CXIII
After a long—and cold—shower, sitting on the edge of his bed, Henry feels at least a little more capable of organizing his thoughts.
Specifically, the ideas concerning that dream.
To begin with, he can analyze the real situation from which it started: Angela's audacity. While, logically, Henry is not ignorant of what human attraction entails—and therefore understands that the girl's repulsive thoughts and desires are normal—he cannot say that he has ever experienced it. Consequently, her actions were nothing more than offensive to him because they translated into a lack of respect for his personal space. But to feel something? To cause him some kind of reaction? He would have found it just as offensive if she had hugged him or held his hand.
The 'kiss'—a generous name for an unrequited and undesired gesture—therefore, meant nothing; a slight pressure on the lips that could have perfectly been any kind of friction.
No, Henry is above those carnal gestures, and for that reason it meant nothing nor did anything to him.
But that wasn't the case with Eleven.
He sighs and rests his elbows on his knees, clasped hands pressed against his mouth.
He could argue that he can't measure the dream in the same terms as reality: for one thing, the physicality of the act will never equal the expectations created by the mind. So, it is logical, he supposes, that in this case he did feel something.
Yes. It is logical that this was the case.
And, although the question would seem to be resolved by following that train of thought...
Why did I dream about that in the first place?
If it had been a dream about Angela, he could have attributed it to a simple repetition of events; however, his subconscious chose to take a real incident and transform it into something different, into something…
Something… I wanted?
Henry lets out a nervous laugh. Something he wanted? Wanting Eleven? She's but a kid! His equal, yes, but still too young, still too naïve…
And, again, critical as he is and willing to play devil's advocate, Henry cannot help but notice that he has chosen to impose an apparently moral obstacle on an issue that should have been settled from the start by claiming his disinterest in matters as trivial as love or attraction.
Finally, he decides that he cannot blame his conscience for rantings that his mind has chosen to pursue when unconscious.
Yes.
That is the appropriate response.
After some time, this dream and other ridiculous notions will be forgotten.
After some time…
The sound of knuckles rapping against the door brings him out of his reverie.
"Are you coming down for lunch? I'm waiting for you…"
He gulps. He can't keep her waiting.
"I'm coming, Eleven."
After lunch, Eleven offers to wash the dishes. Henry responds with barely a nod. Although at first he fears that she will question his silence, he notices that she, too, seems to have quite a bit on her mind. Although he would like to inquire about it—as is his habit—he decides that it is best to take things easy right now.
"Henry?" Eleven suddenly tells him. "Would you mind if I went to Mike's?"
"Aren't you seeing him at school tomorrow?" He makes a grimace at how crude his words sounded. "Sorry, I didn't mean—"
"No, no, you're right." Eleven offers him a tired smile. "But there is something I want to talk to him about, and I… I would like to do it today."
How he despises Mike Wheeler. However, he simply nods and glances at the phone. "Call him; if he's home, I can take you."
"It is no problem? I don't want to bother you on a Sunday…"
"Not at all, not at all."
A call later, Eleven lets him know that they can leave as soon as she takes a quick shower.
Henry keeps the smile on his face during the exact time it takes her to turn around. Then he collapses on the couch.
How he hates Mike Wheeler.