Tomasz Jedrowski

“They know that I’m . . .” I couldn’t face her eyes, couldn’t say it. Had
never said it to anyone. Not even to myself. It felt like jumping over a five-
meter wall.
“Tell me,” she said gently, her weightless hand on my shoulder again.
“Go on. Don’t be scared.”
I almost crumbled. I took on the words again, as if they had fallen to the
floor. I picked them up, lifted them, tried to push them over the threshold,
like something immensely heavy that could crush me.
“I’m a . . .” I tried and failed under her gaze.
It was the same feeling, the same pulling to and fro, one feels when
standing on the edge of a diving board.
“I’m a—” My voice almost steady. “I’m a homosexual.”
The world did not tumble. Her face remained calm. The white winter
light still streamed into the room as if into a church, illuminating the floor
and us, my heart pumped blood around my body—accelerated but still—
and a shiver ran through me, through my entire being, and I felt as if
something dead and heavy inside had been expelled, as if I’d been carrying
a leaden ghost within me all that time. I felt dizzy. I tried to say something
else, but there was nothing to say. She took me into her arms, and I allowed
her to—into her soft arms, against her pullover, cushioned by the soft
breasts beneath it.
“It’s OK,” she whispered. “I understand.” She stroked my hair. “You’re
good. Don’t you worry. You’ll be fine. You’re good.”
Even if I had wanted to, I wouldn’t have been able to stop the tears. They
poured out all by themselves, a force of their own, agents of relief and
consolation, flooding my face, emptying my mind. And we sat like this,
enveloped in each other, in the bright light, for an immeasurable amount of
time. When I straightened myself, she left, returning moments later with a
tissue.