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Lucky for me as well, or else we might never have met, and then what would have been the point of my life?
The great tragic love story of Percy and me is neither great nor truly a love story, and is tragic only for its single-sidedness. It is also not an epic monolith that has plagued me since boyhood, as might be expected. Rather, it is simply the tale of how two people can be important to each other their whole lives, and then, one morning, quite without meaning to, one of them wakes to find that importance has been magnified into a sudden and intense desire to put his tongue in the other’s mouth.
Percy had avenged me when no one else would look me in the eyes.
A small shift in the gravity between us and suddenly all my stars are out of alignment, planets knocked from their orbits, and I’m left stumbling, without map or heading, through the bewildering territory of being in love with your best friend.
I have lived most of my life as a devotee of the philosophy that a man should not see two sevens in one day,
“You do fine.” “I don’t.” “You’re right, you don’t. But you’re getting better. And that isn’t nothing.”
“Doesn’t it make you a bit squeamish?” “Ladies haven’t the luxury of being squeamish about blood,” she replies, and Percy and I go fantastically red in unison.
Love may be a grand thing, but goddamn if it doesn’t take up more than its fair share of space inside a man.
It is remarkable how much courage it takes to kiss someone, even when you are almost certain that person would very much like to be kissed by you. Doubt will knock you from the sky every time.
And now Percy has his arms around me and Santorini and the sea are spread like a
feast before us and there is sky all the way to the horizon. And what a sky it is.
