Pushing the cue stick aside, Gregory felt like Jekyll and Hyde. In his freshly ironed suit, with an impassive expression on his face, he was acutely aware of the pain in the deltoid muscle of his right arm, his left arm, and clearly remembered the fantastic multitude of imagined coincidences, poses, and circumstances that had led to this soreness. Looking at his clean-shaven face, no one would ever guess that even the movement of a cue across the thumb reminded him of the endless monotonous manipulations he had performed over the past few days. Even the innocent expression "to chase balls" flashed through his mind with the most violent, indecent images. Collahan watched the eight roll away, picked up a glass of fizzy cola, and took a long sip, listening to the bubbles dancing in his mouth. He glanced at McKinley, his opponent, and watched him almost predatorily as the young lord leaned over the cue. If he could stop time, Gregory would walk up behind him, pull down both their pants, and drive Brandon to the point of ringing in his ears. What an incredibly convenient prop, this pool table... The lord could hold on to the wide rim, and the balls would move rhythmically, quivering on the green surface...
You're sick, Gregory. You need to stop this before you hate yourself. Keep busy, do something.
He looked at McKinley and swallowed, feeling the slow movement of his Adam's apple up and down his throat.
"You're distracted today," Brandon said, arching his eyebrow in dissatisfaction as he straightened up, having just won another game.
"I'm not a very good player."
Collahan put down his cue, walked over to the side table, and picked up the first magazine he saw, eagerly diving into an article open in the middle.
"The BMW needs to go in for a service next month," he reminded.
Brandon nodded silently, standing nearby.
"We can change the oil filter while we're at it."
Another lazy nod.
"Have Anita add my name to the office mailbox."
Lord McKinley didn't respond this time.
"To find the cube of a binomial, you start with the first term cubed, then add three times the square of the first term multiplied by the second term, plus three times the first term multiplied by the square of the second term, and finally, the second term cubed," Gregory said slowly, staring at a photo of an old man on the page.
Brandon's eyebrows slowly crept upward. Collahan looked up from the magazine for a second and shot him an irritated glance.
"At least pick up a newspaper."
"Why?" McKinley asked, genuinely puzzled, his eyes widening with interest.
"I've run out of lines to pretend we're having a conversation that would justify your staring at me and not saying a word in front of the employees who are gawking at us," he said in a flat tone, shaking the glossy page that drooped at the corner.
Unprepared for such impudence, Lord McKinley opened his mouth in amazement, turning mechanically, and — indeed — finding several employees glancing curiously in his direction. But it was just a coincidence. Who cares what the lord was doing there? Brandon closed his mouth, turned pale, offended by Collahan and caught off guard, having allowed himself to be so easily provoked by such a trifle, and walked away to order another bottle of water and to watch the game on the second table.
Gregory was left alone, beads of sweat sliding down his neck. He suddenly felt hot. A new feeling of triumph replaced his earlier irritation. Well, sometimes unexpected revenge really does bring a bit of relief! Ever since they returned from the business trip, Collahan had been tormented by indignation. He couldn't shake the anger he felt at McKinley for manipulating him, provoking him, yet keeping him at arm's length, toying with him without any apparent awareness of how much it hurt. Gregory decided to show some backbone. He would no longer be the quiet, obedient shadow. He would show the lord that he, too, had a soul and feelings. And this first round, in which Gregory had won, lifted his spirits.
Curiously, Brandon seemed to accept their new rivalry. He hadn't hinted at excessive arrogance or threatened to fire Gregory. He allowed his new economist far too much. And that meant something.
It was a challenge for Collahan to maintain his new independence while continuing to perform his duties well. His lord could still rely on him, and Gregory hoped that would never change. McKinley was taking him along more and more often. Partly, this was due to Gregory's official position. But there were other, entirely non-business occasions. The lord had always been passionate about modern art, and he usually needed company, or, as he put it himself, "Someone has to drive me there and back. You're not going to ask me to call a taxi!"
They never discussed their relationship. They pretended there was nothing between them, although both secretly knew that this was not true. Gregory enjoyed walking a knife's edge, testing how far his audacity could go. Brandon, meanwhile, remained ice-cold and pretended to condescendingly ignore his subordinate's peculiar behavior. Anyone watching them from the outside would have found the scene downright bizarre.
That evening, they sat in a tiny theater — a small stage and only three rows of chairs. Gregory had already learned to recognize the visitors as artists, local painters, musicians, and critics. He mentally prepared himself for what he expected would be yet another night of rare nonsense. The most important thing was to sit through it to the end, unless, of course, the lord decided to leave halfway through the performance.
They had seats in the front row, on the left. Gregory sat at the end, which gave him a perfect vantage point: when he looked at the stage, he could see the lord's white hair, his ear, and the sharp angle of his jaw, casting a strip of black shadow down his neck. Collahan could have stared at Brandon for the entire performance without anyone noticing. That's what he did.
Tonight's performance was an extremely eccentric piece featuring two voices, male and female. These voices did not sing but produced various sounds, some human and some not, that at times conveyed calm and peace, and at others, to Gregory's great surprise, were filled with strong, passionate emotion. At moments it resembled a scene of oppression, the helpless cry of a child, something strangely candid emerging from this chaotic blend. Sometimes the dramatic intensity was so overwhelming that Collahan found himself struggling to swallow the lump rising in his throat.
He often glanced at Brandon. In the darkness of the auditorium, only thin, sharp beams of purple spotlight fell on his face. At first, the lord sat as usual, haughty and condescending. But gradually, the whirlpool of emotions swept him away, and Gregory saw the lord's cheekbones lengthen, his eyes brighten with a new gleam, and a pitiful dimple deepen above his nose. Brandon forgot he was in the hall. With eyes wide open, he stared motionless at the performers' feet, his lips frozen in sympathetic tension. McKinley's face suddenly softened into a tender, childlike expression of a deep feeling, touching and genuine. The thin strands of his hair, lit by the artificial light, seemed to fluoresce, and for the first time, Brandon appeared before Collahan without a mask, as himself — a gentle creature, strong-willed but not hardened, capable of empathy and trust.
Gregory admired him, turning halfway toward him, no longer trying to hide it. His breathing grew heavier, as if he were standing before some ancient, fragile, and powerful artifact, a work of art that made a person feel reborn, forgiven, and happy, with tears flowing freely in a cleansing stream. But before him was not a Greek statue or a Michelangelo fresco, it was a living, breathing man whom he, Collahan, could possess like a magical treasure. A miracle of miracles sat before him, staring blindly into the dark.
Gregory leaned forward, his lips brushing against Brandon's ear, the soft strands of white hair tickling his face, and whispered hotly, clearly, as if explaining a rule to a child: "I love you." His heart pounded inside him like a cast-iron bell. A rush of inexplicable joy and euphoria overwhelmed him. Gregory smiled as he sat back, not the least bit embarrassed that Brandon did not react, did not move, only seemed to hold his breath. A minute later, he leaned in again, nudging the lord's ear with the tip of his nose, and whispered: "I love you, and I want you."
With that, he felt he had fulfilled some old debt that had been weighing on him. Gregory's soul felt lighter, as if it had been freed from numerous burdens. Something had changed. He felt complete, free, self-contained. Nothing could disturb him now, as though Collahan's wandering consciousness had finally found its physical shell and become a unified whole. He didn't care what happened next. Whatever followed would not change Gregory's new, accomplished structure. He had finally become the highest, truest form of himself possible.