At one point he asked, “You always give each other a good-night kiss, don't you?”
“One? Dozens of them. You don't, do you?” “No, I've never really kissed anyone.”
“Not even on your birthday?” “Yeah, on my birthday I have.”
We talked about how neither of us really trusts our parents, and how his parents love each other a great deal
and wish he'd confide in them, but that he doesn't want to. How I cry my heart out in bed and he goes up to the loft and swears.
How Margot and I have only recently gotten to know each other and yet still tell each other very little, since we're always together.
We talked about every imaginable thing, about trust, feelings and ourselves.
Oh, Kitty, he was just as I thought he would be. Then we talked about the year 1942, and how different we were back then;
we don't even recognize ourselves from that period. How we couldn't stand each other at first.
He'd thought I was a noisy pest, and I'd quickly concluded that he was nothing special.
I didn't understand why he didn't flirt with me, but now I'm glad.
He also mentioned how he often used to retreat to his room. I said that my noise and exuberance and his silence were two sides of the same coin,
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