When the Lights Come Up

Chapter 10

There is a small gourmet market across the street from my building, the kind that advertises itself as a grocery store but only has two aisles stocked with nothing but gluten-free crackers and organic soaps and overpriced bags of mixed nuts and individual bottles of soda that you’ve never heard of and always seems to be a little flat. They sell craft beer and four aisles’ worth of wine toward the back that you can’t even find at the liquor store down the street, massive as it is. Maybe the food allows them to skirt some kind of state license they need to sell booze. It’s a pretentious kind of place, but it’s convenient, two blocks closer than the supermarket on Sumner Street. They have a deli that will gladly prepare almost anything one can think of. That’s usually what drew me in.

They play music both inside and out: indie, hipster stuff, a nice distraction from the car horns and construction noise that generally provide the soundtrack for Spruce Street. The morning after Matti and I drank too much wine, I sat outside the market with a cup of coffee and an English muffin, greasy fried egg and cheddar cheese spilling from the sides, watching the people of Midtown with their tired eyes and rumpled clothing enter empty-handed and exit with brown paper bags full of bagels and sandwiches and GMO-free sundries, sometimes accompanied by a cup of coffee. A black, plastic lid idly rested next to a cup on the table in front of me as steam rose from the coffee inside. Maestro rested at my feet, too tired to beg for scraps after a morning walk around the neighborhood.

Spruce Street pulled for miles in either direction, further into the distance than the eye could see, slicing the city into east and west even as it curved and bluffed. It was Sunday. Early. Not many people were out yet, and the streets seemed barren, a welcome rarity in a city where the car is king. Sunday mornings were always sleepy. The quiet sidewalks and voided streets that routinely presented themselves once a week provided a brief reprieve from the well of congestion I’d grown accustomed to. Sun shined down through the leaves of the lacebark elms and between skyscrapers that sprouted from the concrete walkways up and down the street like dandelions in a ditch on the side of the expressway. A few birds chased each other from rooftop to rooftop and sang songs from the canopy of trees above.

Dark green awnings highlighted the large windows of the market, lending shade to the tables and chairs below as they met at the corner, a corner that could just as easily host a shootout as it could a farmer’s market. I listened to the song that played as a patron opened the door and disappeared inside. It wasn’t my style of music, but it was catchy. On more than one occasion, I’d caught myself in the middle of the day humming the melody of a song I’d heard at the market earlier. Another customer exited a few seconds later, bag in hand. I wondered if the song that played would get stuck in his head, and as he walked around all day singing it, would it get stuck in someone else’s head, then someone else’s, like a game of musical telephone?

Talking to Matti over dinner sparked a wandering curiosity in me about living somewhere else, in a different country on a different continent. I had lived on the East Coast my entire life. I knew nothing of other places. I had never even been out of the country. Suddenly, it seemed like a vast world, completely unknown to me. Time had gotten away from me, abstract notions of one day exploring and seeing the world had been pushed back in my mind, suppressed until a more convenient moment. When the time is right, I would tell myself. It never was. Then, one day—today, on the precipice of middle age, I resented my sheltered life. I hadn’t experienced India or Italy or Ireland. It suddenly seemed a tragedy that I’d never traveled across an ocean.

While the music played and the minutes ticked by, I daydreamed, wondered to myself what it would be like to live in some old European city like Rome or Barcelona or Paris and hang out at cafés all day, drinking tiny cappuccinos and writing songs or stories or manifestos in a tattered notebook like some bohemian artist. I wondered if I could get used to living in an old apartment with chipped paint and french doors that opened to the city, inviting that life, that vibrancy into my personal space. I thought about walking to a market every morning to pick up strange fruits and jams and a baguette, things like dates, not having any idea what to do with them once I got them home. Romantic accordion music might play in the background, wafting from nowhere in particular as I ambled across a cobblestone street lined with newsstands and produce vendors and old ornate lampposts on my way to meet friends, turning a corner to trek down a hill with a view to the Eiffel Tower. It would be charming and delightful and bewitching.

It was a vividly painted fantasy, the drudgery of reality never quite able to stand next to the masterpieces one could conjure in the mind. But it sounded nice. I tapped the screen on my phone, and the display lit up. Ten minutes until nine. I needed to open the shop. I shoved the last bite of sandwich into my mouth, quickly realizing it should have been two, and untied Maestro’s leash from around the arm of the chair. We made it to the shop with three minutes to spare, Vonnie pulling up in her SUV as I unlocked the front door.

“B Money! How’d it go last night?” she asked, exiting her vehicle, more enthusiastic than usual.

“You’re in a chipper mood.” Irreverence grazed my words as I inserted the shop key into the industrial lock, turning it twice.

I was intrigued. Vonnie was never chipper. She was fluent in the art of irony. She snacked on sarcasm as others would on popcorn, handfuls at a time. I spun on my heel to face her as she tapped a button on her car key to secure the doors.

“You got some,” I inferred with a sly smile.

“Keep it down,” she begged, glancing over her shoulder to check for people passing by.

“Why? Never once have you kept it down. And no one’s around anyway.”

“That’s cute,” she snapped back. There it was, the sarcasm I’d grown to love, to crave from our exchanges. “I’ll tell you inside.”

We made our way into the shop, disarming the alarm and switching the Open sign on as we entered. I turned on some music—smooth RB. It tended to keep everyone calm throughout the day, staff included. I checked in a couple of clients and took the dogs upstairs to ready them for their appointments, leashing one up in the second tub while Vonnie got to work on the first. An open hour on the calendar after those first two dogs meant no one would be coming by to check in for a while, so I stayed upstairs to keep her company, leaning against the railing that overlooked the shop just in case anyone stopped in.

“Spill,” I playfully demanded, crossing my arms over my chest while an Anita Baker song played quietly in the background.

“You remember that girl that was playing on my phone last week? Kiara?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, she called me again last night, just as I laid my ass down on the couch to watch a movie.” She lathered shampoo into the tightly curled coat of the standard poodle in the tub, the dog’s eyes half-closed as Vonnie massaged her.

“Wait, did you have a three-way with her and her boyfriend?” I asked, surprise lighting up my face.

Vonnie swung her head around aggressively, the braids she had pulled into a ponytail whipping across her back to sort of drape over her shoulder as she faced me. “What do you think?”

I raised my eyebrows and pinched my lips together, trying to convey an uncertainty that I didn’t actually have. Vonnie would never mess around with a guy. She had expressed her aversion to such activities to me on multiple occasions. But messing with her was fun.

“She kicked him to the curb this week and wanted to talk to someone about it,” she continued.

“And that someone just happened to be you?”

“And that someone just happened to be me,” she repeated, satisfied. “It was only a matter of time, baby. These girls are no different than those little boys you mess around with. The ones that claim they’re bi. Eventually, they transfer from the D train to the V train instead of the other way around.”

I laughed as she continued to tell the story as old as time. “By V, you mean Vonnie?”

“Of course,” she advanced. The double entendre had worked in her favor. “Anyway, she came over, and we had some drinks, and yeah, I got me some.”

I almost giggled at her excitement until she turned the tables on me. “What about you? You get any?”

I paused and replayed the events of my dinner with Matti in my head: the conversation, the coy smiles, our eyes meeting from across the table. The wine and conversation and good food and more wine and more conversation and a goodbye that was awkwardly perfect. I was still reeling from it in the best kind of way. “Nah. It was nice, but I didn’t get any.”

“That’s vague,” Vonnie stated monotonously, her attention back to the dog she was bathing. “I’ma need more.”

“I don’t know,” I wavered. “It was just nice. Easy. He used to live in New York, so we talked a lot about our time there. And he grew up in France. It was kinda cool hearing about how he spent holidays as a kid and their customs. Oh, and get this… he lives at Stratus.”

Vonnie again turned, looking at me from the corner of her eye. “You mean to tell me y’all live in the same building? Like, you wouldn’t even have to Uber home, and you said, ‘Nah, I’m good. I’ll suck my own dick’? Did you at least get a good-night kiss?”

I laughed, not only at her ridicule but at the deep, baritone voice she used to imitate mine while delivering it.

“Nah. I was home and in bed by eleven, sexually unfulfilled but still somehow satisfied. We’re gonna hang out again tonight though.”

Just then, the bell above the door rang. I pushed off the railing and turned to walk toward the stairs as she returned her attention to the poodle, speaking into the tub, “That’s a boring story, B. Come back with something better next time.”

Vonnie’s voice trailed as I descended the stairs, abruptly stopping three steps from the bottom, frozen in my tracks. Nate approached the counter. He looked like he’d been out on a jog, in gym shorts and a white V-neck T-shirt, the collar of which was soaked with perspiration. That stupid, sandy-blond hair was sort of mussed, darker in the front where the sweat from his brow had dampened the short locks that rested easily against his recently Botoxed face. It didn’t matter how much “tightening up” he did, those ridges that appeared on his forehead when he laughed or smiled or manipulated someone into submission would never disappear. They’d been there since he was a kid. Family photographs I’d gotten my hands on from his mother when we were together had proven that. This most recent attempt to conceal his age was not working as well as he would have liked, and it gave me the slightest tingle of twisted satisfaction.

He smiled at me before using the bottom of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow. The move seemed almost scripted, his perfect abs flexing as he raised his arms, the outline of his cock visible in his gym shorts. He no doubt knew this. He was such an asshole, prancing into the shop unannounced and putting on display a number of things that he knew turned me on: gym clothes, sweat, a visible penis line. But where his body turned me on, his words had a way of extinguishing the desire.

“What’re you doing here?” I demanded to know, my tone severe, anger rocketing from zero to sixty in no time flat.

“I was out on a jog, so I thought I’d drop by and see the place. It’s been a while.”

“Don’t you live in Buckhead now?”

“Yeah. So?”

“So why are you slumming it in Midtown? You can’t jog in your own hood?”

Buckhead, a synonym for success around Atlanta. It tended to attract a well-to-do set that craved the experiences of city life without the pesky inconveniences of city life. Nate fit right in. He deserved the best of everything, was entitled to it. Wealth and privilege were in his pedigree, and he had never really lived without either. Nate felt it was beneath him to have to wait on a line to get into a club or for a drink at a bar. He was one of the pretty, rich boys that reigned over the Midtown scene for a while. But he was getting older and couldn’t deal with a new generation of kids taking his place, kids that didn’t care as much about tradition or status. The bastardization of the gayborhood, he romantically called it.

“I was feeling reminiscent.”

“Are you sure you weren’t feeling lonely?”

“Brandon,” he sulked. “I know we didn’t leave on good terms the last time we spoke, but come on, let’s hash it out. Come get a coffee with me.”

“I’m at work, Nate. I can’t just leave.”

“Isn’t Vonnie here? I’m sure she can handle it.”

“That’s not her job.”

“Look.” He paused, casually resting his hands on his hips, trying to reason with me. “It’s Aunt Cathy. She’s not doing well.”

I sank. Nate’s family never took to me. To them, I was some foreign creature that looked a little different and talked funny. I sometimes felt their eyes on me while we ate, his parents studying me, examining my deficiency in Southern tradition, trying to figure out my upbringing in the public school system. They treated me like an uninvited guest at holidays. They didn’t understand the relationship between Nate and me. They didn’t talk about it. Nate’s gayness was something that just happened to be there, an invisible blanket of discomfort they just kind of folded up and draped over the back of a chair. A chair in a different room. A room that no one used.

But Cathy was the free spirit of Nate’s mother’s two sisters, dropping out of college in the sixties, running away to a commune with her “long-haired hippie boyfriend,” disappointing her own family as much as any gay kid disappoints theirs. Cathy and her then-hippie husband lived in Dahlonega and ran a crystal shop, then a costume jewelry shop, then a glass shop, bits of crystal and jewelry still scattered about for sale. She used to drive down to Atlanta to hang out with us after her husband died. We’d take her to dinner and a drag show, where she would inevitably cozy up to some queen and sell a couple of hundred dollars’ worth of jewelry she had stashed away in her handbag. She’d then buy a round of shots, and we’d stumble back to our place a few blocks away. Cathy didn’t have hang-ups about anything. From the moment she met me, she became something of a mother figure, greeting me with a big hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“What’s going on?” I asked, concern dampening my tone.

“Pancreatic cancer. It’s advanced.”

That was devastating news. I paused for a moment to process. “Why didn’t you just say something instead of dancing around the subject?”

“I don’t know.” He sounded defeated. “Will you just have a coffee with me so I can cry on your shoulder for a while?”

Eventually, I answered, “Fine. I’ve got a few minutes.”

I shouted up to Vonnie, “V Dub, I’ve gotta head out for a minute. There’s nothing on the calendar until ten thirty, but can you listen for the door?”

“Yeah, B. I got you,” she shouted down.

“Thanks. I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”

Nate tossed me a deceivingly sweet smile that anyone who didn’t know better would have assumed was harmless. I, however, could see the venom dripping from his teeth. I pitied those yet to be taken in by that smile, unaware of the impossible expectations and heartbreaking disloyalty awaiting them.

“Thanks for this,” he mentioned as we sat on the patio at the Grindhouse, where just days before, I had made a fool of myself telling off a twentysomething kid for no reason.

“How did she find out?”

“She’d been losing weight and not eating much, and they couldn’t figure out what was causing the lack of appetite. They’ve got her started on chemo and radiation, but her oncologist said her prognosis doesn’t look great.”

“I’m sorry, Nate,” I tried to console, harboring a bit less disdain for him than I’d been clinging to previously. An ice-cold bottle of water sat on the table in front of me. I hated that Cathy was having to go through that, but I couldn’t bring myself to offer too much unconditional sympathy to Nate. “How’s she feeling?”

“My mom says she’s in good spirits.”

“You haven’t gone to see her?” I accused.

“Not yet. I’ve been busy with work this week.”

“And now you’re taking a jog in the park and having coffee with me instead of visiting your dying aunt?” I barked, my contempt for him elevating back to sixty. “When’s the last time you went to see her, anyway?”

“B, don’t do this.” His maudlin, manipulative tone emerged from its slumber. “I thought maybe you’d want to visit her with me.”

“No, Nate. I’m sorry about Cathy. I really am. But you need to visit her on your own. Not with me and not with any other flavor of the week.”

“There’s no flavor of the week, Brandon. Aaron and I broke up a few weeks ago. We were together for six months.”

Nate dropped the innocent act and started acting like a human being. A terrible human being, but a human being, nonetheless.

“Good for Aaron for hanging on for that long. But tell me… you and Aaron were together for six months? You clearly saw something in each other.”

“Of course we did.”

“Well, if you’ve only been broken up for a few weeks, why aren’t you talking to him about visiting your sick aunt with you instead of me, the ex who left you five years ago?”

“Brandon,” Nate escalated in consternation. “I just thought since you and her got along so well?—”

I interrupted, “Did you cheat on him?”

Nate responded with silence, dropping his head to the side to avoid eye contact.

“How many times?” I asked, trying to control my volume and keep my wits about me. “How many guys?”

“Brandon, please,” he tried to refute but couldn’t.

Five years later and his indiscretions were still eating away at me. It was far too early for a drink, but I could have used one. I needed to get myself out of there if there was any hope of staying in a decent mood for the rest of the day. Matti and I would be hanging out later. I certainly didn’t want to be angry about my jerk of an ex-boyfriend all night.

“I’m really sorry to hear about your aunt, Nate,” I started, my volume finding a civilized level. “I really am. But you can’t keep doing this.”

“Doing what?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“Calling me! Showing up at the shop unannounced. Hanging on to this nonexistent relationship and guilting me into having coffee with you to ease your own loneliness, using your sick aunt as bait,” I said, a confident stride to my delivery. “I can’t do this anymore, Nate. You have to let me go.”

I grabbed the water bottle from the table, pushed my chair back, and stood up, turning to walk away. Nate was speechless. I’m sure no one had ever spoken to him like that. With Nate, you either had stars in your eyes or thought he was a pretentious prick. I was currently in the latter camp but had been in the former at one point. Nate was used to hearing sappy praise or outright hatred from the people he dated, nothing in between. Honesty was not something he got often, not from his friends and not from his folks. Cathy was the only person in his life who could rein him in, and from the way he spoke, it didn’t sound like she’d be doing that for much longer.

I gulped back the last of my water and crumpled the plastic bottle in my hand, squeezing the life out of it with white knuckles before tossing it into the recycling bin on the corner. After a brief sense of accomplished relief brought on by vocalizing my feelings, pangs of guilt immediately crept in. Nate deserved to hear what I’d said to him, and I deserved to be out from under his spell, but I didn’t like speaking that way to anyone, especially someone who just told me their aunt was dying.

I called Cathy later that day. We spent an hour catching up, even though her voice sounded weak over the phone. I figured it would be the last time we spoke, so I tried not to leave anything unsaid. She told me not to feel bad about yelling at Nate. “He’s his daddy’s son,” she said, alluding to the fact that his father was just as canny, just as scheming. “I love him, honey. He’s my nephew. But he’s never wanted for anything, and it shows.” It was nice talking to her.

I was supposed to call Matti when I got off work so we could make plans, but he strolled in with Hugo a few minutes before closing time, surprising me as I counted the cash drawer. He looked as sexy as he did during our first encounter. Our eyes met as he approached, a warm smile on his face. “Hello, Brandon.”

“Hey,” I responded. “What are you doing here?”

I meant for the question to sound more upbeat, less accusatory. I didn’t really mean to ask the question at all. It just kind of spilled from my lips.

“I’m sorry,” he said, stopping short of the counter, the slightest bit of trepidation in his tone. “Is it not okay that I’m here?”

“No!” I responded, too eagerly. “I mean, yeah, it’s okay that you’re here. It’s great that you’re here. I just wasn’t expecting to see you here. I was gonna call you.”

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry. I just thought that it was such a nice day that we could have a drink before we head to Stratus.”

“Yeah, of course,” I agreed, suddenly remembering the hummus plate I had for lunch. My breath was probably on fire. “Just let me finish counting out and use the bathroom.”

Vonnie skipped down the shop steps, Maestro and Maxi blundering behind her, and noticed Matti standing at the counter. The dogs immediately rushed to Hugo to engage in the typical canine song and dance, sniffing, saying hello, getting to know one another. Vonnie looked to me to notice what I’m sure was the cheesiest grin she’d ever seen, then back to Matti. A brief pause ensued before I remembered my manners. “Sorry. This is Vonnie, groomer extraordinaire.”

“And unlicensed therapist,” she added, offering her hand. “You must be Matti.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Vonnie,” he extended, offering his own hand to shake hers before petting Maxi.

“Likewise,” she said, turning to face me, her expression resembling cartoonish approval, wide eyes and pursed lips. “Alright. I’m outta here. You two have fun.”

Immediately after Vonnie left, my phone vibrated. “Don’t fuck it up!” the text message read, followed by a gratuitous trail of red hearts and kissy-face emojis.

The message was in plain view of Matti, so I quickly grabbed my phone from the counter and jammed it into my pocket. He laughed. I couldn’t tell if he had seen the message or not, but I was mortified either way. Delightfully nervous.

I grabbed the cash and headed upstairs to deposit it in the safe, quickly popping into the bathroom with a travel-sized bottle of mouthwash and a stick of deodorant from my desk to freshen up before we went out.

Matti and I walked the dogs a couple of blocks, ending up at Tableau, a neighborhood staple that marketed itself as more upscale than it really was. The boys of Midtown typically occupied the patio on weekends for hours-long brunches with bottomless mimosas. During those hours, music was cranked to a volume that probably pissed off the neighbors so the drag queens didn’t look crazy when they sashayed around in their boots and wigs, collecting tips from boozy customers. Likewise, the volume of the music allowed dramatic patrons without boots and wigs or any kind of professional performance ability to sashay around the patio themselves. On more than one occasion, a tray of cocktails had been unceremoniously spilled, thanks to the rogue jazz hands of a tipsy diner. The place had been operating that way for as long as I’d lived in Midtown. Maybe the cops thought it too much trouble to take on a bunch of bitter queens who were ready to argue about anything that got in the way of their good time.

Sunday Funday festivities had long wound down at Tableau by the time we arrived, the party having moved on to Handlebar and XO, where the music was louder and there were no tables to bump into on their respective patios. The patio at Tableau was cleaned up and quieter now, softer lounge music taking the place of catchy but grating vocal melodies. Giant rainbow flags still snapped in the wind at each corner of the space, dwarfed by two giant white oaks that kept out the rays of the midday sun.

Outdoor dining was a religion in Midtown. I had favorite restaurants of which I’d never seen the interiors. There wasn’t much that could beat sitting outside under a shade tree enjoying a drink and a bite to eat, light breezes cooling the skin. Relaxation was taken to another level by Southerners, I’d found.

The sun dipped behind the hotel tower directly across the street, making sunglasses pleasantly unnecessary. The crowd at Tableau was smaller, more relaxed, and averaged probably ten years older than it had just hours before. I hated to admit that I felt more comfortable in that type of setting than I did in the crowded, messy ones that had been a second home to me in my twenties. The music was different, the crowds less interested in dancing, I had stopped doing drugs—more out of ambivalence than some moral awakening—and my body could no longer handle drinking the amount of alcohol a marathon night out required of me. And I was tired.

“It’s quieter than I thought it would be,” Matti mentioned as we sat, the dogs readying themselves by our sides for scraps. “When Hugo and I pass this place on weekends, it’s usually very busy.”

“Yeah. I think everyone heads over to Grove once the sun starts setting.”

“This is okay, yes?” he asked, his accent suddenly becoming thicker.

“Yeah. It’s perfect. Relaxing.”

“Good.” He smiled. “Would you like some wine?”

“I think I’ll stick with beer tonight. Too much wine last night,” I laughed.

“Yes,” he chuckled. “You’re probably right.”

We ordered pints and appetizers, a quick dinner and drink, neither of us interested in postponing plans to spend time together alone at Matti’s condo. The conversation was again easy as we attempted not to rush through dinner. Dusk seemed to be in no hurry, a sign of the summer. The day was evaporating at a snail’s pace, more profound shades of blue eventually stamping out the bright of the sun as it fell, deeper and deeper. Matti tried to pick up the check again, but I stopped him. I didn’t want whatever we were getting into to become one-sided.

We exited the patio, casually walking back to Stratus, greeting random people we encountered on the sidewalk: a client of mine, a friend of his, a few guys on their way to the bars who wanted to pet the dogs. It took all of ten minutes to get back to our building.

“Before we head up,” I started, “I’m gonna run Maestro home and feed him. Do you mind?”

“Not at all. We can wait for you in the lobby.”

A few upholstered armchairs arranged in a semicircle on a plush shag rug formed a makeshift waiting area in the lobby of our building. They were organized around a wall-mounted television that displayed the news or the weather without any volume while easy-listening tunes streamed overhead from speakers hidden in the tall ceiling. A large palm grew out of a giant black pot next to the management office situated just across the lobby from the concierge desk. Large slabs of white marble tile with gray veining covered the floor while giant black-and-white prints of Cedar Grove Park and the Midtown skyline seemed to loom as they hung on gallery-white walls. The concierge sat behind a cheaply constructed, walnut-hued desk adorned with an ugly arrangement of flowers in shades that always looked dusty to me: mauve and burnt orange and lavender.

That lobby was opulent but uninviting, comfortable in its familiarity but unfinished in its extravagance, a huge concrete column plowing through the heart of the space. The hallways leading from the lobby into the towers had not been updated in years, faded gray Berber carpeting and cheap drywall scuffed with everyday wear and tear. The interior of the elevator cars was uninspiring, flat gray paneling on the walls and cheap tile on the floor, cracked in places. None of it was particularly noticeable. One typically spent a matter of moments in both, mere minutes of the day. But it had become a point of contention with the HOA if the incessant emails were any indication. My junk folder overflowed with them.

“Nah,” I argued. “Head on up. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Just let the concierge know to let me up.”

“Sure. I’m in unit 1306.”

“Alright.” I smiled. “See you soon.”

Matti stopped to engage with the concierge, and I took Maestro home. He did need to be fed, but truthfully, I wanted to freshen up: brush my teeth, wash my face, put on a clean shirt. I turned the TV on, something I did for Maestro when I planned to head out, then changed into a pair of shorts and a polo. A new pair of white sneakers with black accents complemented the outfit, making me feel a bit cleaner, like an effort had been made. I then splashed some water on my face and scrubbed my teeth before grabbing my keys and letting Maestro know I’d be back in a while.

Without even asking, the concierge buzzed me into the North Tower and sent me to floor thirteen on the elevator. When I arrived at Matti’s door, I stopped, balling my fist and preparing my knuckles to knock. But something ate at me as I stood there tracing the numbers with my eyes one at a time: one, three, zero, six. Had I been there before? Hooked up with the previous owner? Matti had moved to the building only six months ago. Some of those drunken nights out had been a blur, but I would have remembered having sex with someone in this building. I shook the uneasy feeling from my core like a dog trying to dry its coat after a walk in the rain, then pressed my knuckles to the door, quickly rapping three times.

“It’s open!” Matti called from inside.

I let myself in, closing and locking the door behind me, unnecessarily announcing myself. “Hey. It’s Brandon.”

“I take it you found the place alright?” he joked from the kitchen, busy with something at the sink, maybe washing a dish, not yet visible from my location.

His entryway looked like mine: a long hallway that hugged the bathroom and bedroom before emptying out into the open living area and kitchen. In fact, it was my unit but a mirror image, everything situated in the opposite direction. His hallway, however, displayed a glass-framed record sleeve, the Introspective album signed by both Pet Shop Boys, vinyl disc hanging halfway out of the cover. A small wall-mounted accent light illuminated it.

“Nice,” I marveled. “You’re into Pet Shop Boys?”

“Yes, very much. ‘It’s Alright’ is one of my favorite songs.”

“I like ‘Domino Dancing.’ So,” I started. “You’re the idealistic dreamer, then?”

“Yes, I suppose.” His tone sobered as he spoke, his words becoming more deliberate. “And you are the heartbroken romantic?”

“Maybe,” I admitted with a pause. “We don’t need to get into that though.”

Matti looked at me from over his shoulder, a sincerity in his eyes, a wanting but guarded approach. I hadn’t yet made it into the core of his condo, but I could feel his eyes on me from the kitchen. He changed course. “That was signed when I saw them perform in New York in the early nineties. I have been to a few of their concerts since then as well. Have you ever been to one of their shows?”

“Nah, but I’d like to see them play someday.”

“They will be here in November.”

“Really? I’ll have to look into getting tickets,” I said, pulling myself away from the frame to enter the living room.

The walls were painted a soothing slate color. His place was cleanly decorated with mid-range, modern furniture and striking pieces of abstract art adding pops of color to the walls. Maple-stained cabinetry and glossy black countertops complemented the narrow hardwood planks that looked exactly like the flooring in my own unit. All of it was original to the building.

But I recognized the condo. I recognized this unit: the stainless-steel refrigerator, the sleek, compact dining table playing host to a tall glass vase filled with large white flowers in full bloom, the pendant lights hanging from the concrete ceiling above the coffee table directly in front of the couch. All of it looked familiar. Too familiar. My nerves twitched.

“Maybe we’ll go,” he calmly suggested, fetching two beers from the refrigerator and pint glasses from an upper cabinet. His confidence was intoxicating. “See them together.”

Matti was busy pouring our beers, his back still turned to me, when something clicked. A silent click. A flashing lightbulb. A sudden realization that caused one’s palms to sweat and one’s heart to race. It was a click I couldn’t be sure of, didn’t know whether it was good or bad, but the kind that threw puzzle pieces around, shuffled them, pressed them together with a curious hope that they themselves would then click.

I quickly darted toward the wall of glass that faced the South Tower, finding my unit two floors up and one stack over, two chairs, a small table, a banana leaf plant in a large, blue clay pot situated on my balcony—Mavis, I called her. The sun had dipped far enough below the horizon line that I was able to see inside, sort of, the corner of the wall-mounted television lit up, playing an unknown show for my dog, who was probably sound asleep on the couch by now, dreams of fetching tennis balls or chasing squirrels on repeat in his head.

A mental calculation sorted itself out as I took in the placement of my unit from Matti’s perspective, then reversed the view. A nervous chill descended my spine, my heart pounded in my ears, and rushes of blood pulsed through my veins, warming my face, muffling everything around me. Had I gone deaf? A hollow pit opened in my stomach, and my mouth went dry.

My mind reeled, thinking back to the day I met Matti and felt that familiar twinge in my soul, like I’d seen him before, like we had connected at some point in our lives. Maybe New York, I pondered after I learned of his background. But that wasn’t it. That wasn’t it at all. It became clear as I peered into my condo from his. We hadn’t met in New York. No, the twinge of familiarity was one-sided, more recent.

I was standing in the mystery man’s condo—the man who rarely wore clothes when he was at home, the man I’d been lusting after in my dreams, the man who unknowingly helped me climax just days ago. Matti was him and he was Matti and, holy shit, I was standing in his condo.

“What do you say?” he asked, setting the empty bottles on the countertop and turning around, a full pint glass in either hand, ignorant of my discovery.

I felt so humiliated, so vulnerable. How could I have not known that Matti was the mystery man? I’d only ever seen a darkened outline of him through his window, never able to make out specific features. But when I thought about it, his build was the same, his mannerisms were identical. So focused on my new interest, putting two and two together simply never occurred. I felt like my throat was going to close up and drop into my stomach.

Had he ever noticed me spying on him? Should I tell him I’d been watching him? Should I avoid the topic completely? Plead ignorance? I asked myself these questions in rapid succession as I tried to calm my nerves and pretend as though none of this was awkward for me. No matter which option I chose, it seemed like the wrong one. Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe he’d seen nothing, knew nothing. He’d invited me over, after all, came by the shop to see me, initiated the date. Jesus, I was so embarrassed.

I was still staring out the window when I finally heard Matti speak. “Brandon, are you okay?”

I pivoted to face him, my cheeks still flushed. He held out a beer for me. I finally snapped back to reality. “Uh, yeah. Sorry,” I stammered, accepting the glass from his hand. “I’m good. I just noticed I can see my condo from here.”

“So, your show is on one of the channels I subscribe to?”

“Yeah, I guess so. And vice versa.” I laughed nervously, trying to disguise the fact that I was speaking quite literally.

“Which one is yours?”

I hesitated for a moment but decided to go with it, motioning to my place. “Just there. With the big plant on the balcony.”

“I like your patio furniture,” he offered without blinking an eye or mentioning the strange guy who’d been watching him from my unit. Maybe he hadn’t noticed.

“Thanks. Yours is nice too,” I mentioned, shifting my focus toward his balcony. The door was pushed open, allowing light breezes to occasionally sweep into his condo.

Hugo was tuckered out, curled up on the couch.

Matti used a remote control on the coffee table to turn on the TV, selecting a station that played chill, instrumental music from whatever streaming service he utilized. He then picked up another remote control and dimmed the lights in his condo with the touch of a button. “Is this okay?”

The music was fine. It relaxed me as much as was possible in that moment. The mood lighting probably concealed my humiliation. A win-win.

“Yeah. It’s great,” I answered, more at ease than I had been moments ago. “You wanna hang outside?”

Matti smiled in silent confirmation and stepped through the sliding glass door. I followed just behind, taking a seat in the chair next to him as he relaxed on the balcony, resting one of his ankles on the knee of the opposite leg. I stretched my legs out in front of me, touching the railing with the tips of my sneakers as I typically did on my own balcony. The music playing on the TV inside was audible outside, loud enough to enjoy but not too loud to interfere with conversation. The night sky was finally creeping in, swathes of cobalt and navy punctured by starlight too timid to introduce itself just yet. The pool deck was empty, save for one person who appeared to have fallen asleep in their lounger. A sunburn from the afternoon’s rays surely awaited them.

“You smell very nice, Brandon,” Matti started before taking a sip of his beer.

“Thanks. It’s this cologne I order from an apothecary in New York.”

“I like it. It’s light, like summer. But masculine. Very sexy.”

“Thanks,” I repeated, unsure of what else to say.

“You changed your clothes again as well,” he continued. “You make me feel like I should change.”

“No, don’t. You look nice,” I argued. “I just wanted to get out of my work clothes.”

He smiled. “Thank you. You look nice too.”

I sipped my beer, and we drifted into a back-and-forth about neighbors in the building, sharing stories about weird things we’d caught people doing, joking that we hoped no one had ever caught us in compromised positions.

Too late, I thought to myself, picturing Matti’s unclothed silhouette in the window.

I told him about the couple that danced in their living room and the elderly flasher, trying to point out his unit above us at the opposite end of the building. Matti listened and laughed, then told me about the scenes he’d witnessed. There was an on-again, off-again love affair between two guys, their encounters always ending in tears. A party boy who went out every weekend and brought tricks home from the bar, waking up to kneel in front of his couch each morning, hands clasped in front of his face, presumably reciting a prayer. There was also an older woman who looked to be about eighty, he told me, who every Sunday morning watered her plants in the nude. The couple that danced in their living room seemed to stick with him.

“I find it romantic,” he said, somewhat whimsically. “Who knows? Maybe we will be that couple that dances in our living room one day.”

Matti suggested this without an ounce of reticence in his voice. I was silent as I looked into his eyes, an undetectable grin on my face hidden by nervous energy, an uncertain visage contorting my intended response. A slight tension rested in the space between us. I wanted to tell him that I really hoped it would be us dancing one day too, that my heart beat faster when he spoke. I wanted to tell him that I got nervous when he touched my hand but wanted him to touch my hand anyway, fluttering innards or not.

How did he possess so much confidence? Maybe he’d never been rejected. Maybe he’d never been told no or failed at anything. He was attractive and smart and had an accepting, supportive family. Maybe he felt he had nothing to worry about. I wished I could be that bold, that courageous, unafraid to say what I really felt when my heart was on the line. I could tell by his softening expression that he thought I was uncomfortable. I wasn’t. I was simply overwhelmed.

“Brandon,” he started again. “I know that I can be very forthcoming with my feelings, and I don’t want that to frighten you.”

He set his beer on the table between us while I gripped mine tighter, nodding to convey my understanding.

“I want to live my life with someone. I don’t know if this… if we… are going to go anywhere,” he said, motioning between the two of us with a finger. “But I like you. You make me smile. I just want to make my intentions known.”

I don’t know what came over me, but I set my beer down next to his, reached across the table, and grabbed him by the back of the neck, drawing him in close to me. Without thinking, without a single inhibition, I kissed him deeply. Initially, it was just our lips that met, but those lips soon parted, and our tongues began to dance. It was a passionate, sensual kiss, one that professed understanding and appreciation and hope and desire. My dick firmed as I palmed the back of his neck. Our drinks nearly spilled as we connected, rocking the table between us. They may as well have. It would have been a fitting representation of that kiss: urgent, explosive, consequential.

When we finally pulled away from each other, broke that kiss that I would have preferred to preserve, it was obvious that he had grown hard as well, shifting in his chair in hopes of adjusting the uncomfortable position of his cock. We remained still, lips parted, almost stunned by our behavior but just as enticed. It was a great kiss. A phenomenal kiss. The type of kiss that I wasn’t sure existed: powerful and intriguing and lasting. It would burn itself into my memory, and I would savor it if I ever needed to look back on something as proof of hope in life. There was surprise behind it, and not just because I unexpectedly attacked him with my mouth, but because something awakened us in that moment, something tore open the cover of an arresting, provocative novel that neither of us had read and neither of us could put down. A story was written with that kiss, and I wanted to know how it was going to end.

Another moment of silence passed before I spoke, before I admitted to behavior I wasn’t proud of, but seemed necessary in the moment. “I saw you before we met. I didn’t realize I had, but when I met you, something about you seemed familiar. I just couldn’t put my finger on it. It wasn’t until just now that I figured it out.”

“Okay,” he answered, an inquisitive smile drawing across his face.

“I can see you through my window.” I spoke more cautiously, riddled with reserve. I tried to stumble back into our shared metaphor, a childish grin dancing at the corner of my mouth. “You’re on my TV. I watch your show pretty regularly, only I didn’t know it was yours.”

Matti looked toward the condo I identified as mine earlier, then back to me. He began to laugh. “Is it a good show?”

“It’s my favorite show,” I admitted, nerves coming and going, undecided in their destination. “I’d record it if I could.”

Matti leaned in close and kissed me, this time shorter and sweeter, still grinning as he pulled away.

“I didn’t realize it was you,” I tried to explain. “I can only see your silhouette at night.”

“I usually don’t wear clothes when I am home,” he laughed.

“I know,” I confirmed with a grin, eyebrows raised in jest.

“Do you like what you saw?”

Every bit of apprehension, every bit of anxiety I had about that awkward situation faded away in that moment. He unabashedly flirted with me. He thought my embarrassment was cute, and all I wanted to do was ravish him. Lying to him wasn’t possible. Withholding information from him was not an option just then. I suddenly wanted to share everything with him. “Let’s just say the image of you standing by that window—by this window,” I explained, pointing to the window behind us, “helped me get to sleep a few times.”

I took a confident swig from my beer, pleased with myself. Matti responded by leaning his forehead into the palm of his hand, elbow resting on the arm of his chair, cheeks the slightest shade of pink as he shyly peered at me from the corner of his eye. The light from the moon kissed his skin, made it almost shimmer. An embarrassed chuckle pushed itself from his lips.

“Why do you walk around naked in your condo?”

He quickly got over his embarrassment, replying candidly, “I have never liked wearing clothes. They’ve always felt very restrictive to me. Even as a child, I could never keep my clothes on. I just feel more comfortable when I don’t wear them. Of course, I didn’t know anyone was watching me.”

“That’s something only people with nice bodies say,” I joked.

“Brandon,” he started, drawing my attention to his face. “You have a very nice body.”

“You’ve never seen my body.”

“I don’t have to see every bit of your body to know that I like what I see.”

Matti didn’t chuckle or laugh or try to convince me any further. He simply looked at me with an endearing expression that conveyed complete and utter honesty. I couldn’t help it. I smiled. He was genuine. Cutting myself down was a simple defense mechanism for me. It didn’t matter though. None of it mattered. Without so many words, Matti told me that he liked me. He liked the parts of me he already knew, and that was enough for him. That simple remark pierced my chest and bolted its way into my heart, the flutter of butterfly wings rippling their way through my entire being. I sat back and looked up into the night sky, wanting to be nowhere else in the world.

Matti relaxed as well, throwing back another sip of his beer before closing his eyes for a moment. “I would like to see every bit of your body though.” He smiled, opening his eyes, facing me. “Sometime.”

We both snickered and gazed at the stars, then Matti smirked. “Nothing much on TV tonight.”

“Don’t worry. I hear a new show is premiering any day now.”

“Oh? Which channel?”

“1524.”

“I’ll have to tune in.”

“Please do.”