Aristotle and Dante

“I’m sentimental.” “Sure you are.”

On the inside I was more like Dante. That really scared me.

“How would she know?” “I don’t know. But I bet she knows.” “You’re making me paranoid.” “Good.”

“I was just thinking of you,” he said. “Yeah?”

That afternoon, I learned two new words. “Inscrutable.” And “friend.”

Dante’s hands were bigger than my mother’s. And softer. He was slow, methodical, careful. He made me feel as fragile as porcelain.

Did I ever tell you what my favorite painting is? It’s The Raft of the Medusa by Géricault.

I got the flu and I feel terrible and I also feel terrible inside.

This is what I wrote: I learned how to swim this summer. No, that’s not true. Someone taught me. Dante. I tore out the page.

People talk to dogs. Not that they understand. But maybe they understand enough.

“Hijo de mi corazon, I’ll tell you a secret. You help me bear it. You help me bear all my losses. You, Ari.”

“Hey!” Dante yelled, “Stop that!” He was halfway across the street before I realized what was happening. I ran after him.

Dante and I were cursed with parents who cared. Why couldn’t they just leave us alone?

Maybe kissing was part of the human condition. Maybe I wasn’t human.

Dante kept more secrets than I thought.

It’s true what they say that every guy should have a dog. Gina says every boy is a dog.

I mean, you’re pretty normal. At least, you’re more normal than me.

I tried to picture Dante with short hair. I tried to imagine him kissing a girl.

“I’m worried about the both of you,” she said. “You should have coffee with my mother,” I said. “You can worry together.”

“Is it hard to love him?” “No.” She didn’t even hesitate. “Do you understand him?” “Not always. But Ari, I don’t always have to understand the people I love.”