Day 5: Part I

I spent most of the night debating myself. On the one hand, my brain was making the argument: just because Sean wrote a haiku about watching the moon then said, “I love you,” and immediately started asking me if I had a crush does NOT mean that there are any romantic undertones between the two of us. On the other hand, my heart argued: Alex, you’re an idiot.

No, listen here. There’s a huge difference between saying “I love you” to the moon and to the person you’re talking to. I mean, sure, he was talking to me, but he wasn’t talking about me.

He was talking to you and about you. Just think about it. The haikus. He wrote you a poem. Three poems. What teenage boy writes someone three poems if they’re not in love with them? Hmm?

Intellectuals! Need I remind you I’d written a few myself? Does that mean that I’m in love with Sean? No. It doesn’t mean anything.

That’s a point against you. Need I remind you that Sean liked your poems? Why would this supposed intellectual, who is, mind you, hardly a year older, like the work of an amateur? It's because he's in love with you. You can’t see that because of your ego.

Whatever, dude. You’re just a frog in a well, so desperate that you’re latching onto completely unfounded and haphazard deductions. But you’re right. Obviously, this is an example of our fragile ego. We’re so selfish and prideful that we’re making a big deal out of nothing. We’re just some sociopathic egomaniac.

Feeling much happier with that conclusion, I took a deep breath and waited for sleep. Evidently, it was nothing more than an attempt to acquit myself of any executive responsibility for, as though in protest, my heart would not sufficiently slow its beating to permit dreaming. That final verdict had been in vain.

The room’s gray ceiling. A taiko drum-like feeling. Enlightened sunrise.

I know not how long I lay there since morning dawned, but Sean, the heavy sleeper, arose and wobbled back and forth down the hall as I desperately clung to the chance of a cumulative hour of sleep. The door slid open. It was Sean. As though I were caught dressing, I pulled the sheets over my head.  “Good morning,” he said as he walked into the room.

“ ‘M-mornin’,” I said with a southern drawl, as though the blanket over my head were a cowboy hat. Oh, he said good morning. Why? Because he has a crush on me?

He pulled the sheets down below my chin. He yawned. “My grandma says we’ll be leaving around ten.”

“W-where?” I asked. The last time I saw him at this angle he had pinned me to the ground. Overwhelmed with the full context of that incident, I once again cowered under the covers.

“To a buffet.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost eight,” he said pulling the covers down again. “You should get changed.”

Oh, he wants me to get changed. Why? Because he has a crush on me?  “O-okay.” As timid as that was, Sean seemed satisfied with the answer and left. 

It felt necessary to add an extra layer if he was going to keep barging in, so instead of a t-shirt and jacket, I wore a button-down over the shirt and walked down to brush my teeth. As I stood in front of the mirror, squeezing toothpaste, I caught a glimpse of myself in the shirt. WAIT. Wouldn’t getting all dressed up make today feel more like a date? The button-down was a plaid of dark colors. I took it off and resolved not to wear it, but as I was brushing my teeth I thought, Wait, if Sean likes me, then doesn’t that mean he appreciates my sense of style? So if I dress normally wouldn’t he find that attractive? Then I should wear the shirt! I reached down to grab it, but then the toothpaste started leaking from my mouth to the floor. I spat it out in the sink. Oh my goodness, I can’t even brush my teeth!

Sean appeared behind me with this look as though he knew what I was thinking. “AHH!” I dropped the shirt back to the floor.

“Sorry,” Sean chuckled, raising the palm of his hands. “My grandma wanted me to ask if you wanted coffee. It’s not a big deal or anything.”

“Oh, uh, sure, yeah. I love coffee. I MEAN, I…the drink…not person. Not that I don’t appreciate it! I do. I’m flattered. ”

“Huh?”

“Just because I like the drink doesn’t mean I’m in love with the person who makes it.”

“Uhh…I hope you’re not in love with my grandma.” Why? Because he has a crush on me?  “Did you sleep alright?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes, I would like some coffee thanks.”

He left and I continued brushing my teeth vigorously until the brush shot out of my hand, and, in my surprise, some of the foam slobbered onto my shirt. I ended up wearing the button-down.

I bitterly drank coffee in my room contemplating the probability that Sean’s feelings for me were some post-modernist reinterpretation of Stockholm syndrome. What am I supposed to do? It’s not as though I was troubled by the fact that a guy had a crush on me so much as the fact that someone had a crush on me.  Just as I had not had a crush before, neither had I been on the receiving end of one up to that point. At least, not to my knowledge. Plus, it was Sean whom I'd known forever. Honestly, I was afraid. Not that he would do something to me but that I would disappoint him. That I would fail to live up to whatever vision of me had caused his feelings to crystallize and that I wouldn’t know how to continue to treat him as I would a friend.

I was pouring myself a second cup when Sean entered again. “Hey,” he waved, “enjoying your pick-me-up?” What, like a pickup line? The coffee streaming from the decanter jerked from the cup to my other hand. “Woah!” Sean rushed towards me, took the decanter, and set it on the tray. “Are you okay?” He asked, inspecting my hand.

“Yeah, it cooled down,” I said through clutched teeth.

“Here, I’ve got a towel in the other room.” He crossed through the doors between our rooms and returned with a hand towel. He wiped my hand. "It doesn't hurt does it." I couldn't muster any words. I shook my head. "Good. I should tell you,” he began to say as he switched to the tray, “my grandma really liked those chocolates. She ate them all already.”

“Wow,” I said, easing a little. This was a normal conversation. “Your appetite must run in the family.”

“Right,” he said with a smile. He set the towel under the decanter and cups, then scooted over a little to sit next to me. He opened his mouth as though he were going to talk, and I squirmed to my feet.

“Photographs!” I said, zig-zagging my way to the hall door. “Didn’t you say something about train pictures?”

“You didn’t see them?” He stood. “They’re right by the front door.” He approached me, minding my stuff spread across the floor. “If you want, I can give you a quick house tour.”

The pictures were on the wall by the stairwell leading to the guest rooms. All of them seemed to be taken from the tracks a few steps outside the door, though of varying seasons, trains, and angles. Nothing resembled Thomas the Tank Engine. Upstairs, he showed me the guest rooms, all radiating Japanese, and opening one of the windows we saw the tracks from the same favored angle of some of the photographs.

He walked me back to his grandmother's room and, through a secret stairwell in the corner that was like a ladder, we entered a small attic dubbed the study. It was dark with few windows, sharp angles, and exposed wooden beams. A small desk rose hardly an inch up off the floor beneath one of the windows, stacked with books and sheets of dusty paper.

“It was my grandfathers,” he said, “though, my dad would take over when we visited.”

“What did he study?”

“Who? My grandfather or my dad?”

“Both, I guess.”

“Well, my dad studied foreign policy,” he said dismissively. “But my grandfather studied poetry.”

“What kind?” I asked. Bet he’ll say love.

“Classical stuff, mostly.”

“Like the Romans?”

“No. Like, Classical Chinese and Japanese.”

“That makes sense.” The wood creaked above us. His grandmother paced around on the floor below. “Did you guys write haikus together?”

“No," He said as though every opportunity that his grandfather offered and he did not say yes wafted against him like a flipbook. Sean picked up a book off the desk, more to see the dust cloud than its contents. “Anyway, I wanted you to see the room,” he said, putting the book not back on the desk, but along a stack beside it. “I, uh,” he began to say, rather coyly, “just think it’s a cool room.”

“Yeah, it is cool,” I assured him, though, the likely reason was he had feelings for me.