Vincent was neither tall nor handsome, but he was not ordinary. Many people had met him throughout his life, but few of us were fortunate enough to be called his friend. He had green eyes and dark hair, and if you met him on a week day, he would always invite you to the theater. He worked with his father in the family business, a library called Neverland, named so after JM Barrie's world. He was Vincent's mother's favourite writer. Her name was Wendy, which was one of the reasons she loved Peter Pan so much. She was born in Russia, but she moved to the US with her family when she was nine years old. Vincent never told me why, and I never asked. Wendy's favourite painter was Van Gogh, so she named her first male born after him. He didn't have any more siblings, his mother died of an aneurism when he was four. He grew up in Neverland, surrounded by the smell of old books and tea, raised by his ever silent father.
We went to school together, and I would've failed biology if it wasn't for him. He used to pretend he was Charles Darwin. My brother had a crush on Vincent for some time, but he appreciated the female company and he was fond enough of it to not turn gay. He told me one day my brother was too young.
"You mean, for you?" I asked.
"For anything, really." Was his response.
At Vincent's 17th birthday party, I met Seymour. He was twenty years old, and the only sober one in the group. He crashed me while he was looking for something where he clearly would not find it: the frontyard. He excused himself saying he hadn't seen me. "Of course you didn't!" I said, with a slightly drunk smile, "you're too goddamn tall for your own good."
He looked at me for a few seconds, and whether it was the effect of the alcohol setting in, or the strangely cold weather, or his height, or anything else, it felt like the longest few seconds of ever being looked at. And he broke the silence with a request. He asked me to stay with him, but leave the drinks inside.
Created: Jan 26, 2011deeasherself Document Media