Page:Jay Little - Maybe—Tomorrow.pdf/73



GAYLORD SPENT A FULL HOUR IN his bathroom patiently performing his toilet. There was within him a kind of warm luxuriance and it glowed about him. There's no one like Bob, he thought. The sound of his voice, the expression in his eyes, the way he walked, all made him feel that he had had a momentary glimpse into another world. Everyone else seemed intolerably dull, even contemptible.

The evening had settled swiftly and the sun had gone long ago. A cool little breeze had sprung through the open windows and struck his cheeks.

He wondered if Blake was thinking of him now, and he felt sure that he must be. No man could kiss like that and forget. The kiss if nothing else, he thought, would make him remember … draw him back to his arms in spite of himself.

He mumbled to himself as he searched for his favorite cologne, and on finding it, raised it against his cheek. It stung. He powdered his face again to erase the redness. Over each eyebrow he then ran a moist finger. I don't think I've got too much powder on, he pondered. He did look pale, but it was night and wouldn't show.

He was happy and spoke to his reflection. "You look okay, Gaylord Le Claire … I'm glad you noticed my complexion, Mr. Robert Blake … I'm glad I don't have any blackheads … you don't either … you've got the most beautiful face I've ever seen … yes you have too."

He turned out the light and stepped from the bathroom. Went to his dresser and stuck a clean handkerchief in his pocket. Then surveyed himself in the mirrored door. 63