Page 659 - A Little Life: A Novel

“It’s for you,” JB says, quietly. “When the show comes down, Jude. It’s
yours.”
“Thank you, JB,” he says. He makes himself stand upright, feels

everything within him shift. I need to eat something, he thinks. When was
the last time he ate? Breakfast, he thinks, but yesterday. He reaches his hand
out toward the crate to center himself, to stop the rocking he feels within his
head and spine; he feels this sensation more and more frequently, a floating
away, a state close to ecstasy. Take me somewhere, he hears a voice inside
him say, but he doesn’t know to whom he is saying this, or where he wants
to go. Take me, take me. He is thinking this, crossing his arms over himself,

when JB suddenly grabs him by his shoulders and kisses him on the mouth.
He wrenches away. “What the hell are you doing?” he asks, and he
fumbles backward, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Jude, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything,” JB says. “You just look so—so
sad.”
“So this is what you do?” he spits at JB, who steps toward him. “Don’t

you dare touch me, JB.” In the background, he can hear the chatter of the
installers, JB’s gallerist, the curators. He takes another step, this time
toward the edge of the wall. I’m going to faint, he thinks, but he doesn’t.
“Jude,” JB says, and then, his face changing, “Jude?”
But he is moving away from him. “Get away from me,” he says. “Don’t
touch me. Leave me alone.”
“Jude,” JB says in a low voice, following him, “you don’t look good. Let

me help you.” But he keeps walking, trying to get away from JB. “I’m
sorry, Jude,” JB continues. “I’m sorry.” He is aware of the pack of people
moving as a clump to the other side of the floor, hardly noticing him
leaving, JB next to him; it is as if they don’t exist.
Twenty more steps to the elevators, he estimates; eighteen more steps;
sixteen; fifteen; fourteen. Beneath him, the floor has become a loosely

spinning top, wobbling on its axis. Ten; nine; eight. “Jude,” says JB, who
won’t stop talking, “let me help you. Why won’t you talk to me anymore?”
He is at the elevator; he smacks the button with his palm; he leans against
the wall, praying he’ll be able to stay upright.
“Get away from me,” he hisses at JB. “Leave me alone.”
The elevator arrives; the doors open. He steps toward them. His walk
now is different: he still leads with his left leg, always, and he still lifts it

unnaturally high—that hasn’t changed, that has been dictated by his injury.