Here was someone who lacked for nothing. I couldn’t understand this feeling. I envied him.
“Oliver, are you sleeping?” I would ask when the air by the pool had grown oppressively torpid and quiet.
Silence.
Then his reply would come, almost a sigh, without a single muscle moving in his body. “I was.”
“Sorry.”
That foot in the water—I could have kissed every toe on it. Then kissed his ankles and his knees. How often had I stared at his bathing suit while his hat was covering his face? He couldn’t possibly have known what I was looking at.
Or:
“Oliver, are you sleeping?”
Long silence.
“No. Thinking.”
“About what?”
His toes flicking the water.
“About Heidegger’s10 interpretation of a fragment by Heraclitus.”
Or, when I wasn’t practicing the guitar and he wasn’t listening to his headphones, still with his straw hat flat on his face, he would suddenly break the silence:
“Elio.”
“Yes?”
“What are you doing?”
“Reading.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Thinking, then.”
“About?”
I was dying to tell him.
“Private,” I replied.
“So you won’t tell me?”
“So I won’t tell you.”
“So he won’t tell me,” he repeated, pensively, as if explaining to someone about me.
这是一个没有缺憾感的人。我无法了解这种感觉。我羡慕他。
“奥利弗，你睡着了吗？”当游泳池畔的空气变得愈发安静逼人的时候，我会问他。
沉默。
接着传来他的回答，几乎像一声叹息，好似浑身没有一块肌肉运动。“是啊。”
“抱歉。”
他那泡在水里的脚——我原本能亲吻每一根脚趾头，吻他的脚踩和膝盖。他拿帽子遮住脸时，我盯着他泳裤看的频率有多高？他不可能知道我在看什么。
或者，我问：“奥利弗，你睡着了？”
长久的沉默。
“没有，在思考。”
“思考什么？”
他动动脚趾轻轻打水。
“思考海德格尔对赫拉克利特某段文字的诠释。”
或者，当我不练习吉他，他也不听耳机的时候，依旧用草帽遮住脸的他会突然打破沉默。
“艾里奥。”
“嗯？”
“你在做什么？”
“读书。”
“不，你才没有。”
“不然，在思考。”
“思考什么？”
我多想告诉他啊。
“私事。”我回答。
“所以你不告诉我？”
“所以我不告诉你。”
“所以他不告诉我。”他重复着，看起来忧心忡忡，仿佛向某个人解释我的事。
“Oliver, are you sleeping?” I would ask when the air by the pool had grown oppressively torpid and quiet.
Silence.
Then his reply would come, almost a sigh, without a single muscle moving in his body. “I was.”
“Sorry.”
That foot in the water—I could have kissed every toe on it. Then kissed his ankles and his knees. How often had I stared at his bathing suit while his hat was covering his face? He couldn’t possibly have known what I was looking at.
Or:
“Oliver, are you sleeping?”
Long silence.
“No. Thinking.”
“About what?”
His toes flicking the water.
“About Heidegger’s10 interpretation of a fragment by Heraclitus.”
Or, when I wasn’t practicing the guitar and he wasn’t listening to his headphones, still with his straw hat flat on his face, he would suddenly break the silence:
“Elio.”
“Yes?”
“What are you doing?”
“Reading.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Thinking, then.”
“About?”
I was dying to tell him.
“Private,” I replied.
“So you won’t tell me?”
“So I won’t tell you.”
“So he won’t tell me,” he repeated, pensively, as if explaining to someone about me.
这是一个没有缺憾感的人。我无法了解这种感觉。我羡慕他。
“奥利弗，你睡着了吗？”当游泳池畔的空气变得愈发安静逼人的时候，我会问他。
沉默。
接着传来他的回答，几乎像一声叹息，好似浑身没有一块肌肉运动。“是啊。”
“抱歉。”
他那泡在水里的脚——我原本能亲吻每一根脚趾头，吻他的脚踩和膝盖。他拿帽子遮住脸时，我盯着他泳裤看的频率有多高？他不可能知道我在看什么。
或者，我问：“奥利弗，你睡着了？”
长久的沉默。
“没有，在思考。”
“思考什么？”
他动动脚趾轻轻打水。
“思考海德格尔对赫拉克利特某段文字的诠释。”
或者，当我不练习吉他，他也不听耳机的时候，依旧用草帽遮住脸的他会突然打破沉默。
“艾里奥。”
“嗯？”
“你在做什么？”
“读书。”
“不，你才没有。”
“不然，在思考。”
“思考什么？”
我多想告诉他啊。
“私事。”我回答。
“所以你不告诉我？”
“所以我不告诉你。”
“所以他不告诉我。”他重复着，看起来忧心忡忡，仿佛向某个人解释我的事。
