[31] A Poet's Pride

Ethan and I had finished up our laundry and were headed out of the room with our baskets full of clean clothes. As we passed the main lobby, I saw that guy again -the same one I bumped into this morning before Practical Two. He sat with another wielder, on chairs leaning against the wall adjacent to the glass doors, and they were talking incessantly. I noticed him holding the same journal with the writings on its covers, and I'd reached the conclusion that I was simply dying to look at it properly.

“Ethan, wait,” I stopped him. He looked in the same direction I was gazing into, and for a moment he wheezed in disbelief.

“Him?” He said, “I don't see what's so good about him, I mean clearly he’s gay, Faye.”

“No, No, Ethan not him,” I stressed, disregarding his comment. “The book. Look at the book.”