9. PAUL

The strict routine of an airplane flight took its course: dinner served, dinner eaten, trays collected, lights lowered, rows of screens flickering. The soft, eerie glow of half-full spotlights barely illuminated the space, and a hush fell over the passengers. I thought about how coach would be right now, all tangled arms and legs and crying babies.

This was okay. This was really okay.

I turned to glance at Jack, seated beside me. That dividing panel they have in business class remained down. Our eyes met, and he gave me a warm smile.

“Are you a good sleeper on flights, Paul?” he asked.

“I’m okay sleeping on airplanes,” I said. “But I’ve never flown business class before, so I might be off like a baby.”

He laughed.

“I’ll nudge you if you snore.”

“Not if I put this panel up,” I said, pointing at the as-yet-unused divider.

“Do you want to put it up? I don’t mind if you do.”

“No,” I said. “I like being able to talk to someone. It’s a long flight.”

He smiled.

“Good. You should fly to Hong Kong or Tokyo. Now, those are long flights. I think Hong Kong is, like, sixteen hours.”

“Ugh,” I groaned.

He leaned in as if to whisper.

“Worth it, though.”

“Open an office there, then, Jack. I will be happy to run it for you.”

He put his hand across his seat for me to shake.

“Deal.”

We laughed, then began to settle into the flight. We each watched a movie for a short while. I expected him to choose some thriller, but he watched a French film with subtitles. It surprised me. Was he quite cultured as well as the looks and the success and the personality? Sheesh, some guys really do have it all…

Gradually, more and more people were trying to sleep, and eventually, with a soft smile, Jack turned and said he was going to bid me good night.

“You’re not watching to the end?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“I saw it on the big screen years ago. A real classic.”

“You know a lot about the movies?”

He winked at me.

“Le cinéma?” Then he laughed at his own obnoxiousness. “I am one of those guys who knows a little about a lot and a lot about little.”

I was sure that wasn’t true. He pulled out his sleep mask and earplugs from the complimentary bag they give you. I watched him unbutton his trousers and pull down the zipper a little.

“Now I can relax,” he said.

I smiled at him.

“Good night, Jack.”

He nodded and winked at me, pulling the sleep mask over his head.

“Good night, Paul.”

I watched him fiddle with the earplugs and pull the mask over his eyes before resting back in his seat. I settled into the comfort of mine, too. I couldn’t help but marvel at how great I felt then. It almost crept up on me. I was really looking forward to whatever was ahead.

***

In the soft darkness of the cabin at night, illuminated by those faint lights, I closed my eyes, surrendering quickly to the pull of my tiredness. The hum of the engines was as lulling as always.

A wave of tranquility washed over me, soothing. The tension seeped from my body. A profound sense of calm came over me. The confines of the airplane cabin seemed to cradle me, and soon, I was drifting away, I knew it.

I woke briefly now and then during the night. In the darkness, keeping my eyelids closed, my senses felt heightened, catlike. I attuned to the occasional murmur of conversation from other seats and the silent footfall of the stewardess as she worked about the cabin through the night, bringing water to those who called her, tidying things away, and getting ready for the morning.

Once again, I surrendered to the quiet calm of night, allowing its gentle embrace, and I fell back toward sleep. But at one point – I had no idea when I had lost all sense of time – I shifted in my seat. A curious physical sensation bore down on me: an unfamiliar pressure against my hand.

I realized that in my sleep, mine had wandered toward the armrest between Jack and me, with its dividing panel down, and his had done the same. Our hands were touching as we slept.

We weren’t holding hands, nothing like that. It was his skin against mine. And having touched, we had not pulled away from each other but had naturally stayed in that position.

I turned to look at him. He was fast asleep.

A few days before the flight, I saw a couple in the park on Washington Square walking around in the sunshine. One guy was tall and huge, a bodybuilder type, with Latino good looks and a confident air. The other was this cute, small Asian guy, very slight and pretty. The bodybuilder, so much bigger, held his boyfriend’s hand in his like it was the most precious, delicate thing in the world. Now and then, as they chattered idly, the little Asian guy gazed up at his man-mountain like he was his king.

Now, in the dark of the cabin, with trembling fingers, I allowed my hand to linger against Jack’s. As I gazed upon his big, masculine, sleeping form, I wanted our hands, our fingers, to embrace.

Maybe I wanted to be like the little Asian guy with the huge, handsome Latino guy. Maybe I wanted to feel like a man was my king.

My heart was thumping in my chest. The blood that was coursing around my body found its inevitable destination: I had a full, urgent erection.

As my hand lingered against Jack’s, the warmth of his touch seeped into my skin, sending a buzz of electricity into my body. It was a primal response to the intoxicating touch of another human being, of another man.

Then, without warning, in his sleep, he moved slightly and pulled his hand from mine. I looked at him a moment, my penis hard in my pants, and then turned my head and closed my eyes.

It was nothing.

This is all nothing, I kept saying to myself, feeling foolish.

***

Suddenly it was light. Windows were being raised. I stirred, emerging from the depths of slumber. With a groggy awareness, I watched as the window shades ascended, revealing the world outside bathed in the golden morning.

Next to me, Jack sat awake, looking at work on his phone. At once, he must have realized I was looking at him, and he turned to me, his demeanor bright and animated.

“Hey, buddy! Sleep well?”

I thought then of us touching in our sleep and its physical effect on me. I was amazed that I had fallen back to sleep, given its intensity at the time.

I mustered a drowsy response.

“Oh, yeah, not bad. You?”

He laughed.

“Out like a light. I closed my eyes and opened them again hours later. I was super tired last night.”

“Yeah,” I said hazily, pulling myself more upright. “You had a long day.”

“It’s good to do when you have a night flight. Knocks you out.”

His hair was brushed and gleaming with a touch of gel, and his skin was bright. He must have already been to the bathroom to was h up when I was still sleeping.

He looked down the breakfast menu.

“Can you believe they serve omelets on flights?” he exclaimed.

“The miracles of modern science,” I joked, pulling myself upright in my seat. I stretched a little. I wondered if I looked a wreck. Did my breath smell? He was talking.

“Do you think they were made in a factory two weeks ago, or are they just whipping them up down the front?”

I chuckled.

“They were probably made out of cornstarch in a factory in Colorado two weeks ago. ‘No egg was harmed in the making of this egg.’”

He laughed.

“I prefer to think Stephanie made the pancakes from scratch.”

“Stephanie?” I laughed.

“The stewardess. She told me her name when I got up earlier.”

I wondered if he had stopped her to explain we were only colleagues, nothing more. And maybe finding out, or assuming, he was straight, she extended her hand to the handsome man. “Hi, I’m Stephanie…”

Reading from the menu, Jack listed the array of options available.

“Croissants, fresh fruit, yogurt parfaits…”

“God, in coach, it’s like, ‘Here’s some gruel.’” He laughed merrily. I said I was going to go wash up a bit. He nodded. “Count me in for the coffee if it comes this way,” I said. “Anything to shake off this morning blur.”

The pilot began his announcement, telling us that we were now approaching the southwestern point of England and how long it was till we landed.

Jack turned to me, facing me from his seat.

“Are you excited for London?” he inquired.

“Kinda stoked,” I replied. “I can’t wait to see what London has in store for us.”

“Plenty of work,” he said. “But time for fun, too.”

“Cool,” I said. “I am always up for some fun.”

***

We got through Heathrow so quickly. It was all electronic gates and signs saying things like

“US citizens this way >>>>”

Outside the airport, Jack said we faced “the age-old question: Heathrow Express or taxi?” His mischievous grin revealed his preference before I even asked about the difference.

“You’re the boss,” I joked. “I just follow instructions.”

“Taxi it is!”

He hailed a black cab from a line at the taxi stand. We got into the back, the door opening front first, and then climbed into our seats. It really was like something from a movie.

We headed off from the airport, first onto a busy but anonymous freeway from which you could see hardly anything except trees and patches of anonymous suburb. In fact, London came on you slowly.

From Heathrow, we rolled for what seemed like forever through those grey outer districts, full of industrial warehouses and endless, identical streets of brick-box houses, until gradually, the city, as you imagine, began to appear: all those long, elegant Regency terraces, ancient church spires, and patches of dark green parks.

Jack knew the city a little and pointed out areas that he thought I might know.

“Down there is Holland Park and Notting Hill.”

“Oh, like the movie,” he said.

He shook his head.

“It’s not that much like the movie.”

I laughed. We rose up over a kind of steep overpass, and then we were at the lights by Baker Street Station, and suddenly it all felt real. This was really London as you imagined it, with all the beautiful buildings and endless people.

“That’s the original Madame Tussaud’s,” he said before we turned left off the freeway, although by then, it had become more of a regular inner-city thoroughfare.

Jack said the area we were in now was called Marylebone. It was full of winding old streets lined with super-cool boutiques and fancy bookstores. On the offstreets were houses that were so English-looking you don’t really think they could be real when you see them on TV, but here they were. They were English-looking, well, because we were in England!

“Do regular people live around here?”

He laughed.

“I think Madonna lived round here,” he said.

Finally, in the distance, he pointed out the bustling thoroughfare of Oxford Street, but we did not cross it. We turned up a long, wide avenue flanked by massive, pale Victorian buildings.

“We’re almost there,” he said as the taxi stopped and started at lights. “This is kind of our neighborhood.”

“What is this area called?” I asked him, turning to look at him in the back of the cab.

“Fitzrovia.”

“Oh, I’ve never even heard of it. How far is Soho?”

He pointed through the window.

“Literally just across Oxford Street. The office isn’t even ten minutes away.”

“Oh, cool. We can walk in in the morning.”

“Yep. London is the best city for walking.”

The quietly cool district of Fitzrovia opened before us: charming boutiques, quaint cafes, little art galleries, and very design-conscious furniture stores. I noticed a sign saying Charlotte Street, signaling a long, bohemian-feeling road filled with restaurants.

“Man, they don’t starve in London,” I joked.

“Nope,” Jack replied. “The food is amazing. Americans always say it’s not, but they are eating in tourist places. Actually, I think maybe it used to be awful, like, back in the day, but now there are endless amazing places to eat, cheap or pricey. You have to be smart, you know.”

“Yeah, look at Google for five seconds.”

“Exactly.”

Finally, we arrived at our destination, a road named Goodge Street, and Jack paid the taxi fare, flashing his credit card over the electronic reader.

With such a sense of excitement, I got out of the taxi and onto the quiet street. At its end was another big street, filled with red double-decker buses and enormous stores with grand facades. Jack followed me, pointing toward the street.

“That’s Tottenham Court Road,” Jack said.

“Jeez, all the names!” I joked. “It would be easier if there was a Twelfth Street and a Thirteenth Street.”

“And a 125th Street?” he teased.

I laughed. He was making a joke about Harlem.

“Maybe not.”

Jack walked up to an anonymous-looking building and tapped a code into a keypad at its front door. The door released.

“Do you know it by heart?” I asked, and he shook his head.

“Martine texted me the code last night.”

We stepped into the lobby. A concierge welcomed us warmly, with the air of someone who had met Jack before.

After a very swift check-in process, we made our way to the elevator to go up to our new – temporary – home.

The elevator ascended to the fourth floor. A bell dinged softly, and the elevator doors slid open, revealing a long corridor bathed in white light that fell from a lone window at its far end. We walked past various pale-wood doors, all very anonymous. Jack led the way with the air of one who knew where he was going.

We came to the flat number 4C.

“This is it,” he said, swiping one of the two key cards we had been given over a black glass panel on the doorframe. The door released.

Entering the apartment felt like stepping into a world of luxury, so far from my cramped little studio. A large main room, probably thirty-five feet long, was bathed in natural light streaming in from floor-to-ceiling windows. There were gauzy nets over the glass, but you could still see breathtaking views of London’s skyline through them.

The decor was all very minimal and pale except for a long, expensive-looking couch thick with throw pillows, all thick purple velvet, facing a massive TV screen.

Jack gestured toward a sleek, modern kitchenette in one corner of the room.

“Check out the kitchen, Paul. It’s fully stocked with all the essentials: a washing machine, dishwasher, and Nespresso machine.”

I laughed.

“No more making my own coffee like an animal.”

Ha!he went.

Man, it was nice. I had never had use of anything so cutting-edge and sharp. Jack motioned toward the Nespresso machine.

“We have our own personal barista right here.”

I chuckled. “I could get used to this.”

Jack drew my attention to a second couch nearer the window. He said it was a sofa bed. I turned and saw an open doorway, and in there, a double bed.

“So this was what Martine meant about the bed situation.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, “only one bed. But I don’t mind taking the sofa.”

Of course, as a junior, I should have taken the sofa bed.

“No, Jack, honestly…”

His response was immediate, raising his hand.

“Paul, take the bed. I’ll take the sofa bed. You saw me last night. I can fall asleep on a windowsill. Honestly, it’s fine.”

I hesitated. He was my boss. All this was on his dime.

“No, Jack…”

“Paul!” He widened his eyes and spoke in this chilled, masculine way so that when he said, “It’s fine,” you really trusted him.

He was gazing at me warmly.

“Thanks, Jack. That’s really kind of you.”

He shook his head.

“It’s nothing, man, honestly.”