“Yeah, he's nice.” I've given up trying to explain Hobie to Boris: the house, the workshop, thoughtful way of listening so different from my father's, but more than anything a sort of pleasing atmosphere of mind: foggy, autumnal, a mild and welcoming micro-climate that made me feel safe and comfortable in his company.
Boris stuck his finger in the open jar of peanut butter on the table between us, and licked it off. He had grown to love peanut butter, which (like marshmallow fluff, another favorite) was unavailable in Russia. “Old poofter?” he asked.
I was taken aback. “No,” I said swiftly; and then: “I don’t know.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Boris, offering me the jar. “I've known some sweet old poofters.”
“I don't think he is,” I said uncertainly.
Boris shrugged. “Who cares? if he is good to you? None of us ever find enough kindness in the world, do we?” (pg. 282)”