5. DANNY

Idecided to go to the gym after work for a change. At about seven, I finished my workout, hard cardio followed by heavy whole-body weights. I loved that feeling of adrenaline coursing through my veins. I walked through the gym, covered in sweat. I worked out hard. I wasn't there to preen and pose. Breathing hard, my mind felt clean. I felt good. Real good, in fact.

The locker room beckoned, the hot beat of the shower on my body. As I stripped out of my gym gear, my mind drifted to Bruno and the prospect of living with him in New York. What would it be like to share a space with him? Would we be buds? Would we hang out and have fun? Was he still that bookish boy on the outside, on the edge, or did he live some hipster lifestyle in the Big Apple now?

I peeled off my sweat-soaked shirt and glanced in the mirror. Years of work, of pushing my body to its limits, had shaped me into strength and purpose. I used to be one of those bicep boys who liked to flash his big guns at girls in bars, but now I concentrated on my health and my strength. My boss, who I went to the gym with sometimes, once told me, "The minute your body hits forty, it turns against you," and I tried to remember that now.

As I bent down to untie my shoelaces, I caught a glimpse of movement in the corner of my eye. A young guy, handsome, youthful, a bit feminine, stood at the edge of my periphery. I realized his gaze was lingering on me in return. I met his eyes, the corners of his lips curling into a shy, tentative smile. It was a look I had seen before in locker rooms just like this.

For a moment, time stood still as we shared this silent exchange, a fleeting connection. Then, he spoke.

"I saw you in the gym, man. You go hard."

I grinned.

"Yeah."

A meaningful smile flickered over his lips.

"You go hard all the time?"

His eye held mine a moment too long, and then he looked up and down the length of my naked body. Only then did I realize – what an idiot I was! – that he was coming on to me. He was asking me to fuck him hard.

His eyes held mine. The realization had hit me like a bolt of lightning. I could go with this guy now, and he would let me inside him. He would love me to fuck him. He would love it.

It wasn't the first time I had been approached like this. And yet, I had always pushed it aside, ignored it. But here, in this quiet corner of the locker room, I wondered what it would be like, to fuck this guy, to fuck any guy.

Then the locker room door opened, and two men walked in, talking too loud, and the moment of possibility broke. The young guy pulled his towel up around his body. I laughed to show there was no awkwardness, and he grinned back, a sweet little grin, in fact.

"You have fun," I said.

The young guy winked.

"But not with you?"

I shook my head and winked at him.

"Flattered, man, but I'm—"

He rolled his eyes as a joke.

"Straight, I know." He shrugged. "They all are."

As I scooted back home quickly, the familiar buzz of my phone announced the arrival of a new message. I unlocked the screen to reveal the name RACHEL, the young woman I had agreed to meet for drinks. Her words danced across the screen, a delicate melody of anticipation and expectation. Yet, I couldn't shake the nagging sense of indifference that lingered in the recesses of my mind.

She was looking forward to seeing me at the Whiskey Lounge at 8:00 p.m., the message read, punctuated by a cascade of emojis that seemed to suggest excitement. I wondered what I was doing. I was about to be in New York half the time. She had been really, bravely open that she was here to look for a relationship, and she was looking at me.

But why was I even thinking of starting to date? It wasn't impossible that the company might ask me to move to New York permanently. Why start dating now? All of a sudden, the whole evening seemed a pointless exercise. Even if I liked her, she would think I was messing her around.

I should have just told her straight out. I could have texted her right then and explained. But she would have been hurt, felt just that, messed around, texted "Prick" back to me. I didn't want to hurt her feelings.

My niceness to women –that fear of hurting feelings – was often my Achilles' heel, the propensity to go along with things, to play the part of the dutiful suitor even when my heart wasn't in it.

It was a vulnerability I had long recognized, but I couldn't seem to shake the weight of expectation on me to be the perfect gentleman, the possible great boyfriend. The problem was I'd never found anyone I really wanted to be that person for.

I turned my attention to the task at hand, choosing something to wear for the evening ahead. I rifled through my wardrobe, pulling out chinos or jeans, cashmere sweaters, or open-necked shirts pressed from the dry cleaner.

In the end, I settled on a crisp white shirt paired with tailored trousers, a classic elegance that suited my physical presence well. A splash of cologne, a quick tousle of gel in my hair, and I was ready for the night, ready for the date, ready for the girl.

It was warm out that night, but the air-con in these places could be so fierce, so I reached for my Italian leather jacket. Then, a thought crossed my mind – the possibility of bringing along condoms, just in case. It was better to be safe than sorry, I supposed.

I tucked the condoms I kept in my bathroom into my pocket. And with that, I stepped out into the balmy, hazy summer night, ready for whatever was about to happen, and yet not really with my heart in it. Man, that says a lot about modern dating and, more than that, a lot about my own dating history.

The neon lights inside the Whiskey Lounge hit me as I pushed open a heavy steel door. The bustling interior revealed strains of boozy laughter and friends' chatter over sharp, cool hip-hop that music websites like to write about.

I looked around the room. She was already there, seated at a cozy corner booth. She lifted her hand to greet me, tinkling fingers in midair. As our eyes met more directly, a fleeting smile danced across her lips. She looked pretty with her brown hair straightened smooth and shiny, her lively, lovely eyes and sensual mouth. She looked like she really cared about the date. I didn't want to be a shit, you know. Suddenly I felt I wasn't really sure why I was even there, but still I broke into a big grin as I walked to her. She caught no edge of what was going on inside me.

"Hey," she called as I got to where she was sitting. "You're Danny, right?"

"Yeah, you're Rachel."

We awkwardly shook hands. For some reason, I expected her to be the two-cheeks-kiss type.

"Glad you could make it."

"Oh, my pleasure," I said, and she smiled. I slid into the seat opposite her, the soft rustle of fabric punctuating the stillness of the moment.

"Wow, you really are tall. How tall?"

"Six-three."

"Amazing, that's the perfect height," she said.

I shrugged. I am not sure what you are supposed to do with comments about your height, given it's almost the one thing you can do literally nothing about, and have no input into achieving it.

"That's good to know." I pointed at the glass of clear liquid in front of her: just water. "What are you drinking?"

I waved the waiter over as she replied, "Oh, thanks. A mojito, please."

I ordered the drinks: a classic old-fashioned for me and a mojito for her.

"So, how far have you come tonight?" she asked. I told her where I had come from, just the other side of downtown, so no distance. I explained where my apartment was.

"Oh, nice. Do you own?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said.

Her eyes glowed a little.

"Man, a handsome six-three architect who owns his own apartment. Why are you single?"

I laughed, but it was an odd thing to say.

"If I knew that…" I paused a moment. "Do you know this area well?"

"Yeah, my friends and I hang out around here a lot."

The conversation moved ahead, and our drinks arrived. We sipped them and talked about our respective jobs – hers in marketing, mine in architecture – and about how we loved our work and were ambitious. And then, almost as an afterthought, I mentioned my impending need to be in New York, and her face shifted a little.

"Is it a permanent move?"

"No," I said. Then I stopped myself. I shouldn't bullshit her. "Well, it's possible that it will become a permanent move, but at the moment, it's a few days every other week."

Her brow furrowed.

"I see. Are you getting an apartment there?"

"Staying with an old friend."

This seemed to bother her.

"Like a frat pad?"

"How do you mean?" I asked, a bit surprised.

"Sorry," she said, "that might seem a bit much. Only I have a question, if you don't mind."

"Sure," I said.

She paused a moment.

"Will you be committing to a relationship here if you're going to New York?" she asked, her gaze searching mine, obviously directly.

And so this was how my niceness turned against me. I didn't say the thing I wanted, or the true thing, and then eventually, someone hits you with a question straight out, with a directness you never have, and you end up looking like the shitty person.

"I…I'm not sure," I admitted. "I mean, I'll be spending a lot of time in New York, but…" We were still gazing at each other. "I mean, do you need an answer right now?"

Her brow furrowed in thought.

"I just want to know," she confessed. "I'm looking for something serious. I'm thirty soon, and I'm not looking for something casual or with conditions. Are you looking for that?"

"I think so," I said. "I'm almost thirty, too. Well, I'm twenty-eight."

"But would that relationship be here or in New York?" Things had got intense real fast. We seemed to have gotten several steps ahead of ourselves. She laughed, realizing it herself. "Sorry, I need to be direct. My sister waited for a guy till she was thirty-seven, and then he left her anyway, and she was looking at forty with no husband, no kid, you know."

"Yeah, I get that," I replied. "I mean, who knows what the future holds, right?"

She smiled, and I could see her positivity falter. That had been the wrong thing to say, it was clear. Or maybe it was the right thing if it gave her the answer she was looking for.

"Yeah," she murmured, her voice barely audible above the din of the crowded bar. "Who knows, indeed?" She glanced at her watch. "I should probably get going," she said.

"Oh, really?"

Her eyes held mine.

"It was nice to meet you, Danny."

I grinned.

"But not that nice?"

"Look, I'll be direct. If you ever sort out whether or not you're here or in New York, let me know. I can't talk. I went off to Chicago. But I just know what I want, and there's no point in messing anyone around or being messed around, you know?"

I nodded in understanding. I actually admired her directness.

"Of course," I said. "I'll walk you out if you like."

She smiled.

"Cool. Let's get the check."

I shook my head.

"On me."

"Are you sure? I don't mind."

I shrugged.

"Least I can do."

Check settled, we stepped out into the cool night air, the streets bathed in the soft glow of streetlights, casting long shadows against the pavement. The silence between us stretched out.

I said I would wait with her till her Uber came, but suddenly, we seemed to have nothing to say to each other, so we ended up sitting in near silence. Only scraps of observations of how long she had to wait, how far she had to go, saved us from total silence. Then, a black sedan pulled up, and the driver signaled to her that he was her ride. She checked the app to confirm the license plate.

"Goodnight," she said. I watched her slip into the back seat, her lonely silhouette darkened in its window. The car pulled away. I sighed heavily.

I walked back to my apartment. Getting up to my floor, with the keys in the lock, the door creaked open. I stepped into the lamplit loft space. With a flick of the switch, the main light came on, and two moths flew around, panicked by the sudden, sharp illumination. They danced in a circle, like those tropical birds who perform intricate courtships and mate for life.

I moved with deliberate slowness, each step echoing in the quiet expanse of the space. The TV stood in the corner, and I craved its hum of noise to anesthetize my thoughts. With a press of the remote I had left on the couch, its screen flickered to life. The news anchors started speaking midsentence, with their tales of crime, corruption, and war, and what one celebrity said about another.

I sank into my couch and swung my legs around to stretch them out across its cushions, kicking off my shoes, which clattered to the wooden floor. I sat there for a few minutes, then suddenly became desperate for a drink of water.

Going over to my kitchen, I got out a glass from the cupboard. The faucet gushed as I filled it, clear liquid rising up till the glass was almost full. I took a sip, the water cool against my dry lips and tongue.

I walked back to the couch and lay there for a long time, staring at the news, barely listening to the words. The evening's events lingered in the air. And then my phone buzzed, its screen illuminating the darkness with a soft glow. I reached for it and turned the screen toward me:

NEW MESSAGE

FROM brUNO

I was glad to see his name. It was good we were starting to build up some kind of friendship if we were going to be "part-time roommates."

Smiling, I unlocked the device. In the low light, it took me a moment to read the text. I had to squint, and for a moment, I thought I had misread it. But when I read it again, I saw that I had not. He had written what I had thought he had:

MAYBE YOU SHOULDN'T STAY HERE

SORRY TO MESS YOU AROUND, BUT YOU SHOULD BE ABLE TO GET A HOTEL ROOM FOR THAT MONEY

EASILY

I paused, astonished.