Following a blinking light, I felt like Joseph searching for shelter with Mary.
We arranged to meet on Wednesday. Midnight, again. At the same hotel, again. I thought about it the entire day at work, counting the hours until I was free. I barely ate all day, even avoided coffee. I didn't want any spills on my clean shirt and slacks. He always notices the details, from the tiniest crumb on a collar to the pattern on my socks.
AAt the gas station I grabbed his favorite brand of smokes and a handful of DumDums from the barrel next to the register. I was still absentmindedly chewing on the paper stick when he invited me in. His sleeves were rolled up. How unusual, I recalled. But then my eyes moved from his sleeve to his eyes and I saw the look of offense in his eyes. I quickly disposed of the saliva soaked papery mess in the wrapper I saved in my jacket pocket and walked inside.
He had let me snap a few photos of him once before, and make a video of him smoking cigarettes as well. "Are you going to show these to anyone?" he asked. I thought he'd enjoy it more if he didn't know, so I kept my mouth shut. I learned early on when men speak little, they appear more desirable. The lack of chatter denotes a strength, a determination, a place to be safe, where you can make mistakes and still be forgiven and protected.
I don't know what happened next. I woke up on my sofa in my nice clothes, it was half past one as a police siren cut the night's silence. I went to the hotel just to see, but it was deserted. I expected that. The shadow of the blinds were highlighted by the tired yellow light from the joint selling greasy burgers across the street. I laid down on the sunken bed, closed my eyes and thought about ties, vests, cufflinks, and all the other useless articles of a man's wardrobe.
At least I have the video from last time. I'll edit it tomorrow -- it'll hold me up until I meet someone for a smoke again. Maybe next week.
AAt the gas station I grabbed his favorite brand of smokes and a handful of DumDums from the barrel next to the register. I was still absentmindedly chewing on the paper stick when he invited me in. His sleeves were rolled up. How unusual, I recalled. But then my eyes moved from his sleeve to his eyes and I saw the look of offense in his eyes. I quickly disposed of the saliva soaked papery mess in the wrapper I saved in my jacket pocket and walked inside.
He had let me snap a few photos of him once before, and make a video of him smoking cigarettes as well. "Are you going to show these to anyone?" he asked. I thought he'd enjoy it more if he didn't know, so I kept my mouth shut. I learned early on when men speak little, they appear more desirable. The lack of chatter denotes a strength, a determination, a place to be safe, where you can make mistakes and still be forgiven and protected.
I don't know what happened next. I woke up on my sofa in my nice clothes, it was half past one as a police siren cut the night's silence. I went to the hotel just to see, but it was deserted. I expected that. The shadow of the blinds were highlighted by the tired yellow light from the joint selling greasy burgers across the street. I laid down on the sunken bed, closed my eyes and thought about ties, vests, cufflinks, and all the other useless articles of a man's wardrobe.
At least I have the video from last time. I'll edit it tomorrow -- it'll hold me up until I meet someone for a smoke again. Maybe next week.
The rules were simple: you come in, you light a cigarette, I watch you smoke it, then you leave. No touching, no complications. This worked for a while. At first, even putting up the ad in the "miscalleneous romance" section was a thrill, enough to last a night. But pretty soon my apartment saw a steady moving string of smokers. Some confused, others distrustful, some looking for a cheap thrill. Men, women, from all walks of life. I started to photograph or tape the ones that would let me, to gather a record, a substitute for a family album. The more of them moved through my late evenings, the more removed I became from my receding hairline, growing gut, dryed out friendships, and regrettable attempts at romance.