Call me by your name - One Shots

One

Later!

Yes, later I will tell my children about this wonderful piece of earth that I was allowed to call my home for a summer. Not from the short trip to Sicily in early summer, but from my stay with the Perlmans. It's only my third night here, hard to believe because everyone treats me like family. But that's the way it is, the Italian mentality.
The domestic workers also seem to be part of the family, as is their 17-year-old son.
I envy him and at the same time I feel sorry for him because he doesn't seem to know how well he's had it in life. Okay, he has to vacate his room for me and he tells me he does it summer after summer, but there are far worse things his parents could ask of him. In addition, I think that I am quite a pleasant guest. We won't have many points of contact as I didn't come here to make friends for life, especially with a 17 year old.
However, he seems to be very bored or he just didn't want to tell me what he really does all day besides reading, swimming and waiting for the summer to pass. He was polite and courteous, offered to show me a jogging route, but I brushed him off so he could go and see his friends. He certainly doesn't want to play tour guide for his father's summer guest, although he doesn't strike me as the typical teenager. I got the impression he wanted me to like him when he offered to help me. Perhaps, over the past few summers, he has found something to enjoy looking after the new guests. Or is he genuinely interested in me personally?

I don't know what I was expecting because the real version pushed the preconceived notions out of my mind. But the fact is that I didn't give the Perlmans' son much thought until I arrived, just hoping I wouldn't have to babysit. I can't explain why my thoughts keep wandering back to him. I can't make sense of him, maybe because he's as educated as the rest of the family, or because my jetlag got to me more than I would have liked the first few days.

Now he sits next to me at dinner and talks like hell about Hayden and the play he's transcribing. He talks so fast and so passionately, I wish he would slow down because I can hardly follow him. His cheeks are red, he's probably excited and suddenly something stirs in me too. Something I haven't felt in years. I avert my eyes for a moment and look at the plate in front of me. I don't know what's wrong with me.
Then I look at him again, look at his lips, which are constantly moving and slightly stained with wine. I like the color they usually are. But when did I realize that? Since when do I watch the color of a teenager's lips?
A crumb sticks to the corner of his mouth and I barely resist the temptation to wipe it away, instead wiping my face with the napkin. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead and upper lip. I need to keep my hands busy before they do something I later regret, so I unbutton my shirt a little further.

Now he's gesturing wildly with his hands and even though everyone in his family is doing it, I can't take my eyes off his long fingers. What else does he do with these hands, apart from eliciting the most beautiful tones from the piano in the next room. Maybe I should excuse myself, go out and get some fresh air, it's so terribly hot in here. I probably got too much sun today. Yes it must be, it's probably sunstroke. Or it's because the kitchen door is open and draws heat from the stove into the dining room. Mafalda, the housekeeper, had left it open. She's just as much of a mystery to me as the delicate-featured boy next to me, although I'm actually good at reading people.

I look at the others, but they all continue to eat, only listening casually. Has he told all this before, or why are they hardly showing any interest? Am I showing too much interest? I'm the only one who stopped eating and of course Elio.
Elio, "shining like the sun", derived from ancient Greek. He outshines everyone at the table, but no one seems to notice. He's coming to the end of his talk, I want to ask him to continue, but I can't think of a question. It's not my area of ​​expertise. Then he falls silent and I look away as quickly as I can. God, was I staring at him the whole time? Did anyone notice? I'm shocked at myself and put on a serious expression, just don't grin stupidly now. I look over at him and at that moment he is looking at me too. A slight smile is on his lips, but then his facial features become serious. I can see it in his eyes, which just offered me to sink into them, but now he's closed. Block me, what did I expect?!

I apologize with a "later", take the bike. Confused by all the feelings, I drive to Crema. What is wrong with me? With only one thought on my mind and numb, I sit down at the nearest bar. I order something hard, but the alcohol doesn't drive the images of Elio out of my head. His curly brown hair, his mouth from which so many witty things come, his eyes which are a mixture of green and brown and are just as mysterious as his gaze; inquisitive and the next moment shy and vulnerable. The next two whiskeys don't change my condition either, they just make it worse.
"The signorina over there has been paying her attention the whole time", the man behind the counter says to me, but I don't even turn around. Instead, my thoughts wander back to the boy with the filigree physique, whose voice will not let me go and whose invitation to go jogging together I should never have turned down, because then I would have had the words that came out of his mouth only for me. Then all of a sudden I realize it. It is like it is. Why deny it any longer?

I just want Elio, Elio, Elio!