“So you want to move to Chicago,” Bill said, rolling his eyes. A deliberate gesture, he knew – hoping that Laurent would notice and respond.
“I’ve always wanted to move to Chicago,” Laurent answered, “and cut it out with the eyeball shit.”
Good, Bill thought – he noticed. “What ever do you mean? I’m just surprised, that’s all I’m saying. I always thought you loved Dubuque. It’s your home, Laurent – you were born and raised in Chicago. And no one ever really leaves Dubuque … your parents are here, even your grandmother.”
“True, but I’m bored stiff here. I don’t want to work the rest of my life as a cashier at the Eagle Country Market. I’m twenty-three years old, Bill – and I have a two-year associate’s degree in horticulture. You have any idea how much many I can make in Chicago, landscaping for the fat cats in Lincoln Park?”
Bill was hard pressed. Laurent had a point. But oh – oh, how Bill wanted him to stay. Those tender nights in winter, when the two of them had lain under heavy wool blankets and snuggled, those afternoons walking side-by-side along the Mississippi, and the summers of biking along secret paths, making love in the cornfields. How could he leave that?
“You’re right, Laurent – Chicago would be better for you.”
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