Timothy by Greg Herren Page B

something I wish more people I knew possessed.” He laughed and led me out of the store. “So, why don’t you tell me what your dream is? Or is that too personal to share with a stranger?”
    I turned my head as we walked down the sidewalk so he couldn’t see the sudden tears that filled my eyes. No one had ever asked me before—not my father; no one had ever cared enough about me to ask—and at that moment I felt like I was, indeed, someone to be pitied. I was just a dumb kid from Kansas with a miserable job living in a miserable little apartment with a miserable boss who treated me terribly. I was no closer to making my dreams come true than I had been a year earlier when I first arrived in New York.
    â€œHave I upset you?” he asked, concern in his tone. “I didn’t mean to, and I’m sorry. I really did just want to know.”
    I took a deep breath and gave him a tentative smile. “No, you didn’t upset me. I’m the one who’s sorry, Mr. Romaniello. I’ve taken terrible advantage of your kindness.”
    He reached over and brushed a tear away from my right eye. “Now, Church Mouse, why would someone being kind to you make you cry?” He took me by the hands and turned me so that I was facing him, looking up into his brown eyes. “I’m enjoying myself. I’m enjoying your company. I can’t remember the last time—” A shadow crossed his face briefly, and I knew what he was remembering. He took a moment to get hold of himself, and went on, “Unfortunately, I have a dinner engagement I can’t get out of—but with Valerie sick, you’re free now tomorrow, aren’t you? Why don’t you spend the day with me again? And you can tell me all about your dreams.” He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “What’s your cell phone number?” I gave it to him, and he punched it into his phone. My phone started ringing, and I stored his number.
    â€œThank you for today,” I said. I was really sorry to have the day end, and realistic enough to know I’d probably never see him again.
    He took my hand and pressed it. “It was my pleasure, Church Mouse.” He hailed a cab and waved as it pulled away.
    As I walked back to the hotel, I found myself whistling.

Chapter Three
    I spent the evening in my room and ordered dinner from room service while a series of documentaries on the History Channel played on the television. I wasn’t watching, of course—I was sitting up in my bed, with a book open in my lap, replaying the events of the day over and over again with a smile on my face. I remembered the sound of his laugh, the way the corners of his eyes wrinkled up when he was smiling, the way his dark eyes twinkled when he teased me. At one point I did an image search, dragging the images off websites onto my laptop’s desktop. He was so handsome—and I would compare his face to Timothy’s. Carlo was handsomer than Timothy, I decided, because Carlo’s looks were real. Carlo looked like a handsome man you might see in a coffee shop, or pass on the street, or see across the room in a restaurant. Timothy, on the other hand, had an almost unreal beauty—almost cold, like some marble statue of a god you’d see in a museum. Remote, distant, and untouchable, there was a quality of almost smug disdain in Timothy’s eyes as he posed for the cameras, a sense he was thinking, Worship me, you mere mortals! You can look but you can never touch, you can dream about me but you will never have me.
    I much preferred Carlo’s looks.
    I allowed myself to indulge in fantasies, fantasies where Carlo fell in love with me and took me away from my life and made me a part of his world—but we were so content with each other that we didn’t need parties and play premieres, or to be around other people. We simply basked in each other’s company, and I wondered what it