processed beneath the thick gloss of his wavy hair. “Twenty,” he decided, trying not to sound like he’d done so.

“That young…” came the reply. It had been the right answer. The room smelled like vodka and musk. The short man patted the bed, and Mark sat down gracefully, concealing all indications of distress with ease. Revulsion looked coquettish in his downcast eyes, whose crayon gray communicated a spirit utterly drained when he stared at them, unrecognizingly, lately. A blush of tremendous shame colored his cheeks beautifully and resembled shy excitement to his partner. As soft, damp hands disrobed him, he started to think about the book he’d been reading on the train. He had found that relating what was actually happening to a literary exercise could lessen reality’s impact; experiencing the dull horror of life through the oily lens of metaphysics.

He was entirely naked now but fully coated in his inner armor. Tomorrow, February second, was his mother’s fiftieth birthday. Unbidden memories of her cool hands rubbing Vicks onto his chest during a childhood illness tangled with the remote sensation of this man exploring Mark’s body. His breath was sour and sounded labored. In the dimly lit room, the familiar highlights were reveled in with tiresome yet somehow comforting regularity. His slimness, the flamelike outlines of the muscles on his upper arms, the taut arrows of his groin, the pale hollows of his pelvis. He acknowledged each revelatory compliment remotely and without inner excitement or vanity.

This period of inspection was the time during which both parties truly acknowledged that a purchase had been made. As his admirer sealed his fist around Mark’s sex, and placed Mark’s hand on his own, he left the moment fully and was back on the metro. His right fingers held a page while his left and cradled the book’s spine. He was sliding this hand up and down the spine gently. Instead of heavy gasps he heard dark air sighing past the car. In the motion of this far-away body, he felt the train’s rhythmic movement. This is what Mark read:

Comme elle gardait la même attitude, il fit plusieurs tours de droite et de gauche pour dissimuler sa manoeuvre ; puis il se planta tout près de son ombrelle, posée contre le banc, et il affectait d’observer une chaloupe sur la rivière.

Tomorrow a bouquet would reach his mother, the flowers redolent and porcelain-soft. ‘Dear Mom,’ the note would say, ‘Happy birthday! I am doing well, and love you very much. Your son, Mark’. She’d read the note over coffee and put it carefully back into its plastic holder, feeling comforted and proud.