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ton of stone dropped through the bottom of the punt.
    We got up as far as the Bridge of Sighs before we thought we ought to turn back. Larry said the bridge was named after a famous one in Venice, and that he’d take me to see it one day. The one in Venice, he meant. But I know people often say they’re going to do stuff for you when they don’t really mean it, so I didn’t get my hopes up or nothing.
    After we took the punt back, we had our picnic up by Trinity College. It’s really pretty there, with trees leaning down into the water like they’re having a drink. Larry had a bit of a headache, so we sat in the shade of one of them. There was lots of students around, reading books and eating sandwiches. Lots of them had their bikes with them, just lying on the ground ’cause there was nothing to stand them up against. “It must be great, being clever,” I said, ’cause I’ve often thought that.
    Larry smiled, though he had his eyes closed. He’d finished eating and was lying down, with his jacket rolled up as a pillow, getting all crumpled. “It’s all relative, you know. And being clever academically doesn’t mean you’re any good at other things.”
    I don’t know about that. I think you need to be clever for most things. Except maybe seeing that it’s good to be clever. I think maybe that’s easier if you’re not clever. “Like what?” I asked.
    “Oh, you know. Life. People. The important stuff.”
    I thought about that for a bit. I wanted to ask Larry what he meant by the important stuff, but his breathing sounded like it was getting slower, and his nose sort of twitched like he was about to make one of those snuffly noises he makes while he’s asleep. So I kept quiet and leaned back on my elbows, looking at the trees and the river and Larry, and I thought about how glad I was I’d walked him home that night we met.

Chapter Three

    Once I’d sketched Larry, I wanted to do a proper painting of him. It was kind of difficult to choose what pose, but I went for the one where he’s all sprawled out on the rug. You can see his cock just resting on his thigh, like a little animal that’s gone to sleep. I like seeing him like that, ’cause I know I’m the one that’s going to wake him up.
    I like waking Larry up with a kiss. Only, you know, it’s not always his mouth I kiss him on.
    I think Larry likes that too.
    I didn’t let Larry see the painting of him until it was finished. And then I pretended it wasn’t finished for a while longer, ’cause I was worried he mightn’t like it. But then I thought, this is crazy, I got to get this over with, so when he came home from work one day, I dragged him straight up the stairs to look at it.
    Larry was laughing and saying, “Al, could I at least put my briefcase down? Maybe change my shoes?” And then he saw my picture of him, and he didn’t say nothing for a really long time. I was shitting myself. I thought he hated it. I thought he’d never let me paint him again, and if I couldn’t do that, I didn’t want to paint nothing ever again.
    But then he just grabbed me and held me with his face in my chest, and when he looked up again his eyes were all shiny. “How did you…? No, don’t try and tell me—words would just cheapen it.” I was glad he said that, ’cause I’m not that good with words. I thought he was going to cry, but he was smiling too, so I guessed he didn’t hate it too much. “Is this really how you see me?”
    “’S what you look like,” I said, only I guess I kind of mumbled it.
    “You have to do more of these,” Larry said. It sounded like he wanted me to do them right now. “Not of me, though.” He smiled sort of funny. “Will you hate me if I ask you not to show this one?” I thought that was a daft question. I couldn’t never hate Larry even if I tried. “I almost hate myself,” he said, “But it’s just too…too private. It’s wonderful, Al—really wonderful. You need to do more paintings like