Call Me By Your Name

by André Aciman

I could grow to like him, though. From rounded chin to rounded heel. Then, within days, I would learn to hate him.

an unslaked likeness of thirst.

and his eyes, which, when their other, kinder gaze fell on you, came like the miracle of the Resurrection.

P.S. We are not written for one instrument alone; I am not, neither are you.

nor was anyone willing to go the distance I was prepared to travel for him. No one had studied every bone in his body, ankles, knees, wrists, fingers, and toes, no one lusted after every ripple of muscle, no one took him to bed every night and on spotting him in the morning lying in his heaven by the pool, smiled at him, watched a smile come to his lips, and thought, Did you know I came in your mouth last night?

Between always and never.

I know books, and I know how to string words together—it doesn’t mean I know how to speak about the things that matter most to me.

Kill me if I stop.

I stopped for a second. If you remember everything, I wanted to say, and if you are really like me, then before you leave tomorrow, or when you’re just ready to shut the door of the taxi and have already said goodbye to everyone else and there’s not a thing left to say in this life, then, just this once, turn to me, even in jest, or as an afterthought, which would have meant everything to me when we were together, and, as you did back then, look me in the face, hold my gaze, and call me by your name.