The Great Gatsby Dialectical Journal

After his confrontation in the bar, Booker's consciousness shifted to self-reflection, the intensity of his resentment decreasing as his levels of anxiety increased in slow, measured bursts. Tom had not only infected his heart, but he had also infected every fiber of his being, leaving him unprepared as a rising surge of emotions consumed his mind, body, and spirit. The Booker of old would have taken the attractive man back to his apartment and screwed his brains out, but the new and improved Booker had no interest in casual sex. He wanted Tom, not just as a sexual partner, but as a friend and confidant, someone he could share his innermost thoughts with. Calmed by the effects of alcohol, their fight now seemed trivial, a superfluous response

The room was set up as a gym, and a bench press and weights were set up near the fire escape, allowing any air movement to keep him cool when working out. Lifting up the sash window, he stared down at the empty street below. Intoxicated laughter drifted on the cooling November breeze, the sound coming from several blocks away, the raucous merriment shattering the night’s peace. The drunken reveling added to his feelings of loneliness and in a fit of temper, he slammed down the window, the force shaking the panes of glass within the wooden sash bars. It was then he decided he didn’t need a workout, he needed another drink and pushing past his gym equipment, he headed for the kitchen.

But just as he exited the bedroom, the sound of a key turning in the lock had his spinning toward the door. Nervous expectation and the promise of reconciliation had him agonizing about how to react. Play it cool or rush in first and offer an apology? But the words forming on his lips remained unspoken as Tom walked through the door dressed only in a pair of khaki pants, followed by Jorge, sans

“Don’t blame Tom, it’s my fault.”

Booker lunged forward, his face contorting, his whole body trembling with a vengeful anger. “STAY OUT OF IT! HAVEN’T YOU CAUSED—”

“For God’s sake, Booker!” Tom interjected, his fatigue manifesting into irritability. “If you’d just stop shouting, maybe we can all sit down and talk about this like adults.”

Stunned into silence, Booker took a step back. He watched with growing animosity as Tom motioned for Jorge to sit down before once again, finding his voice. “If you’re gonna tell me something I don’t wanna hear, don’t, okay? I don’t feel like getting my heart ripped out right now.”

Taking a seat beside Jorge, Tom studied Booker’s indignant expression. “Sit down, Dennis,” he instructed with a noticeable sigh.

Only when he was seated did Booker notice the paleness of Tom’s face, the sallow color of his skin highlighted by the faint bruise adorning the corner of his mouth. “Are you okay?” he asked, his clipped tone disguising his concern. “Did someone hit you?”

Tom rubbed a self-conscious hand over the tender area spot on his lip. “I don’t really remember. I s’pose they