Emmanuel, cosmopolitan boi that he was, was becoming lonely of late. He still frequented his usual haunts, errant impersonal coffeebars, bookstores, independent record vendors... the like. He knew exactly what pixie faces he would see... he'd already had his choice between most of them, and there would be no surprises there... he was a pretty fag... the metro boys and girls that surrounded him all wanted to know where he got his scarves. Emmanuel had tired of them though. There was no challenge in them; they all had familiar, willing mouths. Of course, while this was temporarily gratifying, he desired something more... something that would really thrill him in this tiresome corner of the earth, something significant, unique, an intimate moment with someone who could emancipate him from his jaded disenchantment with life.
He sauntered into the Kelsey Nines, a foppish pseudo-intellectual brothel of whored philosophers spewing rationalized banter over expensive beverages. The cyberpunks, the wanton goths, the occasional Buddy Holly type with his nose in a book... a nose that usually surfaced from said book when a countenance such as Emmanuel passed, to scrutinize with condescending eyes the obvious visual perfection they beheld. He knew he was pretty; thick curly black hair cropped at a jagged length, coiling just below his ears, olive skin of non-descript European descent, high cheekbones, predatory jawline, dark, deep set eyes to inspire poetry, full of inquisitiveness, sensitivity, assertion, a trim torso and defined hands.
With heavy eyelids he ordered a caramel mocha, glancing at the day's headlines and his watch, sadly considering the prospect of another uneventful evening of drinking coffee, reading, and feeling empty within the perimeter of his beauty: He was apparently so intimidating that no one ever approached him. He took his coffee and sat down. The K-Nines was the same. A void. He sipped, unamused.
After an hour of reading and re-reading an ancient issue of OUT!, pretending not to hear the comments of the boisterous libertine queens at the bar or feel the stares of the shy insipid mumblers, Emmanuel decided to clamber up and out of the bad pop art and teenage conjecture. He arose and strode to the counter, and oddly enough, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a fellow he had never seen before, sitting alone... an aura of lucidity seemed to emanate from him, he seemed familiar... the way two likeminded people recognize one another when their spheres of consciousness collide. The man glanced up to meet Emmanuel's gaze, to which Emmanuel responded by averting his eyes quickly and continuing to walk out the front door. After exiting and breathing in the moist night air, he paused. Every molecule in his body willed him to turn around, to look back. But instead he suppressed the impulse, trying to ignore the electricity of excitement coursing through him... he mumbled to himself about always being contrived in public... inhaled... exhaled... felt the moisture of his lips begin to evaporate and grow taut... and felt like he needed a cigarette.
Facing out into the street, he fumbled through his jacket pocket for the familiar box of Nat Shermans, heart racing in confusion. There was something metaphysically compelling about the mysterious fellow, but he couldn't place it... it seemed unfounded, the actual look of the guy wasn't terribly unique or assaulting, but yet here he was, raising a cigarette nervously to his lips, with the alarming notion that the anonymous other was somehow present by fate.
He placed the cigarette in his mouth, alighted on his lower lip, and as soon as the paper moistened and affixed itself, he was startled by a voice behind him: "Light?"
Emmanuel spun around. "What?"
It was the fellow. Standing equipoised, holding out a lit match.
"Yes, appreciated, yes... thank you." He plunged the cigarette into the flame; the paper recoiled in embers sending a flood of thick, heady smoke into Emmanuel's gasping lungs. After he exhaled a lazy whitish cloud into the falling dew, he looked up into the stranger's gaze. Silent, transfixed, temporal.
"Beautiful out, isn't it?" The stranger's voice was melodious, somber and weathered, aware of the bleakness of the world, and yet still hopeful. A voice of culture, of varied experience. An articulate, deliberate voice. A reassuringly familiar voice. "You seemed a little taken aback, I'm sorry if I surprised you," he chuckled, good-naturedly.
"Oh, no, it's OK. I'm just a bit... you had me kind of... it's late. And I just spent an hour detached from reality in that magazine."
"Understood. That place can become so tedious. I saw you on your way out... I figured I'd better catch you before you disappeared... you seemed so familiar, but I couldn't place you. I hope I haven't... bothered you, have I? I mean, you weren't in a hurry or something, were you?"
He was bewitching. The music of his voice, the curve of his eyebrows, the way he paused with knowing hesitation... there really wasn't anything conspicuously spectacular about him, he was just purely himself, genuine... or effacing a convincing façade of being genuine.
Emmanuel pulled in the smoke, looking downward, focused away from him. This fellow, whoever he is, must be queer. This isn't the sort of exchange I'd expect between two breeders, and here I am thinking about this, and I don't even know his name...
"My name's Todd, by the way. I do graphic design out of my single loft a few blocks downtown. And your name is...?"
"Emmanuel." He uttered it heavily, exhaling the smoke as he did. For all the times he'd wished to meet someone who made his pulse quicken in this all too familiar scene, he still felt uncomfortable. The tension, the anticipation... it wasn't like when they ogled him. He had no idea where this was going.
After a few more cigarettes and casual conversation out at a patio table (specifics on work, school, lifestyle, family, other such mundane drudgery), the crowd of townies and regulars who made the K-Nines a regular haunt ritualistically trudged out, around 1 a.m. A sense of apprehension rose in Emmanuel's stomach as he noticed the exodus; either he would shuffle off home alone, cursing himself for not offering to share his last joint with Todd, or he would retire to the aforementioned Loft, for whatever debauchery might follow their acquaintance. Both prospects seemed unpleasant somehow... he obviously didn't want to go home alone, but he disliked the uncertainty of going home with this guy. He'd done it many times, but Todd seemed significantly older than his usual quarries and things seemed to have gone almost too well.
"You should really come check out my place," Todd said, vacantly signing the receipt and handing it across the counter to the barrista. It wasn't until Emmanuel watched him replace his wallet that he noticed that he had taken care of both of their bills.
"You didn't have to-"
