Chapter 9

Itinkered around the shop that weekend, stocking shelves and organizing product as I always did in between ringing up customers. A typical Saturday afternoon as an adult had matured into a routine far less interesting than one my youth would have seen, when I would regularly wake up on a friend's couch or the floor of a dingy apartment on the Lower East Side or somewhere buried deep in the bowels of Brooklyn. It would belong to a friend of a friend of a friend, I was told, some stranger who'd become far too familiar in the course of a few hours, a relationship forged by manufactured chemical compounds and necessity.

Surrounding me would be a host of other people, passed out, dead to the world, only throw pillows and shabby blankets to provide comfort while they slept off nights of Ecstasy-fueled dancing and roaming the streets. I would wander around an unfamiliar space trying to find anyone I recognized, waking them so we could swipe a couple of tall boys while distracting the shop owner by ordering fifty-cent coffees on our way to the train station. On the train back to Babylon, we'd nurse hangovers and self-induced depressions while ironing out the details of the lies we'd tell our parents about passing out at the other's house the night before.

Getting older is inevitable but humbling. Growing up, a reckoning of responsibility and memoir.

Every week was the same back then, sleeping through class all day, working a few hours each night walking dogs and cleaning kennels at the vet clinic. But the weekends held variety, intrigue. The raves would come and go, like trains passing through a station. Clubs would open and close. But there was always something to do, some kind of trouble to get into, to be created. Caffeine or Tunnel or Limelight or the Shelter, we could always find a place to party, sometimes waiting on line for hours to flash our fake IDs. Not that the door staff really gave a shit. We were as bridge and tunnel as they came, but we'd do everything we could to get to know the staff at a favorite spot to avoid having to wait in the future. But if someone we didn't know was working the door one night, we'd just end up somewhere else.

It didn't matter where we partied; the music was good anywhere we ended up back then. We didn't have the internet to distract us, no phones or social media. All we had was each other, the music, the rush of the drugs, the thrill of the hunt. After midnight, anything seemed possible.

"How you doin'? What's your name? What you on?" Those were the first words delivered to strangers in the night. They were icebreakers. Everyone was on something. And before leaving the party, twelve new friends that we wouldn't have made without the pills had joined our circle. We'd look for them the following weekend, party with them in our chosen universe. Those nights were ecstasy. We'd dance and we'd laugh and we'd create a world around us that was so much easier than the one outside. For a time, we were invincible.

My folks would be promised a safe return by midnight but wouldn't see me until the next day. My pops fought me about going out, tried to ground me when I didn't make curfew. I would sneak out anyway, crawling through my bedroom window, expertly rappelling down the brick chimney tower and using the fence-line tree branches as leverage. I only hurt myself once, spraining my wrist as I slipped from a missed step just a little too high up, hitting every branch of the massive pine tree that separated our place from the neighbors on my way down. I crashed, and my friends laughed from Corey's car parked across the street, lights off, engine cut. I went out anyway, scratched up and bruised, the drugs eventually numbing the pain. My parents gave up after a while, expecting me home when I arrived, their worry turning to anger, their disappointment to ambivalence.

The nights were wild, unshackled from fear by discovery. The rush encountered by leaving the comfort of home behind, meeting up with friends, listening to music, and popping a pill in someone's car headed into the city, the skyline visible on the LIE from miles away, it was palpable and unbridled. Some new mixtape by a DJ someone knew was pushed into the tape deck while we bullshitted about music and passed a joint around. We didn't realize how reckless we'd become, my friends and I. It didn't matter. Because as grown up as we felt, we weren't burdened by adulthood. Bills and rent and work and death, the weight of those concepts didn't register.

We wanted to live on the edge so badly that we didn't realize there was no edge. The edge was an unachievable construct that couldn't be reached by way of baggy jeans or glow sticks or staying out all night or even drugs. We were kids having fun, the music leading us into an energetic state of bliss. I guess we were part of something. Not quite realizing the roles we played, we continued searching, looking for some movement that was more avant-garde and underground than what we'd already found, whether or not that existed. The scene was a drug on its own, and we constantly needed another taste.

This fucking midlife crisis I'd been caught up in, colored by rosy daydreams of the past, was cheaper than buying a sports car but emotionally draining.

Amid my reminiscing, the front door to the shop opened, the bell jolting me back to reality. I was surprised to see Matti stroll in with Hugo. After my unfortunate attempt at a date with Ritz went awry, my run-in with Matti had escaped me. Hugo excitedly sniffed at the air, head turning from side to side, exploring his surroundings, intrinsically picking up the scent of bully sticks and freshly baked dog treats. Matti lingered behind him, leash in hand, as he closed the door and glanced around the shop, finding his bearings in a space that was foreign to him.

I tried to grab his attention, to say hello, but wound up tongue-tied. He wore khaki shorts that fit him in all the right places and a white polo, the buttons at the neck casually unfastened, again drawing attention to the hair that graced his firm chest. My mouth hung open as I stared. At least, I assumed it did while I tried to form a coherent sentence, a few disconnected words at the very least.

When I met him on the sidewalk, I thought he was attractive, even cute. But had I been so caught off guard, so distracted by the bustle of the neighborhood, that I didn't notice how hot he was? Confident by nature, relaxed, and easygoing, he lit up the room, a smile appearing on his face as his mellow, green eyes found mine.

"Hello, Brandon," he said, pulling Hugo toward the counter.

He remembered my name, and hearing him say it made my insides flutter. In my fervor, I stumbled to find a response, disconnected letters twisting in a cyclone, unarticulated syllables and unspoken words still trying to find each other in my brain, to connect in a way that made sense.

"Matti," I managed, the inflection in my voice giving away my surprise at seeing him. "How are you?"

"I'm well. Thank you. We were out for a walk, so we decided to stop in. Your shop is very nice."

"Thanks. It's kinda slow right now. We usually get a morning rush and an evening rush—y'know, people dropping off and picking up their pets. But it's a perfect time for shopping around. Can I help you find anything? We have these fresh-baked treats brought in daily," I rambled, pointing to the glass case full of prepared dog biscuits.

Matti laughed at my awkward fidgeting. "Sure. A treat would be nice."

I lifted the lid to the case and removed a large, bone-shaped snack while Matti reached into his back pocket to fish out his wallet.

"No," I offered. "It's on me."

"Are you sure?" he asked, holding his wallet open in his free hand.

"Yeah. I mean, I'm glad you came by to check us out," I stumbled, attempting to amend my choice of words with an embarrassed laugh. "The shop, I mean. I'm glad you came by to check out the shop."

Matti smiled, returning the wallet to his pocket while I bagged the treat for Hugo, now sitting on the concrete floor, uncharacteristically well-behaved. "I may have come by to check you out as well," he admitted, almost phrasing it as a question, the slightest fragment of apprehension in his tone. "I wanted to come by sooner, but work has kept me busy this week."

Matti's assertion caught me off guard, the butterflies at it again, deep shades of red surely finding my face. The confidence in his expression wavered, features turning themselves almost uncertain. The shift was marginal, but I saw it. There was something so honest about him, so forthright. It wasn't a trait I encountered often in guys, and I wasn't quite sure how to react. No innuendo, no beating around the bush, waiting for the other person to make the first move. This was unfamiliar territory, a new terrain I wasn't sure how to navigate.

He looked at me, knowing exactly what he wanted to happen but not sure if the feelings were reciprocated. He continued, "Maybe you would like to have a glass of wine with me sometime? Or dinner?"

"Yes," I replied without hesitation, maybe too eagerly, failing to calm my nerves. "I mean, yeah. That sounds nice."

His features softened as I accepted the invitation. My newfound mandate, the self-inflicted push to keep searching for connection, for love, shoved me out on a limb without warning, without question. Inspired by his forwardness, I continued. "How about tonight? I'm stuck here for another hour, but maybe we can go for a glass of wine after? Six o'clock?"

Matti took delight in my offer, his reaction an almost elated mix of amusement and satisfaction. "Okay. Yes," he affirmed, almost surprised by his own response, his implicit relent to impulse. "Should I meet you here?"

"Sure. Bring Hugo if you want. Maestro is upstairs, so he'll probably tag along if you don't mind."

My confidence grew as his retreated. I liked the game we played, nerves and ease and flirting and no rules by which to abide. The balance between us was fragile, but we both managed to maintain a grip, excitedly playing off one another, relinquishing control and piningly hoping for a positive response.

"We don't mind at all." He smiled, then repeated himself, "You have a very nice shop. I'll see you later, Brandon."

His courage returned, sexy and potent. I smiled back, handing him the bag holding Hugo's treat as he turned to walk away, long legs striding, muscles flexing, responding to my silent wishes, my telepathic desires. My dick twitched in my jeans as I watched him, ass perfectly framed by his shorts. I was lost in the memory of his movement for what seemed like hours after the door closed behind him.

"Yo, B!" Vonnie shouted from the landing overlooking the shop floor, startling me as she leaned into the railing with the palms of her hands.

I catapulted from my daydream, hand instinctively grabbing my chest, rattled and visibly annoyed as I returned her gaze. She cracked up at my fluster, unable to control her laughter.

"Shit, Vonnie!" I shouted back, heart racing. "You scared me."

"I was just trying to reel your tongue back into your mouth."

I scoffed. "Hilarious."

"He's fine though. Good job, B," she lauded with sincerity. "And I got all these bitches up here bathed and trimmed. Why don't you take off and get ready for your date? I got this."

At five minutes to six, I found myself back at the shop, Maestro in tow, anxiously awaiting Matti's arrival. The last pickup had just occurred, and Vonnie counted the drawer, Maxi by her side, braids sweeping the countertop as she spoke. "Almost done, boss."

"Take your time."

She bagged the cash, and I ran it upstairs to drop it in the safe, desperate for something to do, to occupy my attention while I waited. She continued typing the totals into the system, electronically storing the day's counts.

"How'd we do?" I asked, skipping down the steps after locking my office.

"Typical. Up from last year but about the same as last week."

"I'll take it," I announced, happy the business was running smoothly.

"You ready for your date?"

I'd exchanged my work outfit—the tattered T-shirt and drool-stained blue jeans—for a nicer pair of shorts and a casual, long-sleeved, plaid button-up, the sleeves rolled up my forearms. Still relaxed but much more suited to drinks on a patio, to a first date with someone who seemed cool and collected on the surface. A nice, normal guy. "I think so. Do I look alright?"

"You look good, but you could've shaved," she teased.

"Give me a break. I had thirty minutes to get ready."

She laughed as I glanced down my frame to examine my outfit, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles in my shirt. Maestro lay down on the cool floor, tongue out, leash draped beside him, looking up at me from time to time as I nervously primped. He and Maxi paid each other no mind.

"Alright," Vonnie announced, switching off the monitor and grabbing Maxi's leash. "We're gonna get outta here."

"You got plans tonight?"

"Yeah," she stated matter-of-factly. "A bottle of wine and Netflix."

She turned and made her way to the door. I grabbed Maestro's leash and followed her out, switching off the lights, setting the alarm, and locking the door behind us. "Don't get too crazy."

She chuckled and wrangled Maxi into the back seat of her SUV. As she pulled away, I noticed Matti walking Hugo up Grove Avenue from the opposite direction. He smiled when he saw me and Maestro standing in front of the shop. He was prompt, a good sign considering most guys I knew had no concern for or concept of time.

"Hey!" I called in his direction, a welcoming head nod accompanying the greeting.

Matti raised a hand in acknowledgment before speaking. "You changed your clothes. I feel like I should have changed now as well. Maybe worn something nicer."

"Nah, you look good," I offered. "I just cleaned up a little. I didn't want to meet you covered in dog hair."

He smiled, offering a compliment in return. "You look very nice, Brandon."

I loved how he used my name when he addressed me, so personal, so meaningful, an intentional gesture that was as respectful as it was endearing.

He continued. "Shall we have a drink?"

"Sure." I nodded in the direction of the restaurant patio next door. "Have you been to Bari?"

The gray-and-white-bricked structure that housed the Italian restaurant known for its Adriatic cuisine and wine wedged itself between my shop and XO. It was early enough that a few tables were available, dreamily waiting for customers underneath strands of twinkling white lights strung over the charmingly decorated terrace, a visual ambience accompanying the Mediterranean music that wafted softly from small speakers hanging from the corners of the building. The sun had yet to set, but the magic of that patio didn't require dusk.

"Yes. It's very good. Shall we?"

We grabbed an open table, the host handing us menus as we sat. The dogs quickly curled up at our feet and fell asleep, ignoring the bowl of ice water that was delivered with the menus. The temperature had grown pleasant as day turned into evening, subtle breezes slicing through the thickness of the air: relieving, relaxing, and perfect. Fluffy, white clouds floated high above, vibrant blue sky moving them along with haste, as if to say, "Nothing to see here, folks."

"Do you eat here often?" Matti kick-started our date with an easy, benevolent inquiry.

"Yeah. Maybe twice a month. Convenient since it's so close to my office," I joked, using air quotes around the word office for some reason. "Plus, I know the owner. We run into each other quite a bit. What about you?"

"I've been here a few times. More often since moving to Midtown six months ago."

"Oh, yeah? Where were you before?"

"Inman Park. And Candler before that."

"How long have you been in Atlanta?"

"Since graduate school at Georgia Tech. About eighteen years now, I guess," he pondered, seeming surprised by how long he'd lived in the city. "Before that, I was in New York for fourteen years."

I became a dog with a bone upon hearing of his pedigree, so excited by his admission that I didn't allow him to continue. "Get the fuck out. You lived in New York? That's where I'm from."

He laughed at both my brazen use of profanity and obvious attestation of origin. "Yes, your accent may have given that away."

He smiled as he spoke, looking into my eyes as if he'd never seen anything more appealing. It was comforting to have someone so unconditionally interested in what I was saying, even when I wasn't saying anything at all. The flutter in my stomach returned, that rush of warmth underneath my skin, speeding through my arms and into my fingertips before racing to my neck, my face, blushing my cheeks. Fortunately, my embarrassing reaction was forgotten as the waiter approached our table, placing two glasses of water on the white tablecloth, requesting our drink order.

"Do you like red or white?" Matti asked, interrupting my humiliatingly adolescent stupor.

"Uh, white sounds good."

"I agree," Matti relayed to the server. "A bottle of white wine, please? Maybe something Italian?"

"Sure," she obliged with a smile. "I'll bring you something to sample."

After she disappeared into the restaurant, I addressed Matti once again, joking, "A bottle? Seems awfully confident."

"Yes. Maybe I'm being presumptuous, but I'd like to think we'll be here for a while. I would like to spend the evening getting to know you, Brandon. If that's alright."

I melted, obscuring a look of contemplation with a silly grin. I experienced a brief moment of genuine confusion about how someone could be so forthcoming with their intentions. I tried to respond in kind. "Me too. Where did you live in New York?"

"I lived in the city. SoHo during university, then around the Village until I moved to Atlanta. And you?"

"I grew up on Long Island but spent a lot of time in the city when I was a teenager. Moved to Harlem for school and stayed there until 2002, when I moved here," I spilled. "It's crazy that we both lived in Manhattan at the same time. Did you go out?"

"Yes, sometimes. Everyone went out in those days, no?"

"Yeah," I laughed. "We probably ran into each other if you went to the clubs. I spent a lot of time at the Roxy, Twilo, the Shelter. And the Factory before it closed."

"I've been to most of those. I liked to party at Area, and the Garage was fun too, when it was still open."

"You're kidding. Wait, how old are you? You don't look that much older than me."

"Uh." He hesitated, suddenly realizing he had given himself away with the names of the clubs he frequented. "I'll be fifty next month."

"Get outta here," I exclaimed too loudly for the venue, lowering my volume before continuing. "You look so much younger than that."

And I wasn't lying. A few sexy lines dotted his face, and the backs of his hands were ever-so-slightly weathered, but he had a full head of hair, and his body was in good shape. Really good shape. I would have guessed forty, forty-five, tops.

He laughed at my shock. "Thank you. But you hardly look old enough to have partied at the Sound Factory. Tell me, Brandon, how old are you?"

"To be honest, me and my friends only hit it up a few times, toward the end. Technically, I wasn't old enough to get in," I relayed, less daunted about revealing my age to someone who had seen more years and understood what life was like without an all-knowing phone in their pocket. "I'll be forty in July."

"You look quite good for your age," Matti complimented. "How do you stay looking so young?"

I snickered. "A lot of water and dumb luck."

He smiled, easygoing and controlled. I posed the question back. "And you?"

"Well, I do try to exercise and maintain a reasonably healthy diet," he explained as our waiter returned carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses, setting one on the table in front of each of us. "Of course, tonight is a different story."

She uncorked the bottle, tipping it to pour a splash into his glass. A tasting. Matti picked up the glass, gently swirling it once before bringing it to his lips and throwing it back. "It's very good. Would you like to try?"

"Nah, it's alright. I trust your judgment."

A wine connoisseur, I was not, having been to only a few tastings in my life, courtesy of Nate's showboating. He liked to know more about everything than everyone else, so he dragged me along when he got on a wine kick. Our waiter filled both of our glasses before placing the bottle in a bucket of ice and letting us know she'd be back to take our order.

"Do you not like wine?" he asked after she departed, almost concerned.

"Nah. I mean, yes, I like wine. I'm just not an expert. When I buy a bottle, I usually pick it out based on the label."

He smiled. "I like that. That means that you've probably tried many interesting wines."

"Yeah, I suppose I have. What about you? You know a lot about wine?"

"Not a lot. But where I come from in France, wine is important, so I learned a little when I was growing up."

"Where in France are you from?"

"I was born in Lille and spent many years there. When I was a teenager, my father moved us to Belgium. That's where I finished my secondary education and probably why I have this funny accent," he joked. "That, in combination with many years in New York and Atlanta, I'm sure my accent is all over the place."

His minor embarrassment over his manner of speaking was the first sign of playful uncertainty—of self-deprecation—he'd shown, and it was staggering how adorable that moment of shyness was.

"I think your accent is interesting," I said, meeting his eye. "It suits you."

"Thank you. I very much enjoy yours as well."

Those eyes were deep, the lids naturally heavy as they rested over dark green irises, lashes barely visible. They spoke volumes about his character: thoughtful, sensitive, strong. Even if I hadn't known him long enough to recognize the traits, eyes have rarely lied to me. His were engaging, unafraid, experienced. As I thought about this, he told me the same. "Your eyes are very intense, Brandon. I think you have seen a lot of things in your life."

Maybe I had. But I wasn't ready to talk about any of that with him. Our waiter's timing was impeccable, approaching the table before I could stumble through a response. She asked us if we were ready to order, pleasantly distracting me from our conversation.

"Are you hungry?" I was relieved to be talking about food rather than anything more consequential.

"Maybe just some bread while we drink our wine?" he asked me, my opinion important to him. "And we can have dinner after, if you'd like."

"Yeah, sounds good."

The conversation progressed easily, naturally, even if the subjects we discussed teetered on the cusp of significance. One topic led to another, and each tale that was told triggered curious questions and inspired more stories. We spoke at length about the places we'd grown up and those things we missed about living in New York. Matti told me how he traveled as a child, to London and Paris and Amsterdam. My folks quickly dismissed any travel requests my sister and I posed on the principle of economic value, cultural benefit finding no importance with my pops.

We discussed education, careers, life goals. Matti had received his master's degree in urban planning and design, now working for the city of Atlanta, tasked with creating and implementing eco-friendly solutions, safer street designs, walkable community initiatives. A passion for public transportation spurred dreams to one day expand and modernize Atlanta's mass transit system. He led an interesting life, and I found myself enamored with his storytelling. A hopeful optimism highlighted his words.

Short lulls in dialogue were due only to sipping wine or biting into fresh orecchiette, after which we would pick up where we left off, our canine companions ambivalently ignoring us, save for occasional table scrap pleadings. Matti was the first person I'd ever gone out with who completely captivated my attention. Something about him drew me in, encapsulated me. When he spoke to me, it was as though I was lying stomach-down on the carpeted floor of my childhood home, watching cartoons on a Saturday morning, face propped on hands and elbows, existentially pondering life choices made by animated characters, tuning out everything around me. My ma could be calling my name from the kitchen, but I wasn't concerned. Matti was speaking, and that was far more important than any distraction, than an ambulance rushing by or the screeches of car tires or incessant blaring of horns at the intersection down the block, even the loud music that unforgivingly blasted from the giant speakers on XO's patio.

Shit. Music. Had we somehow stumbled upon ten o'clock already? The tables around us were all occupied, and people were waiting at the bar inside. The boys in their short shorts and tank tops had started to populate the sidewalks along Grove, waving at passersby across the street and calling out to familiar faces dining near us.

"Hey, ladies!" a twentysomething with perfectly coiffed blond hair shouted to a large group of guys next to us as he strolled by with a band of lookalikes, hands curled around his mouth to fashion a makeshift megaphone.

"Girl, you coming out later?" another asked playfully, muscles straining against a T-shirt that was at least a size too small.

Anthemic bouts of laughter and overly dramatic whoops radiated from the XO patio, the boys of Midtown out to drink too much and show off the results of their daily workout regimens to strangers that could give two fucks what anyone looked like as long as they had a big dick. I generalized, but that's what the scene now resembled to me: fluff and snow and cotton candy under hard-muscled shells. Depth had gone missing, stayed home sick. In place of substance was an infinity pool of word vomit about real housewives.

I missed all of this blooming around us as Matti and I chatted, as the hours passed, engrossed in a conversation that was more interesting, more encompassing than the shallow world around us. Matti seemed to be the exception to the rule with his talk of travel and wine and ideas about urban design, a topic to which I'd never given much thought. He knew what a landline telephone was. A phone booth. A VCR. Cash. It was refreshing. Four hours and two bottles of wine had disappeared since we sat down, and to me, it felt like time had lapsed. We couldn't possibly have been conversing for four hours. Yet, we had. And as we emerged from our cocoon and finally noticed the clamor around us, we subconsciously agreed that it was time to leave.

The waiter brought the check, and Matti presented his card before I had the chance to retrieve mine from my wallet. Against my protestation, he insisted that this meal was to be on him, slyly dropping a hint, "Maybe you will take me out next time."

We gathered the dogs and exited the patio, turning right onto Grove.

"Thanks for dinner," I mentioned as we walked. "It was nice to talk about something other than dog food for a change."

Matti laughed before asking, "Do you live nearby? I would like to walk you home, if that's okay?"

"Yeah, just a couple of blocks from here. You know Stratus?"

"Of course," he confirmed, confusion coloring his words. "That's where I live."

"You serious?"

Had this guy been living in my building for the past six months without me knowing? Without us ever running into one another in the lobby, the mail room, waiting for the elevator?

"Yes. I love it there. I sometimes say that the opposite tower is like having a hundred different TV channels to choose from."

It wasn't just that Matti made the same observation about the building that I make almost daily; it was that his observation was the first thing he mentioned about it. A smile lit up my face as my head fell forward, disbelief and delight simultaneously giving me pause.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing," I lied, lifting my head to meet his gaze. "I say the same thing all the time. I sometimes sit on my balcony at night and channel surf, looking for something interesting to watch. You live in the South Tower?"

"No." He smiled, meeting my eyes. "The North."

"Ah, you've got the package with all the channels I don't have."

"Yes, and vice versa, I assume. Maybe you will come over and we can watch TV sometime. Shall we?" he asked, referring to the walk that would lead us back to the building in which we resided. We deliberately took our time, absent-mindedly chatting about the neighborhood as the dogs occasionally stopped to relieve themselves on a bush or a wrought-iron fence post.

At the back entrance, we stopped to face each other on the inclined driveway, bringing into focus how tipsy we'd gotten from the wine as he almost lost his footing. Instinctively, I reached my arm out to catch him, but it wasn't necessary. My own inebriation made his stumble appear worse than it had actually been.

"I haven't had that much to drink in a while," he laughed.

"Don't worry," I joked. "I hardly noticed."

"Listen, Brandon," he started before pausing. "I have really enjoyed your company tonight, and I very much want to continue our evening…"

I wasn't sure if he was going to invite me up to his condo or not. My mind reeled at the possibility but shuddered at the thought of a confusing day after, not knowing what to say to one another when we woke up tired and hungover. Fortunately, I didn't have to make a decision.

"I just don't want to do anything that either of us might regret tomorrow," he continued. "I hope that's okay."

"Matti, that's cool. I'm on the same page. But I think I would like to see you again soon, if that's okay. Take you up on your offer to watch TV?" I joked. "I can maybe even spring for dinner."

It was a bold, determined move on my part, a move that I hadn't made with a guy in quite some time. I was confident that Matti wanted to see me again as well, but I wanted to be the one to put forth the effort, to make the gesture. I wanted him to know that I liked him.

"Yes," he agreed with a smile. "I would like that very much."

We exchanged phone numbers and parted ways, Matti and Hugo fobbing into the North Tower as Maestro and I headed into the South. We traversed our respective hallways, and I couldn't help it; I turned back to look at him through two sets of double doors from probably eighty feet away. He looked back at me. Caught once again. It was a perfect ending to a perfect date, simple and genuine, igniting a passion in me that hadn't been sparked in years, if ever.

As Maestro and I stumbled into my condo, I threw my keys on the credenza by the door and hung his leash and harness inside the coat closet. He had to be hungry.

"C'mon, buddy. Let's get you some dinner."

It was ten thirty on a Saturday night. I could have gone out, could have signed on to Chatter and found a trick to invite over, but I had no interest. Matti was still on my mind. Instead, I simply got myself ready for bed, brushing my teeth and changing into gym shorts. Turning out the lights and tucking myself into bed, I lay there waiting for Maestro to finish eating and join me. I didn't even look out my window to see if the mystery man was at home that night, naked and dreamy. No, I had a new desire. I made a mental note to call Alex and Calvin the next day to tell them about my date with Matti, the first time in a long time I'd gone out with someone interesting enough to tell my friends about.