Volume 16, Issue 11
Most of the submissions can be found in the physical print-out copy at school! :)
Here, we include an additional prose piece by graduating senior Madison Wang that arrived after the issue was printed :).
By The Window
By Madison Wang
He stood at the window, one hand grasping the long curtain, staring out the sliver of revealed sunlight. He was thinking of many things, his world of numbers, of short abbreviated code, of clean pencil diagrams and glowing screens.
He let go of the curtain and walked back to his desk. He sat down heavily in the seat despite his lithe form, reaching for the mug of his coffee. It was his first of the day of many firsts, with a spoonful of cream and more sugar than he liked to admit. When he put the mug to his lips, he was not aware of anything more than the mere comfort of his drink, the sugar buoying the stream of thought.
He was only a child, a phrase affirmed by his oldest employee, a few thousand years his senior. She saw his awkward stiff movements, his overly polished English, and shook her head. The lab coat he wore hung loosely around his scrawny frame, enveloping his figure, and she saw a child stumbling around in the overly long train of their coat, pretending to be an adult. Genius, my ass, she’d say. His tight-lipped disposition and cold manner, a facsimile of masculinity, amused and annoyed her. She would lean back in her chair and talk back.
He was only a child.
Her sister would sometimes protest against this. She forgave his awkwardness and poor sociability, seeing him as kindred. She’d admired him, before she was working for him. She’d read his papers on mathematics and computer systems, decades ahead of humanity. Tightly woven papers on computer systems, prophetic articles on the soon to come- artificial intelligence, the cloud, robotics. In the spinning wheels of human achievement, the invention of steel, the formation of civilization, the coming of the industrial age, it seemed the next consequence was him. He was different, green to immortality like her, still shaping his destiny, one foot in the past and one into the future. She admired him for that, a man with so much potential, full of flaws but also full of virtues.
They were both two floors down, working away. Beyond the locked doors of his lab. He was now bent over his keyboard, scrutinizing the code on the screen. The programming spoke to him better than any language had. He told himself that he liked being alone as opposed to suffering in the company of others.
He ran a hand through the white fluff of his hair, making it even more unruly. His gaze was pinched behind the square frame of his glasses, his critical grey eyes scanning the screen.
Around him were tangled cords, loose leaf papers, a computer board there, a stack of books, a curled sketch of some design, wires here, a battery there. He’d inadvertently forced himself to be a jack of trades in computers, his desire to barrel towards his goal involved tearing through electronics, computer hardware, metal alloys among others. But his real love was software and mathematics. And even he found it too much, so that’s why his employees worked below. Still, a book on electronic components lay open face down. He couldn’t entirely entrust them, people could be foolish and make mistakes. It was best he had a grasp to avoid blunders; his vision had been fine tuned to a precision in his mind, and he refused to let any misstep tarnish it. He knew few could step to his pace, so he made diligent overseeing their work.
He knew since he was young he was destined for greatness. He spent his youth bent over books, and he preferred to keep to himself. None of the children in town wouldn’t talk to him, but he didn’t mind. They couldn’t meet eye to eye, the foresight of his gaze reached beyond their squirming mole eyes that would barely see the next day. He’d shuffle through town, eyeing the children that ran past. They never batted an eye at him, but he didn’t either. They lived in ignorance, squabbling over niceties, friendships, and people, and he was meant for greatness.
He cultivated a dream in his mind. He cultivated a dream of fantastical worlds, attempts to describe them littered his notebooks, drawings and numbers of a time he really belonged. Flying ships, conscious automatons, horseless carriages as fast as the blink of an eye. He clung to these images, and wished to crown himself atop of it. There people would see his real value.
He even seemed to be designed to create, with long pale fingers that nimbly pressed the keys of the board or flipped through papers. Craftsmanship seemed to be in his blood, which was in fact true. His father was a glassmaker like his father before him and his father before him. But his father had large hands, callused and rough from years of handwork. His hands were smooth and soft, the hands of a man who never did much manual work. He preferred it that way as he had abhorred the idea of following in his father’s steps. To become a glassmaker! What a waste for him, his father was a foolish simple man. He was not foolish or simple.
He now banged his fist on the table. His work was eluding him, and it was sure to put him in a foul mood. Why did it not work? What was wrong? It had to work. Stupid program.
In his mind he was a genius, a man of unrealized greatness. He built an image of himself, intelligent and cool, imposing and respected. He was the sole vestige of logic, unhindered by human emotions, pure with his visions of the future. He’d iron smooth every wrinkle from his gray dress shirt, tightened his belt flush against his waist and polish his brown shoes in his attempt to mimic this ideal, the pristine image of a man destined to captain the next era. Of course, to others, this starched figure smelled artificial, like new plastic. It was not certain if he desired to be this way to earn the respect of others or to drive them away, even he wasn’t entirely sure.
He looked back at the window. He’d swore he heard a tap or a thud, but he didn’t dare to move.
Nothing. He stood up from his chair and paced instead. Frustrating himself would do no good.
To many his nature is elusive, best characterized by eccentric genius. A man that loved numbers and computers, whose genius came at the familiar cost of poor social skills and many didn’t seek beyond assumptions. He merely was the way he was, frigid, arrogant and brilliant. People praised him, but none wanted to be him.
He stopped at the window again and looked out. Maybe he’d heard a tap, and he’d open the window and Marcy would crawl in with a plate and a smile. He sat back down in his chair, feeling troubled. Troubled him with a realized sense of sadness.
He resented many things. He resented himself. He found his shoulders too narrow, his body too scrawny. He could wrap his fingers round his thin wrist, and had avoided the reflection of his nude pale body in the mirror. His face was long and thin, his features pinched and built unpleasantly. He hated his amorphous androgyny, and feared being seen as being seen as anything close to womanly. He was too short, barely above 5’7, his upper lip always jutting out in bitterness. He had not inherited his father’s bulk, and he even found his fluff of blonde hair too feminine. He’d never dare to grow it long, and kept it stuck up, as if afraid of it touching his forehead. That’s why he’d never been able to catch the affections, or even be noticed by another woman. They laughed at him behind his back, knowing if they slipped a hand around his waist, they’d find a slenderness to rival their own. His attempts at romance were too embarrassing to recount again. The blurred mess of their memories burned the image of pity in his mind. Their eyes looking him up and down, no sign of attraction, no sign of passion. I’m sorry. They were disgusted by how he looked. Of course. He lacked any inherent lovability, in his sharp edges and cold touch, nobody could find desire in that. He was undesirable.
In a strange way, he sought to be even unpleasant, to prove himself that his isolation was voluntary. Well, they didn’t like him because he knew he was better than them. They couldn’t see his genius, and they were shallow. Maybe it was better that others didn’t like him. He always worked better alone. His insecurity morphed into his image. Of course he didn’t have much company with others because he preferred no company. He didn’t speak much because he had nothing to say. He never had a partner because he was completely devoted to his work. He loved math and numbers because he disliked dealing with people. He was above everyone, there was a reason he was separate.
His behavior was not a man ignorant of his image. He was secretly his worst critic. For he was too conscious of his insecurities, and instead chose to push them away deep down to fester. He knew, but refused to acknowledge these parts of himself even as they wove into the consciousness of his mind. He refused to acknowledge most of all the delicacy of his heart. He chose walls of steel, panels of numbers, finding kindred in the glaring lights of his lab rather than the world outside. He wished to become a machine of logic because he never could be one. He thought if he fooled everyone that he was frozen to the core, nobody would ever think to pity him. If he was predictable, logical and practical, then he would not see the use for human emotion.
But deep down, his heart was fragile and clear as glass. He was lonely. And as much he sought to eliminate weakness, he choked his heart. His achilles heel, he thought, even as his coldness burned with his sadness.
He was back on his computer, finally solving the problem. But he still was thinking of the window. It was quiet except for the clack of his keyboard and the soft humming of the machines. To him, it was the closest feeling to home.
On a fortunate afternoon, his friend, although he’d never refer to him as that, would be dancing around the room, peering at the strange gadgets, mulling over the open books and examining the foreign diagrams. He’d told him to call him Marcy, it was short for something, though he couldn’t remember what.
Marcy would look over to the empty coffee cups and chastise him. He often pulled late nights which in his friend’s eyes was too much. Was the necessity of his work worth the personal expense?
He was always busy, but Marcy figured if he picked the most interesting and curious object and brought it over, he’d be able to get him started. It would unfold in small degrees. What is this? What does it do? Why are you making it? What else are you doing with it? How did you make it? And so on and so on, and he’d pull out a sheet of paper and scribble over it. Then he’d lean back in his chair and think, pen resting on chin. When he was thoughtful like that, an unsuspecting happiness would creep over his face and he could read the gentle curl of his lips, the shine in his eye, vivid yet distant, tangled between the joy of numbers and functions and the quick pace of excitement in his blood.
When they first met, he was standoffish and aloof to him as he could’ve been to anyone. But his friend instinctually sensed something different about him. It wasn’t the titles, the money, the touted intellect, the bright shiny lab though it was all very amusing to him. He knew enough about the fallibility of institutions and reputations to not bend a hunch around them. What made him intriguing was a nearly there sensation- a feeling of a barely reached but in sight solidarity. He felt they didn’t share any in common, but that with time they would share many things, the most important things. He was attracted by the fact his personality was cut with sharp edges, daring lines, yet this boldness nestled something intimately deeper. Something of great worth. How he did know, it was beyond him.
With time, he was able to explore this instinct. One thing that became very apparent was that he was playing an act, pushing and pulling his personality to mold an image he desired for himself, an act far from natural. Around groups of people he was hopeless. Around his employees, he is barely passable. But alone was territory that his friend learned that he could begin to navigate. And slowly he was able to peel layers back.
First, his greatest love was work, but much more than that, he believed sincerely in the power of computers, more than any religion and greater than any set of lovers he’d met. And his friend sincerely expressed his observation to him as much as possible. When he’d passed the barriers of cynicism and caution, showing genuine interest in the computers he so deeply loved, he would swear that he’d been waiting his whole life to express this love. Even stone and ice would speak if they were allowed to have pen in hand, a screen propped open and the freedom to confess great intimacies with data systems.
His friend would particularly watch his face. It did not bother him to catch every word or to lose track of concepts, but the real beauty was watching him in action. The cold constraints of his stiff emotional range melted away, contemplation, excitement, confusion, joy, regret emerged beneath. His deep voice was clear and emotional. His eyes would soften, the curl of his lips as delicate and sensitive as silk, the curve of his jaw softened the way a master sculptor could make flesh out of stone. His shoulders squared and proud, the mimicry he’d attempted before a mere shadow for this was real pride that a man would have for his work and his devotion. This bled beyond his work into his relationship with him. He shared small things about himself. Frustration at an unforgiving contractor. He carefully shared his curated figure collection and when met with his friend’s recognition and coincidental interest in the show he recognized in the characters, he expounded upon the technology, the colorful aliens, the exciting space battles. If he was particularly off on it, he could spend minutes ranting, shaking a pen-clenching fist, attacking the janky power system. But his friend would point out, he must’ve loved the slender bust of Grace, his favorite character, if he bothered with the show. And he’d blush a deep red, aghast and denying and his friend would laugh.
His friend loved that he was broadly candid. Marcy remembered when they sat shoulder to shoulder, and he remarked that he found his face attractive, but his hair too “muddy”. Marcy found him to be honest, but never brutal, and he came to trust his opinion more than anyone else. He never lied, or said anything against his conscience. Fussing with niceties confused him and found such things disingenuous and deleterious. Why pretend to like someone if it fooled them into thinking you two were good friends? Why smile at a boss you hated? He eyed everything with a critical precision, and if given the space, he’d dole out his comprehensive assessment. Usually he spiked it with a bit of dark spite, but he’d admitted to himself that he blunted his words for Marcy. If he gave him the space to express himself, he wouldn’t sow the ground with poison. But he wouldn’t lie, though it was very easy to align with the truth. He liked the color of his eyes, a pretty sky blue. He liked his cookies, even when slightly burned. He liked that his hands were warm and how he smiled. He liked the slight British of his voice, and the rich tenor when he sang. He liked that he was upbeat and that he leaned in when he talked. When Marcy asked him if he liked being around him, he thought of how wonderful that in his mind that he'd miraculously come to befriend him, the fuss of introductions and formalities having long passed.
“Usually, except when you’re being annoying.” And Marcy would reach over and squeeze him on the shoulder and something else tightened that wasn’t physical, laughing. It was as if his soul would tighten, breathless, astonished, baffled. Then he’d let go, and he could breathe again, but somehow felt worse without it. He sought this sensation so fervently that he astonished himself with his own masochism. Somehow Marcy made him feel infinitely restless, as if something beautiful existed outhere and he wanted to jump out of the building to find it, comb the bushes outside, the desire to find it so powerful that he was almost compelled to drop everything. Maybe he was a bit untruthful: he still liked him, even when he was annoying. His hair wasn’t really “muddy” , more of a wavy sandy brown like the shores of a northern beach. The thought of admitting that embarrassed him so much. He liked his hair, and he’d look down and take Marcy’s hand, because he had such nice hands, they were so warm. He’d pull him close, and he’d summon all of the meager rations of his charisma, clear his throat and ask him if he’d wrap his arm around him forever. He’d do anything to see him laugh everyday, even if he would need to make a fool of himself. If he were to claim faith in anything, it’d be in Marcy’s soul, for he didn’t know anything better that complemented his own. He would be devoted, never cruel, even if he was one of his moods, he’d never try to hurt him. No, he couldn’t say that, he may as well wave a red flag. He was now acutely aware that on the flip end, it was dubious he’d be met with reciprocation. Did Marcysmile and laugh the way he did with others? Of course, of course. And yet Marcy was the only one he’d spill his glass heart for. He wished he was the only man he’d smile for, and then felt guilty. How selfish. He wanted to know if he was not alone in feeling they shared something uniquely theirs, that the intimacy and understanding wasn’t a delusion. Because he wasn’t deluding himself. He was warm, and he’d give anything, even if it was all worthless in Marcy’s eyes.
He liked him, unless he was annoying. And Marcy would smile, and he couldn’t bring himself but to smirk. Don’t feel so smug, he’d tell him next time. Don’t feel so smug. And he’d lean in close, touching shoulders.
Maybe he could text him, see if he was available. Make it casual, flippant. He shifted in his chair, tightened his belt and smoothed out the wrinkles of his shirt. He reached for his coffee, but the cup was empty. He was waiting for the data to compile, and maybe he could spare some time.
Don’t feel so smug. He recited that to himself. He recited it until he was certain he’d examined every last syllable for optimum delivery. He traced the inherent cleverness and subtly, reminding himself of his own greatness. Don’t feel so smug. Marcy would blink then smile.
He sent it. His body was positively electrified, though from the outside, he lazily dropped the phone back on the table. He only was struck with one blinking persistent thought in the tumbling waves of his mind, that of Marcy climbing in through the window. He stood up, already knowing where he was going next.
By Madison Wang
He stood at the window, one hand grasping the long curtain, staring out the sliver of revealed sunlight. He was thinking of many things, his world of numbers, of short abbreviated code, of clean pencil diagrams and glowing screens.
He let go of the curtain and walked back to his desk. He sat down heavily in the seat despite his lithe form, reaching for the mug of his coffee. It was his first of the day of many firsts, with a spoonful of cream and more sugar than he liked to admit. When he put the mug to his lips, he was not aware of anything more than the mere comfort of his drink, the sugar buoying the stream of thought.
He was only a child, a phrase affirmed by his oldest employee, a few thousand years his senior. She saw his awkward stiff movements, his overly polished English, and shook her head. The lab coat he wore hung loosely around his scrawny frame, enveloping his figure, and she saw a child stumbling around in the overly long train of their coat, pretending to be an adult. Genius, my ass, she’d say. His tight-lipped disposition and cold manner, a facsimile of masculinity, amused and annoyed her. She would lean back in her chair and talk back.
He was only a child.
Her sister would sometimes protest against this. She forgave his awkwardness and poor sociability, seeing him as kindred. She’d admired him, before she was working for him. She’d read his papers on mathematics and computer systems, decades ahead of humanity. Tightly woven papers on computer systems, prophetic articles on the soon to come- artificial intelligence, the cloud, robotics. In the spinning wheels of human achievement, the invention of steel, the formation of civilization, the coming of the industrial age, it seemed the next consequence was him. He was different, green to immortality like her, still shaping his destiny, one foot in the past and one into the future. She admired him for that, a man with so much potential, full of flaws but also full of virtues.
They were both two floors down, working away. Beyond the locked doors of his lab. He was now bent over his keyboard, scrutinizing the code on the screen. The programming spoke to him better than any language had. He told himself that he liked being alone as opposed to suffering in the company of others.
He ran a hand through the white fluff of his hair, making it even more unruly. His gaze was pinched behind the square frame of his glasses, his critical grey eyes scanning the screen.
Around him were tangled cords, loose leaf papers, a computer board there, a stack of books, a curled sketch of some design, wires here, a battery there. He’d inadvertently forced himself to be a jack of trades in computers, his desire to barrel towards his goal involved tearing through electronics, computer hardware, metal alloys among others. But his real love was software and mathematics. And even he found it too much, so that’s why his employees worked below. Still, a book on electronic components lay open face down. He couldn’t entirely entrust them, people could be foolish and make mistakes. It was best he had a grasp to avoid blunders; his vision had been fine tuned to a precision in his mind, and he refused to let any misstep tarnish it. He knew few could step to his pace, so he made diligent overseeing their work.
He knew since he was young he was destined for greatness. He spent his youth bent over books, and he preferred to keep to himself. None of the children in town wouldn’t talk to him, but he didn’t mind. They couldn’t meet eye to eye, the foresight of his gaze reached beyond their squirming mole eyes that would barely see the next day. He’d shuffle through town, eyeing the children that ran past. They never batted an eye at him, but he didn’t either. They lived in ignorance, squabbling over niceties, friendships, and people, and he was meant for greatness.
He cultivated a dream in his mind. He cultivated a dream of fantastical worlds, attempts to describe them littered his notebooks, drawings and numbers of a time he really belonged. Flying ships, conscious automatons, horseless carriages as fast as the blink of an eye. He clung to these images, and wished to crown himself atop of it. There people would see his real value.
He even seemed to be designed to create, with long pale fingers that nimbly pressed the keys of the board or flipped through papers. Craftsmanship seemed to be in his blood, which was in fact true. His father was a glassmaker like his father before him and his father before him. But his father had large hands, callused and rough from years of handwork. His hands were smooth and soft, the hands of a man who never did much manual work. He preferred it that way as he had abhorred the idea of following in his father’s steps. To become a glassmaker! What a waste for him, his father was a foolish simple man. He was not foolish or simple.
He now banged his fist on the table. His work was eluding him, and it was sure to put him in a foul mood. Why did it not work? What was wrong? It had to work. Stupid program.
In his mind he was a genius, a man of unrealized greatness. He built an image of himself, intelligent and cool, imposing and respected. He was the sole vestige of logic, unhindered by human emotions, pure with his visions of the future. He’d iron smooth every wrinkle from his gray dress shirt, tightened his belt flush against his waist and polish his brown shoes in his attempt to mimic this ideal, the pristine image of a man destined to captain the next era. Of course, to others, this starched figure smelled artificial, like new plastic. It was not certain if he desired to be this way to earn the respect of others or to drive them away, even he wasn’t entirely sure.
He looked back at the window. He’d swore he heard a tap or a thud, but he didn’t dare to move.
Nothing. He stood up from his chair and paced instead. Frustrating himself would do no good.
To many his nature is elusive, best characterized by eccentric genius. A man that loved numbers and computers, whose genius came at the familiar cost of poor social skills and many didn’t seek beyond assumptions. He merely was the way he was, frigid, arrogant and brilliant. People praised him, but none wanted to be him.
He stopped at the window again and looked out. Maybe he’d heard a tap, and he’d open the window and Marcy would crawl in with a plate and a smile. He sat back down in his chair, feeling troubled. Troubled him with a realized sense of sadness.
He resented many things. He resented himself. He found his shoulders too narrow, his body too scrawny. He could wrap his fingers round his thin wrist, and had avoided the reflection of his nude pale body in the mirror. His face was long and thin, his features pinched and built unpleasantly. He hated his amorphous androgyny, and feared being seen as being seen as anything close to womanly. He was too short, barely above 5’7, his upper lip always jutting out in bitterness. He had not inherited his father’s bulk, and he even found his fluff of blonde hair too feminine. He’d never dare to grow it long, and kept it stuck up, as if afraid of it touching his forehead. That’s why he’d never been able to catch the affections, or even be noticed by another woman. They laughed at him behind his back, knowing if they slipped a hand around his waist, they’d find a slenderness to rival their own. His attempts at romance were too embarrassing to recount again. The blurred mess of their memories burned the image of pity in his mind. Their eyes looking him up and down, no sign of attraction, no sign of passion. I’m sorry. They were disgusted by how he looked. Of course. He lacked any inherent lovability, in his sharp edges and cold touch, nobody could find desire in that. He was undesirable.
In a strange way, he sought to be even unpleasant, to prove himself that his isolation was voluntary. Well, they didn’t like him because he knew he was better than them. They couldn’t see his genius, and they were shallow. Maybe it was better that others didn’t like him. He always worked better alone. His insecurity morphed into his image. Of course he didn’t have much company with others because he preferred no company. He didn’t speak much because he had nothing to say. He never had a partner because he was completely devoted to his work. He loved math and numbers because he disliked dealing with people. He was above everyone, there was a reason he was separate.
His behavior was not a man ignorant of his image. He was secretly his worst critic. For he was too conscious of his insecurities, and instead chose to push them away deep down to fester. He knew, but refused to acknowledge these parts of himself even as they wove into the consciousness of his mind. He refused to acknowledge most of all the delicacy of his heart. He chose walls of steel, panels of numbers, finding kindred in the glaring lights of his lab rather than the world outside. He wished to become a machine of logic because he never could be one. He thought if he fooled everyone that he was frozen to the core, nobody would ever think to pity him. If he was predictable, logical and practical, then he would not see the use for human emotion.
But deep down, his heart was fragile and clear as glass. He was lonely. And as much he sought to eliminate weakness, he choked his heart. His achilles heel, he thought, even as his coldness burned with his sadness.
He was back on his computer, finally solving the problem. But he still was thinking of the window. It was quiet except for the clack of his keyboard and the soft humming of the machines. To him, it was the closest feeling to home.
On a fortunate afternoon, his friend, although he’d never refer to him as that, would be dancing around the room, peering at the strange gadgets, mulling over the open books and examining the foreign diagrams. He’d told him to call him Marcy, it was short for something, though he couldn’t remember what.
Marcy would look over to the empty coffee cups and chastise him. He often pulled late nights which in his friend’s eyes was too much. Was the necessity of his work worth the personal expense?
He was always busy, but Marcy figured if he picked the most interesting and curious object and brought it over, he’d be able to get him started. It would unfold in small degrees. What is this? What does it do? Why are you making it? What else are you doing with it? How did you make it? And so on and so on, and he’d pull out a sheet of paper and scribble over it. Then he’d lean back in his chair and think, pen resting on chin. When he was thoughtful like that, an unsuspecting happiness would creep over his face and he could read the gentle curl of his lips, the shine in his eye, vivid yet distant, tangled between the joy of numbers and functions and the quick pace of excitement in his blood.
When they first met, he was standoffish and aloof to him as he could’ve been to anyone. But his friend instinctually sensed something different about him. It wasn’t the titles, the money, the touted intellect, the bright shiny lab though it was all very amusing to him. He knew enough about the fallibility of institutions and reputations to not bend a hunch around them. What made him intriguing was a nearly there sensation- a feeling of a barely reached but in sight solidarity. He felt they didn’t share any in common, but that with time they would share many things, the most important things. He was attracted by the fact his personality was cut with sharp edges, daring lines, yet this boldness nestled something intimately deeper. Something of great worth. How he did know, it was beyond him.
With time, he was able to explore this instinct. One thing that became very apparent was that he was playing an act, pushing and pulling his personality to mold an image he desired for himself, an act far from natural. Around groups of people he was hopeless. Around his employees, he is barely passable. But alone was territory that his friend learned that he could begin to navigate. And slowly he was able to peel layers back.
First, his greatest love was work, but much more than that, he believed sincerely in the power of computers, more than any religion and greater than any set of lovers he’d met. And his friend sincerely expressed his observation to him as much as possible. When he’d passed the barriers of cynicism and caution, showing genuine interest in the computers he so deeply loved, he would swear that he’d been waiting his whole life to express this love. Even stone and ice would speak if they were allowed to have pen in hand, a screen propped open and the freedom to confess great intimacies with data systems.
His friend would particularly watch his face. It did not bother him to catch every word or to lose track of concepts, but the real beauty was watching him in action. The cold constraints of his stiff emotional range melted away, contemplation, excitement, confusion, joy, regret emerged beneath. His deep voice was clear and emotional. His eyes would soften, the curl of his lips as delicate and sensitive as silk, the curve of his jaw softened the way a master sculptor could make flesh out of stone. His shoulders squared and proud, the mimicry he’d attempted before a mere shadow for this was real pride that a man would have for his work and his devotion. This bled beyond his work into his relationship with him. He shared small things about himself. Frustration at an unforgiving contractor. He carefully shared his curated figure collection and when met with his friend’s recognition and coincidental interest in the show he recognized in the characters, he expounded upon the technology, the colorful aliens, the exciting space battles. If he was particularly off on it, he could spend minutes ranting, shaking a pen-clenching fist, attacking the janky power system. But his friend would point out, he must’ve loved the slender bust of Grace, his favorite character, if he bothered with the show. And he’d blush a deep red, aghast and denying and his friend would laugh.
His friend loved that he was broadly candid. Marcy remembered when they sat shoulder to shoulder, and he remarked that he found his face attractive, but his hair too “muddy”. Marcy found him to be honest, but never brutal, and he came to trust his opinion more than anyone else. He never lied, or said anything against his conscience. Fussing with niceties confused him and found such things disingenuous and deleterious. Why pretend to like someone if it fooled them into thinking you two were good friends? Why smile at a boss you hated? He eyed everything with a critical precision, and if given the space, he’d dole out his comprehensive assessment. Usually he spiked it with a bit of dark spite, but he’d admitted to himself that he blunted his words for Marcy. If he gave him the space to express himself, he wouldn’t sow the ground with poison. But he wouldn’t lie, though it was very easy to align with the truth. He liked the color of his eyes, a pretty sky blue. He liked his cookies, even when slightly burned. He liked that his hands were warm and how he smiled. He liked the slight British of his voice, and the rich tenor when he sang. He liked that he was upbeat and that he leaned in when he talked. When Marcy asked him if he liked being around him, he thought of how wonderful that in his mind that he'd miraculously come to befriend him, the fuss of introductions and formalities having long passed.
“Usually, except when you’re being annoying.” And Marcy would reach over and squeeze him on the shoulder and something else tightened that wasn’t physical, laughing. It was as if his soul would tighten, breathless, astonished, baffled. Then he’d let go, and he could breathe again, but somehow felt worse without it. He sought this sensation so fervently that he astonished himself with his own masochism. Somehow Marcy made him feel infinitely restless, as if something beautiful existed outhere and he wanted to jump out of the building to find it, comb the bushes outside, the desire to find it so powerful that he was almost compelled to drop everything. Maybe he was a bit untruthful: he still liked him, even when he was annoying. His hair wasn’t really “muddy” , more of a wavy sandy brown like the shores of a northern beach. The thought of admitting that embarrassed him so much. He liked his hair, and he’d look down and take Marcy’s hand, because he had such nice hands, they were so warm. He’d pull him close, and he’d summon all of the meager rations of his charisma, clear his throat and ask him if he’d wrap his arm around him forever. He’d do anything to see him laugh everyday, even if he would need to make a fool of himself. If he were to claim faith in anything, it’d be in Marcy’s soul, for he didn’t know anything better that complemented his own. He would be devoted, never cruel, even if he was one of his moods, he’d never try to hurt him. No, he couldn’t say that, he may as well wave a red flag. He was now acutely aware that on the flip end, it was dubious he’d be met with reciprocation. Did Marcysmile and laugh the way he did with others? Of course, of course. And yet Marcy was the only one he’d spill his glass heart for. He wished he was the only man he’d smile for, and then felt guilty. How selfish. He wanted to know if he was not alone in feeling they shared something uniquely theirs, that the intimacy and understanding wasn’t a delusion. Because he wasn’t deluding himself. He was warm, and he’d give anything, even if it was all worthless in Marcy’s eyes.
He liked him, unless he was annoying. And Marcy would smile, and he couldn’t bring himself but to smirk. Don’t feel so smug, he’d tell him next time. Don’t feel so smug. And he’d lean in close, touching shoulders.
Maybe he could text him, see if he was available. Make it casual, flippant. He shifted in his chair, tightened his belt and smoothed out the wrinkles of his shirt. He reached for his coffee, but the cup was empty. He was waiting for the data to compile, and maybe he could spare some time.
Don’t feel so smug. He recited that to himself. He recited it until he was certain he’d examined every last syllable for optimum delivery. He traced the inherent cleverness and subtly, reminding himself of his own greatness. Don’t feel so smug. Marcy would blink then smile.
He sent it. His body was positively electrified, though from the outside, he lazily dropped the phone back on the table. He only was struck with one blinking persistent thought in the tumbling waves of his mind, that of Marcy climbing in through the window. He stood up, already knowing where he was going next.