Talker's Graduation Read Online Free PDF Page A

generally better at the school
    game. But he had the attention span of a butterfly on crack-cocaine
    and the staying power of a hummingbird on meth. He‟d taken
    classes—a full load every semester—and he‟d passed them. But it
    hadn‟t been until this last year, when Brian had dragged him to the
    evaluator‟s office, that he realized his dilemma. If he wanted to
    graduate with anything, he was going to have to go to school for
    another three years, and his scholarship would run out at the end of
    this one.
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    But it was more than that; it was more than how close Brian
    was to graduating and how much he enjoyed having the extra time
    to do his homework. It was that Brian loved sculpting, loved it with a
    passion and enthusiasm that Talker had only seen Brian put into
    him. Hell, a year ago, Talker would have been hard put to
    remember what Brian‟s major was—and Talker had loved the guy,
    even when they hadn‟t been a couple. But Brian never talked about
    his classes, ever. He was going to get a degree in computers, but
    Talker couldn‟t remember if it was hardware or software or
    engineering or design or what. Brian couldn‟t remember either. All
    Talker could get from him was a vague notion of having enough
    stability to be able to afford shoes and car insurance, and Talker
    knew that when Brian had been a kid living with his Aunt Lyndie,
    those things had been iffy.
    But sculpting… God. Talker knew more about clay and artists
    and technique and drawbacks and kilns and glazes and…
    everything than he would‟ve ever thought possible, because Brian
    brought it home and got excited about it and… Jesus. It made the
    guy actually talk.
    Talker had the feeling that Brian could have waited tables for
    his entire life, and had the same enthusiasm for that job that he had
    for what he was studying in college. It had occurred to him, not for
    the first time, that Brian might have fallen into college in the same
    way he‟d fallen into women‟s beds for most of his life: That was
    what people expected, so that‟s just what he did.
    It wasn‟t the same with sculpting. With sculpting, Brian
    became the master of his passion, and did that translate into his
    time with Tate?
    Hell yeah.
    So Mark Orenbacher was a perv and a skeeze and he wanted
    Brian so bad his dick practically made sonar noises whenever
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    25

    Brian‟s tight little ass walked by. So the fuck what. If Talker couldn‟t
    trust Brian enough to stick to his art and not grope some random
    skeezy fucking perv, then what good was the living together, the
    surviving together, the living on Top Ramen and laughter and faith?
    Not very fucking much, was it?
    “No,” Tate said, mumbling but sincere. “Don‟t quit. Just make
    sure he knows your ass is mine.”
    Brian had smiled, a little embarrassed. “Really, Talker, who
    else would it belong to?”
    Tate had been appeased—but not all the demons were set to
    rest. There was the knowledge that someone else wanted what
    Tate had always thought of as his and his alone. Tate had been
    Brian‟s doorway out of the closet; he‟d been Brian‟s first and only
    crush. Brian had told him about trying to kiss other men, and how
    the kisses had been hot—better than with women—but that they
    hadn‟t gone anywhere because they hadn‟t been Talker. Tate had
    been proud of that. He was special—Brian thought he was special.
    If Brian strayed, got talked into skeezy perv Orenbacher‟s bed
    when he was weak or tired, Tate could understand and even
    forgive that—but he didn‟t think he could take it if Brian didn‟t think
    he was special anymore.
    So he put up with the late nights (no later than restaurant
    work, he told himself) and he put up with clay all over Brian‟s
    clothes (but that didn‟t stop him from getting Brian an apron for his
    birthday) and he put up with his horrible, horrible fantasies of
    skeezy perv Mark Orenbacher