Strange Twilight Urges

I rarely notice people anymore. Why did I give him a second glance? Maybe it was where he was sitting. In the back. Looking forward. His face not blank exactly, or false "expectant." Just interesting. So I sat in the side seat for a good view, my sunglass clips firmly fixed (Anouk Aimee at CostCo.) It could have been his physical disposition. He didn't slouch. A maroon pullover over a white T. Blewjeans (as Zazie would say.) Close-cropped brown Protestant rat-fur (hair) and close-cropped beard (like mine) About, oh late 20's? Can't really tell anymore. Definitely young enough to be my son if I were straight (an ever-expanding category of male loveliness.) Uh, oh -- there's something in his hand. It's a phone. (Crap!) He holds it nervously, occasionally glancing at it. Just as we pull up to Santa Monica and Fairfax he makes a call. No one there so he leaves a message. Considers another call then changes his mind. As he gets off the bus he gives me a quick glance. Had he noticed me all this time? Difficult to say. Where is he going? Impossible to say. 20 years ago it would have been to the Spike. Now -- who knows? The louche magnificence that was once Santa Monica blvd has vanished. Nondescript yuppie emporiums and Russian emigre foodshops now reign. Jumping into the Wayback Machine




I follow him into the Spike. We eye each other for a half an hour. He sips a beer, I a gin and tonic. Then we sidle up. He takes me back to his place. I peel off the maroon pullover, the T, pull down his Blewjeans and have at him -- and he me. Lovely.

We never see each other again.