They were two men and they fell in love for one night.
A secret romance. Neither gave the other his real name or age. They traded false histories as they would business cards – the older man claimed to be a doctor and the blond boy said he was writing a novel.
But their hours were scarce. From the bar’s dance floor, to the fumbling for apartment keys, to the bed covers tossed aside, to the towels where they scattered the refuse of their love, the men could feel the minutes pricking them like careless fingers.
They saved their words for last, when the dawn came, and even then it wasn’t enough.
So instead they spent the last hour of their passion sliding hands over each others' thighs, microscopic hairs swirling round the mazes of their fingerprints.
They parted ways when the sun peeked in through closed curtains and demanded to be let in.
Later that day, the blond boy would say – when asked about the dime-sized bruises on his neck – that a chick he’d met at the skate park couldn’t leave him alone. In perfect detail, he’d describe breasts he’d never touched.
Being Sunday, the older man would pay penance in church: twenty dollars slipped into the wooden coffer.
He’d then leave, quietly, awkwardly, as if he were slinking away from a former lover’s house.
(Photo by Sooreh Hera)
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