- - -
They really were the perfect pair of shorts – chestnut brown, pleated, and eye-catchingly small. Arik tailored them to hit his mid-thigh, knowing they would look even shorter once he sat down. Combined with his white shirt and long socks, he looked like an unusually tall child. A priest would like that, yes? Did Benedikt like that? Arik wracked his brain for times when Benedikt looked at other men for a little too long and came up short. This is pointless, Arik thought, but his crush was strong enough to push the thought away.
Arik glanced at the clock on top of his dresser. Damnit, he didn’t have enough time to think about anything else. Arik made a knot in his shoelaces, slapped his cap on his head, and bolted out the door, stopping only to grab a letter sitting in his mailbox. He wouldn’t have bothered if he hadn’t seen the name on the envelope.
- - - - - - -
Father Benedikt Veidt sat on the steps of the rectory, scratching Jäger behind the ears. The large grey tomcat rubbed his fluffy head against the priest’s knee and purred appreciatively. There was a fine layer of grey fur on the bottom of Benedikt’s cassock.
Benedikt looked up as he heard footsteps approaching from down the street. Jäger bolted away, startled by the noise, but Benedikt stood and watched as Arik approached. Benedikt’s hair had gotten long enough that he needed to tie it back in a tiny ponytail, all the grey collected in one small puff. His hazel eyes looked Arik up and down.
“Are you alright?” He asked, concerned.
“I’m fine.” Arik wheezed as he caught his breath.
“Slow down.” Father Veidt chided him. “You’re not late.”
“I thought I would be.”
“I’m glad you’re not.”
Arik smiled. Benedikt glanced down at Arik's feet.
"Your shoes are untied." He said.
"Oh."
Benedikt bent down with a grunt and carefully tied a bow in the laces of Arik's shoe. Arik flushed. He wanted to tell Benedikt no or that it was unnecessary, but the truth was, Arik never learned how to tie a bow properly. Their height difference was so obvious now and yet Arik always felt small in the priest’s presence, especially once Benedikt stood back up.
"Let's go." He said. Arik tried to place his hand on Benedikt's arm, but Benedikt pulled away and started walking down the street. They chatted quietly as they made their way towards the river. Arik’s chattiness overcompensated for his sense of smallness – he laughed and rambled and secretly tried to find a way to touch Benedikt without looking desperate. The priest nodded and smiled; the same way he’d done it a hundred times before. Arik tried not to look so annoyed by this fact.
“I have this idea for a poem.” Arik said. “It’s from the perspective of Louis XVII’s ghost talking about being invisible and growing up while he’s watching the French Revolution take place.”
“Who?” Benedikt asked.
“He was Marie Antoinette’s son.”
“Oh.” Benedikt said, still confused.
“Do you know anything about Marie Antoinette?”
“It wasn’t a topic we learned about at the orphanage.”
“Oh, right.” Arik said. “Well, Louis XVII accused his mom, the Queen, of molestation and then he was taken away and kept in a cage and neglected until he died when he was ten. I thought, if he did survive, but he’s invisible, what would he think about France and life and everything? Imagine if he’s growing up and all around him life is happening, but he can’t interact with it, he can only watch as he himself grows old. One cage into another cage. I want the poem to capture that irony.”
“Why would he grow old if he’s a ghost?”
“Poetic license.”
Benedikt chuckled.
They finally reached the small walking path along the Spree. It was noisier here – a group of students in sleeveless shirts and small shorts jogged together, guided by a teacher shouting orders. The two men stepped aside and let the group run as a unit. Arik checked to see if Benedikt was looking at them and accidentally caught Benedikt looking at him.
“What?” Arik asked.
Benedikt shook his head.
“Nothing.” He said with a slight smile.
They continued walking, but now they were quiet. The sound of runners faded into the distance, replaced by the sound of boats passing along the river and the occasional chattering couple. Arik’s head felt strangely empty. What did he want to talk about?
“What happened to the last poem you wrote?” Benedikt asked. “Did you hear back from Billetdoux?”
“Oh, yeah!” Arik remembered the letter in his pocket. “I just got their response.”
Arik sat down on the grassy edge of the river and opened the envelope.
- - - - - - -
Dear Mr. Zigman,
Thank you for submitting your work to Billetdoux. We have decided to pass on this piece, as it does not fit the theme of our literary magazine. Please continue practicing your poetry skills. Good luck with your future endeavours.
- - - - - - -
“I’m sorry.” Benedikt said. He sat next to Arik on the grass, reading over Arik’s shoulder. Arik sighed and crumpled up the rejection letter.
“Damnit.” He muttered.
“There will be others.”
“Yeah, but…” Arik’s voice trailed off and he sighed again.
“It was a very dismissive letter.”
“They could have been nicer.” Arik murmured. He stared at his lap and his bare thighs, now exposed to the sunlight. Benedikt placed his hand on Arik’s knee and patted it gently. Arik stared at Benedikt’s wrinkled hands, at the scars on his fingers, at the way the thin digits pressed against the blonde hair on Arik’s leg.
“I’m so sorry.” Benedikt said.
“Thank you.” Arik smiled and rested against the black wool of Benedikt’s cassock. Benedikt’s hand slid up Arik’s leg until it rested against the hemline of Arik’s shorts.
- - -