“Did i have a spot?” he asked with a half grin. “You’ll always have a spot.” I wanted to tell him that the pool, the garden, the house, the tennis court, the orle of paradise, the whole space, would always be his ghost spot. Instead, i pointed upstairs to the French windows of his room. Your eyes are forever there, i wanted to say, trapped in the sheer curtains, staring out from my bedroom upstairs where no one sleeps these days. When there’s a breeze and they swell and i look up from down here or stand outside on the balcony, i’ll catch myself thinking that you’re in there, staring out from your world to my world, saying, as you did on that night when i found you on the rock, i’ve been happy here. You’re thousands of miles away but no sooner do i look at this window than i’ll think of a bathing suit, a shirt thrown on on the fly, arms resting on the banister, and you’re suddenly there, lighting up your first cigarette of the day
— twenty years ago today. For as long as the house stands, this will be your ghost spot
and mine too, i wanted to say.
“It would never have occurred to him that in placing the apricot in my palm he was giving me his ass to hold or that, in biting the fruit, I was also biting into that part of his body that must have been fairer than the rest because it never apricated—and near it, if I dared to bite that far, his apricock.” - André Aciman
Later - An Ode to Oliver (and what he likes to eat)