A Romantic

图片取自 River City Reading

  I told Finn once. We were at an exhibit of sixteenth-century Turkish ceramics at the Met. Were standing in front of these intricately painted blue and white candleholders, and I was telling him exactly how my house would be one day. Finn turned to me, smiling, his eyes bluer than ever, and he said, "You're a romantic, June."

  I was standing close to Finn, right up next to him so I wouldn't miss a word of what he knew about the exhibit. At once I stepped away and blushed so hard I could barely breathe. It felt like all the blood in my body had swum up to my face, leaving the skin around my heart completely transparent.

  "Am not," I said as fast as I could. I kept my face turned away, scared Finn would see how embarrassed I was. Terrified he'd be able to read every weird thought I'd ever had.

  When I finally glanced back, I saw him giving me a funny look. Just for a second. A little flash of worry shot across his face. Then he smiled, like he was trying to cover it up.

  "A romantic, you barnacle, not lovey-dover romantic." He leaned over like he was about to nudge my shoulder with his, but then he puled away.

  "What's the difference?" I asked cautiously.

  "Being a romantic means you always see what's beautiful. What's good. You don't want to see the gritty truth of things. You believe everything will turn out right."

  I breathed out. That wasn't so bad. I felt the blood ease away from my face.

  "Well, what about you?" I dare to ask Finn. "Are you a romantic?"

  Finn thought about it. He looked right at me, squinting, like he was trying to see into my future. That's what it felt like. Then he said, "Sometimes. Sometimes I am and sometimes I'm not."

Tell the Wolves I'm Home, P123~124
Carol Rifka Brunt
ISBN 978-0-679-64419-4

Mak Xiao Wei(2014.04.20)>>[当周脸书帖子]>>




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