he says.

Cold spring drops break on red rose petals, creating a pleasant noise and soaking into soil under his feet. The scent of rain and flowers mix to create a new one. Dorian plucks the rose in a fluid motion. He brings it to his face and peers at her scarlet color for a long time until it ripples in his eyes. It should be put in water, but even there, like all flowers, it will be short-lived. Her beauty and splendor will wither every day until her petals shrivel and begin to fall off. Then, of course, it will have to be thrown away, and he’ll think: “Why pluck it at all?”. But it will be too late, it will wither away, and this process will be irreversible. Thoughts-thoughts-thoughts. Lord Henry is waiting for him again tonight. These strange meetings, after which every time he feels as if a stone had fallen out of his heart, but another one immediately appeared in its place. And there’s nothing he can do but smiling and agreeing, because that’s what Lord Henry is like, throwing stones at other people’s hearts. After all, the rose should still be put in a vase and cut the stem so that it lives longer. In the evening, he smiles. Looks into Lord Henry’s half-closed eyes and listens-listens-listens. In this house, he always listens, and even when he speaks, it’s still other person’s words coming out of his mouth. Dorian speaks occasionally, he admires dishes, the taste of which is, as always, incomparable, reluctantly agrees with cynical statements, the veracity of which seems to be beyond doubt and accepted almost as an unchanging truth, and all this because of the one who utters them. “Harry,” says Dorian, and it becomes quiet. “Harry,” says Dorian and loses his thoughts. “Harry,” says Dorian, and there’s simply no thoughts left. And Harry becomes silent. There’s nothing left in Dorian’s head, he doesn’t want to cut the silence with empty words, all that remains is to slowly drink wine, tightly squeezing the stem of the glass, and look into Harry’s eyes, in which at last there’s at least something — a half-existing emotion. And at this moment, Dorian knows that his portrait in the dusty room looks better than ever. Basil was different. He is an artist, and that is the main feature of the human character, the rest is always secondary. Dorian wasn’t his friend, he was a muse, an inspiring ghost, the epitome of beauty, a blessing and a curse. Sometimes, when the work wasn’t going well, and the paintings remained unfinished, it seemed to him that Hallward hated him, because the one who gives the right mood can also take it away. He hated this feeling of responsibility. Basil was fickle. Another feature of most people of art, he often rushed to extremes, looking with an adoring look at one moment and tearing his hair out of helplessness in the next one. “Dorian,” he said, and they both froze. “Dorian,” he said, and a sparkle appeared in his eyes. “Dorian,” he said and turned into a raging element. Lord Henry is not a muse at all, he is more like a book without an ending. Dorian will never truly understand him, but Harry always understood everyone he met. He feels people in a way Dorian will never be able to, no matter how hard he tries. And when long fingers fall on his wrist — this touch is not real, because no one will ever truly touch Lord Henry. Even so, Lord Henry’s hair is still soft. “Harry,” says Dorian. “Dorian,” he finally responds to him.