boris and theo bot (@boreobot) 's Twitter Profile
boris and theo bot

@boreobot

tweets boreo (boris and theo) moments from donna tarrt's 'the goldfinch' every 30 minutes.

ID: 1454638367824654336

calendar_today31-10-2021 02:36:37

22,22K Tweet

766 Followers

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But we were so attuned to each other that we didn’t need to talk at all if we didn’t want to; we knew how to tip each other over in hysterics with an arch of the eyebrow or quirk of the mouth.

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“Good luck,” said Boris. “I won't forget you.” Then he patted Popper on his head. “Bye, Popchyk. Look after him, will you?” he said to me.

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The first time he’d turned in bed and draped an arm over my waist, I lay there half-asleep for a moment, not knowing what to do:

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More than anything I was relieved that in my unfamiliar babbling-and-wanting-to-talk state I’d stopped myself from blurting the thing on the edge of my tongue, the thing I’d never said,

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I brought him beers and food from downstairs and learned to make his tea the way he liked it: boiling hot, with three sugars.

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“Here,” I said, pushing the dog aside, dabbing the bloody place on his forehead with a damp cloth. “Hold still.” Boris twitched away, and growled. “The fuck are you doing?” “Shut up,” I said, holding the hair back from his eyes.

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Again Boris yawned, eyes heavy-lidded with vodka. “Sleep here, then,” he said, rolling over and scrubbing his face with one hand

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“Not trying to judge! It’s just—we did crazy things back then. Things I think maybe you don’t remember. No, no!” he said quickly, shaking his head, when he saw the look on my face. “Not that. Although I will say, you are the only boy I have ever been in bed with!”

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Happily, Boris never seemed annoyed or even very startled when I woke him, as if he came from a world where there was nothing so unusual in a nocturnal howl of pain.

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The funny thing: I’d worried, if anything, that Boris was the one who was a little too affectionate, if affectionate is the right word.

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He bumped his shoulder against mine. “Ah, I provoked him on purpose. Answered back. So you could get Popchik out of there. Look, is fine,” he said, condescendingly, when I kept on looking at him.

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On nights when I woke strangled with fear there he was, catching me when I started up terrified from the bed, pulling me back down in the covers beside him, muttering in nonsense Polish, his voice throaty and strange with sleep.

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Playfully, he lunged and caught me by the shoulder; he knew just where I was weakest, the spot under the blade where he could dig his fingers and make me yelp.