"Most people don't get pinned by conifers," Gus added. He was inspecting the bruise on his shin with scholarly interest. "I think I have a narrative now. Three friends. One tree. The tree wins Act One."
"Your play already has a tree," Wren said.
"This one has better lighting."
Dez watched Wren's profile against the snow. He had been watching her profile against weather for six years—ever since the night they met at a party in a walk-up on Avenue B where the punch was suspicious and the host's cat had strong opinions. Wren had been wearing a different slip dress then, black instead of burgundy, and she had rolled her eyes at Dez's attempt to quote a song lyric as conversation, and somehow that eye-roll had become the axis of his private world. He had never said so. Saying so felt like stepping off a curb into traffic. Safer to joke. Safer to buy trees. Safer to let Gus fill the silences with theories about dramatic structure.
Gus knew. Of course Gus knew. Gus had the observational habits of a person who graded essays for a living and wrote plays for a longing. He had watched Dez watch Wren for years with the patience of someone waiting for a character to make a choice. He had also, more quietly, watched himself fail to make certain choices of his own—about the play, about the teaching job that was supposed to be temporary, about the woman in his Tuesday night workshop who laughed at his jokes as if they were intentional. Gus's arc, if he had been writing it, would have involved courage. Instead it involved cocoa and corduroy and the soft cowardice of being useful.
"Dez," Wren said, turning now, mauve lips curved, "why that one?"
He could have lied. He almost did. The easy lie was: it was on sale. The prettier lie was: it looked lonely. The true answer sat in his chest like a wrapped gift he was afraid to open in company.
"It reminded me of something," he said.