DAY ONE

 

 

“I’M STUCK, Kristi. I’m not going to make it tonight.” Through the glass walls of the terminal, I could see the December drizzle outside, glittering in the night lights. My carry-on in one hand, the phone in the other, I poked my check-in bag with my sneaker.

“Where are you?” my friend asked, concern and disappointment clear in her voice.

“In Basel. Lufthansa is on strike. So there goes my last connection.” I looked around the almost empty terminal with disdain. The café by the entrance to the departures hall was closing; a plump girl in a white dress shirt was stacking folding chairs against the wall. It was late.

“Oh honey, you must be exhausted.”

I was. I left my apartment in Dubai twenty-four hours ago. My ex-apartment, ex-roommate, ex-job. I put on a fake smile for the invisible crowd and infused some cheer into my hoarse voice. “I’m fine. I’m energized. I’m on the verge of a new era. No airports anymore, no more passengers. I’m going to reclaim my life. As soon as I get out of this particular airport.”

Kristina didn’t laugh.

“You think you can get a flight to Schwechat tomorrow?”

“I hope so. All the other airlines work as usual. There might be delays, though. I don’t know.” There was a queue in front of the airline service desk. I balanced my carry-on on the other piece of my luggage and walked the few steps toward the last open shop.

Kristina sighed into the phone. “You’ve sucked as a flight attendant, Ondro. You hate people. How you could make it work for eight years still baffles me. I don’t blame you for quitting.” Another sigh. “I still don’t get why you’re coming back here. It’s fucked up.”

She was right. I hadn’t thought this through. “I’ll be fine. I’m not going to offer my life on the altar of gay rights. I just want a fresh start. Quietly. In a corner. Nobody has to know.”

“And it has to be right now? When all that’s rotten is floating on the surface in this country? It’s bad, Ondro. Bratislava is swamped with pamphlets; there are marches, demonstrations. You wouldn’t believe the backward bullshit they preach in the churches. The Pope himself would be appalled. It’s escalating. A couple of guys were attacked on a city night bus last week….”

I clenched and unclenched my fist, then reached carefully for a water bottle. The chill running up my arm soothed me. “Kristi, stop. I know. I’m not going to get in the middle of that.”

“But how, you dumbass? It’s everywhere. They have flyers in schools, in doctor’s offices. At the entrance of every high-rise in the city, there’s a hate speech taped to the wall. It’s what everybody talks about. It’s what’s on the news every night, and what every family argues about over dinner. You are going to be in the middle of that whether you like it or not!”

“You sound like there’s civil war, for fuck’s sake.”

She laughed harshly into the phone and cursed. I switched my hands, holding the phone to my left ear instead so I could pay for the water.

“I’d still rather you wouldn’t come right now. I mean, I’m overjoyed that we’ll see each other again, but the referendum is more than two months away. It’s not war, no. You probably won’t get hurt. Nobody will die. But it’s heavy, Ondro. It’s suffocating and scary. The people here…. It’s not worth it. You shouldn’t have to deal with this. You don’t owe anything to anyone. If you really want to come back to Slovakia, you could wait until February. Nobody even knows what Peter was to you.”

There I had to stop her. Because I didn’t have any logical arguments, I just had to do something. And this was the thing I felt like I could do. “I quit the job, I moved out of the apartment, and my shit is coming by cargo in two weeks. I’m doing this.” It’s not like I have anywhere else to go.

“Peter’s been gone for six months. You don’t have to—” She had to bring that up.

“And you didn’t tell me! I found out three weeks ago on fucking Facebook!” I retorted, not meaning to sound angry. But hey. Jet lag.

She deflated, suddenly quiet. “I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to do that over the phone. I wanted to tell you at New Year’s.”

The wave of emotion came and went, leaving me numb. “Sorry. It’s not your fault,” I interrupted before she got even more upset for nothing. “I get it. We wouldn’t be friends if we weren’t both emotionally stunted.”

She snorted. The sound was deep and very unladylike. “So you’re coming anyway.”

“If the couch offer still stands, then yes, I’m coming.”

“The offer stands. I’ll be happy to have you,” she answered flatly. I could almost see her face in front of me, her dark eyes fierce. My Kristina, she’s half Roma and a human rights lawyer. The number of obstacles she had to overcome in her life is unimaginable to me. I’m a Slovak gay man—which is bad enough—but being a Slovak Roma is like having the word turd tattooed on your forehead. Nevertheless, when half of our generation was leaving the country for greener pastures, she stayed, and she’s still fighting the psychotic system tooth and nail.

“Good. See you tomorrow, then,” I said, suddenly longing to hug her again.

“Text me when you have an ETA. I’ll pick you up in Vienna.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Yes, I do. I haven’t seen you in two years, Ondro. Two fucking years. Yes, I want to pick you up and give you a ride. With the new overpass finished, it’s barely an hour, and I don’t have any meetings tomorrow.”

“’Kay. You are awesome.”

“I’m worried.”

“And I have to go. There’s only one guy in front of me at the service desk. I’ve got to get a hotel and a taxi.”

She grunted disapprovingly.

“I’m coming. You couldn’t stop me. I’m hanging up now.”

When she spoke next, she sounded resigned. “Take care. And text me.”

“Yes. Love you, girl. Bye.”

I took a deep breath, pocketing my phone. A strange reality that had felt so far away for so long was suddenly here, close and personal. I was coming back to Slovakia. After eight years. But that’d be tomorrow. Tonight, I could still pretend that I was the ultimate globetrotter, too cool for such mundane things as nationality and descent.

 

 

WHEN I reached the service desk, the previous man was still there, arguing with the official, wasting his time and mine. There were no more flights today. I had no idea what he was trying to achieve except making me scream from sleep deprivation.

He was scrawny. At least ten centimeters shorter than me with bony arms sticking out of a baggy T-shirt. I only saw his back, but he looked young. He dressed young at least, and weird. He had faded black jeans around his skinny ass, and atop his head sat a purple hat. No kidding. A hideous, purple, plasticky straw fedora. Tinky-Winky purple. That would have been enough by itself. But then he leaned onto the desk, and his feet almost left the ground. He rubbed the top of his left foot against his right calf, his pant leg went up, and I saw black-and-yellow-striped socks. I bit back a groan. I’m being held back by a fucking bumblebee in a purple hat.

He finally left the desk with his shoulders slumped. His posture showed that whatever he’d asked for, he hadn’t got it. I passed him just as he bent to retrieve his gargantuan luggage, and I cast the awful hat one last annoyed look. I limped to the counter, achingly aware of my sore, swollen feet.

Have you ever noticed how everyone changes upon entering an airport terminal? It’s as if they transform into the worst psycho-thriller version of themselves. And I do that too. I’m aware of it—I just can’t stop it. I would have been a perfectly nice guy, I’m sure of it. If not for this fucking job. I hated airports, loathed them deep within my heart.

“I want a hotel and the first flight out of here tomorrow.”

The woman tried to hold my gaze for a second but gave up, getting slightly paler. “Of course, sir,” she mumbled and cleared her throat gently. She took my ticket and passport, turning her attention to the screen. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and a faint mascara smudge decorated her left cheek. “I can make a reservation for you directly.”

We exchanged formalities, and my gaze started wandering around on its own. I was so drained I barely kept my eyelids halfway up. All the jet lags I’ve had over the years just accumulated, adding ten years to my already daunting thirty. Kristina’s couch gained supernatural qualities in my mind. It was like a cloud of warm white feather pillows at the end of the rainbow.

The girl was still typing away when I noticed the skinny bumblebee crouching a few meters from me, his insane socks peeking out, drawing my eyes like a mucous mole on a big nose. He rummaged through his backpack, his freaky hat sitting on another piece of luggage. His face was down, his longish, messy, and a little oily hair sticking out in tufts around his head. I guess we both looked awful after a day like this.

He found what he was looking for and stood, his head still bent as he tried to extricate a set of headphones from a mess of cables. He lifted his head when he managed to solve the puzzle of wires, and he looked directly at me. I sucked in a breath. He jumped.

The creature actually jumped when he saw me. I wasn’t scowling that bad, was I?

To most people, I seem ill-natured, barely approachable. It’s my eyes. They’re slanted and mean. But he looked like Bambi caught in the headlights of a monster truck. And it threw me. I tilted my head to the side, and he still stared back open-mouthed. Okay…. Maybe there was a ratchet missing in his clockwork.

I let my gaze go up and down his body and study his face. He was cute. Go figure. Despite the disgustingly colored hat and bumblebee socks, he looked lovely. He had the soft boyish type of face I used to go for before I…. Before.

He was pretty. The longer I looked at him, the prettier he seemed. Huge, scared, pale blue eyes with girly lashes, an irregular dusting of stubble after a long day, straight nose, small but full of character nonetheless, full curvy mouth, and an innocent forehead. He was beautiful in a way that required a second and even a tenth glance to appreciate fully. His clear skin was so pale with bluish shadows around his eyes, he looked translucent, like an elf. Or a vampire. And he was still staring at me.

“I have a room available at the Riverside Hotel on Utengasse. The flight to Vienna leaves quarter past one tomorrow.”

I reluctantly looked away from the beautiful weirdo and faced the uniformed girl again.

“Nothing directly to Bratislava?” It was a stupid, unnecessary question. I knew the answer.

“No, I’m sorry, sir.”

Well, Kristina would have to pick me up. I mean, I could get a taxi. But I wanted to see her there, waiting for me. To see that someone cared where I was. Someone knew me and wanted to see me after all those years I had been abroad.

The woman handed me back my passport and gave me a stack of vouchers. I nodded goodbye and picking up my stuff, I searched the terminal for the bumblebee.

Just outside the glass door, I saw him again. He huddled in a black hoodie and a dark parka, his hat back on his head. He was smoking, but his movements were clumsy and self-conscious—the cigarette he was holding must have been a rare occurrence for him.

Looking at his delicate profile, I felt my exhaustion lift like a morning mist giving way to a sunny day. I had a free night in this city and hadn’t got laid for four months. The last time was Clive, my roommate in Dubai. He was from Australia. If you’re picturing Jackman or Hemsworth, forget it. Clive was a towheaded, clingy drama queen with a permanent sunburn and a squeaky joke of a voice. Most of the time, he’d got on my nerves. Hell, he got on everybody’s nerves. It didn’t stop me from fucking him, but in my defense, I was drunk that one night. Oddly enough, he helped me with my luggage last night when I was leaving Dubai. He hugged me, whispering mournfully that we probably wouldn’t see each other again. And I realized that there’s a difference between lonesome and lonely, and that I no longer knew which one applied to me.

I deliberately wiped my mind clean of desolate thoughts. Walking purposefully and holding my head high, I approached the boy in the crazy hat. I was sure he was intentionally looking away.

“Did you manage to get a flight for tomorrow?” A non sequitur? Maybe, but we’d seen each other, noticed each other. He knew that I knew. So why bother with formalities. I admit that my social skills have always been limited, and I exhausted them all on the job I abhorred.

His big blue eyes snapped at me in confused surprise. Then he frowned, clearly uncomfortable.

“Yeah,” he breathed.

The horrible sound of luggage wheels on concrete ceased, immediately making the silence between us deafeningly loud. He took a drag from his cigarette.

“Where are you headed?” I asked.

He huffed out a breath. The smell of his cigarette was surprisingly pleasant in the cold, humid air. His annoyance was just a disguise. He was nervous. I thought of his terrified stare back inside the terminal.

“Edinburgh.” He had a rich voice, a little nasal like people with allergies sometimes have. And an obvious American accent. My smile became smug.

“Then back to the US?”

“No, I live in Scotland,” he said harshly, grimaced, and sighed. “I’m sorry, man. I’m not in the mood.” He pressed the cigarette in the ashtray with more force than necessary and eyed me, frowning deeper. Then he averted his pretty blue eyes and squinted into the rain.

I watched him and waited to see if he would turn back to me. He didn’t. He seemed to be expecting me to leave. I scrambled for something interesting to say, to catch his attention, keep him talking to me. Watching the slope of his nose, the curve of his upper lip, I lost my line of thought and came up empty. Why did I even think it was a good idea to bother him? How come I couldn’t remember even a single one of those lines that had always worked?

Several seconds went by, and I heard him breathe out slowly. “Sorry, I’m really tired.”

Not interested. Of course not.

“I’m disturbing you.” I nodded once. “I should be apologizing, and you should continue scowling.” I was ready to move on when he laughed briefly, surprising me with the sound. He finally lifted his face and glanced my way carefully. His eyes felt assessing and distrustful, yet a shadow of the brief laugh was still lingering in the corners of his lovely mouth. I couldn’t help it. His features were mesmerizing to me; every emotion seemed to reflect on his face so openly.

I felt a familiar warmth of embarrassment on the back of my neck, realizing I was just standing there and staring at this surreally beautiful person, who just wanted me to get lost.

“I should get a cab,” he mumbled.

He nodded to himself and tugged on his luggage with brute force. The monster rolled forward threateningly. It seemed likely to dislocate his shoulder on the nearest curb. He gave me one last solitary half smile. “It was nice meeting you.”

Yeah, right.

I watched him load his bags, with the reluctant help of a ginger-bearded, fat taxi driver, just ten meters away. If I could move my feet, I could get to him in a matter of seconds and ask him to give me his number. But how would I justify the request? Hey, we have a free night in town, let’s have a few margaritas and suck each other off? He didn’t seem to like me much. Not that I blamed him.

He looked my way for half a second, not meeting my eyes. The door of the taxi closed, and the vehicle rumbled past me. Another insignificant meeting, another human being I felt a brief connection to and would never see again. If I had a list, there would be hundreds of them from all over the world.

 

 

I WAVED down the taxi that was next in line and went to the hotel. I got a room in the city center because the hotel closest to the airport was full. A convention or something. It worked for me. I’ve spent more nights at airport hotels than I could ever count.

An hour later I sat in my room showered and shaved, in my briefs, staring alternately at my bare feet and the wall in front of me. My replacement flight was scheduled tomorrow at 1315. That meant I had to be at the airport at 1200. It was barely nine in the evening. Plenty of time to get dressed and hit some gay bar in town. I just couldn’t muster the enthusiasm needed.

I played with my phone instead, checking my Facebook and some news, stalling. I used to avoid Slovak news while I was abroad. But recently my Facebook feed went haywire with shared articles and blogs, and I started following it again. It was self-destructive because nothing about the political and social situation said welcome back home.

I was angry and, although unwilling to admit it even to myself, a tiny bit scared. Mostly I was ashamed. Ashamed of my roots, of my family, my language and heritage, ashamed of the things I was given without having any say in it. Ashamed of being the East European gay guy who either hides in the crowd or runs as far away as he can, letting others fight his battles.

Nothing forced me to go back. I’ve been fine while dying inside for years. I’ve been a perfectly functioning human being, a solid member of society, until my uniform felt like sandpaper against my skin, and my consciousness was a rubber band stretched to its capacity around my neck. Burning, aching, ready to snap or suffocate me at any moment. Given a choice between death or insanity, I gave my notice, packed my possessions, and flew away. Turning back to the point where it all went wrong, I was hoping to fix the bug and start all over. My timing sucked, though.

There was going to be a referendum on registered partnership in Slovakia in February. A conservative Catholic organization called Alliance for Family was currently occupying the public sphere, making the air too dense to breathe for Slovak people, gay or not. Still, I wasn’t going to stand up with the others to try to sway the public opinion, campaigning, debating, demonstrating. No way. I’m so far from that kind of person, it’s not even funny.

I just wanted to quit being scared. Maybe if I faced it, I could even stop feeling ashamed. Maybe some of it was my morbid curiosity. Most importantly, though, for my sake, I didn’t want to care that much. It’s not like I could have been out and proud in Dubai.

 

 

WANTING TO escape the confines of the clinically furnished hotel room, I took a short walk. I did some window-shopping, but then it started raining again. In the freezing temperatures, the sidewalks were quickly becoming death traps. I crossed back over the Rhine River, walking over the Mittlere Brücke, Basel’s quirky trams passing me, and I ended in the hotel bar making the best of the lonely stranger cliché.

I stood at the bar waiting for a margarita when I saw him—my bumblebee from the Basel Airport. He sat in a leather armchair half-hidden in a corner, reading something on an iPad, headphones in his ears. The purple hat was on the table next to his tall, dark-caramel-colored drink. Rum and Coke? He was engrossed in whatever he was reading, so I could watch him safely.

He’d obviously showered. His hair was shiny, soft-looking, and tied in a small knot high on the back of his perfectly round skull. A few short strands fell into his eyes, and he put them behind his ear in a gesture that seemed just a little feminine. He wore another oversized T-shirt and dark jeans, and I saw a black Converse peeking from under the table. I wondered what his socks looked like this time. I hoped for something freaky, like green with pink polka dots.

I got my drink but didn’t leave my spot. I wondered if I could talk to him and how. He didn’t seem particularly open to a casual conversation, not to mention the casual hookup I was hoping for somewhere in the back of my mind. I scanned his forearms for tattoos but found nothing. The print on his T-shirt showed a quote from Doctor Who. That made me smile.

I took a pink straw from a box on the counter, put it in my drink, and smirked. I was plotting, realizing how rusty I’d become since flirting at bars in foreign countries had lost its appeal. I had to be nice, and that was hard. But then something about the guy made it easier for me, as if the thought of being sleazy or rude to him equaled drowning little kitties.

He lifted his head and looked directly at me. His eyes widened again. With fear? Why? I am no pretty boy; that’s for sure. But people usually don’t run for cover when they see me. I have a face one could call intense. My bone structure is a bit more pronounced than what would be considered ideal. My eyebrows are too thick, and live very separate lives from each other—when one goes up, the other one usually decides to go down or frown. I compensate for the bushiness of my eyebrows by keeping my dirty-blond hair buzzed close to my head. It’s practical. My mouth is broad with deep valleys that could be mistaken for laugh lines but are definitely not a result of extensive laughing. And my greenish eyes look mean. I guess, with a little tug here and there, I could be a mass-murdering clown. Maybe he was right to be scared.

I took the few steps forward and lowered myself in the second armchair by his table, never leaving his gaze. He stared at me open-mouthed, his blue eyes still blank with surprise.

I expected him to send me packing. The chance was fifty-fifty at best. But then he did that one tiny thing: he tugged the earphones down. An unintentional invitation, and I immediately felt hopeful.

“I’m not stalking you,” I said. At least I felt a tiny bit more inspired than at the airport earlier.

He narrowed his eyes, and there was a nervous twitch in his cheek. “Seems like it.” Oh, I liked him.

“Hey, I’m your fellow victim of this ridiculousness. Of course, they put me in the same hotel. Not my fault.”

“I’ve never said you could sit here,” he said slowly, his expression measured, bordering on cold.

“If I promise to be moderately entertaining, can I?”

He huffed, not quite a laugh, and took a gulp of his drink.

“Nice hat.” Once I decided I had nothing to lose, I was rather a loose cannon. But if you’d seen him, you wouldn’t blame me. The tendons on his forearms danced and glided when he put the glass down and fiddled with his tablet. I got distracted by the protruding veins on his hands, and then my gaze darted to his hair. I imagined untangling the rubber band and combing my fingers through the silky waves.

He flashed me a suspicious look from the corner of his eye. “It was a gift. For the trip.” Oh, he was talking about the hat. Right. He pretended to scan the room, but I could sense his attention was on me. He was tense, ready to spring out of his seat at any moment. I liked the guy a lot. That had not happened in an alarmingly long time. Maybe I enjoyed the challenge.

“You’re always this jumpy?”

He turned to me and frowned. “I’m not jumpy.”

“Sorry, I just thought you seemed stressed out. I hope you’re not missing anything important because of the delay.”

Sighing softly, he settled deeper into his seat. “No, it’s fine. I was just ready to get home.”

“It wasn’t a vacation?”

“No, mostly work.” He was silent for a while. Then he took a deep breath and continued as if taking pity on me and helping along with the awkward conversation. “I had time off in Zurich for a little bit, though. It was nice.”

“Yeah, I’ve been there. Maybe two years ago. Pretty.”

He was pale, with purplish marks underneath his tired eyes. His face was exotic-looking. His cheekbones were sharp but his jaw soft, his chin pointy and stubborn. He’d shaved and looked even younger, like jailbait young. He resembled a surly teen. Shit, I’d have to ask about his age. But something about his large blue eyes was ageless. Tiny wrinkles in the corners and on his eyelids told the story of many sleepless nights. He’d mastered the kind of sharp, intelligent stare that demanded respect even when he was obviously nervous. He was insecure but smart, maybe just out of his element.

“You want another?”

He looked at me, and I waited with my eyebrows raised. I felt like a petri dish under a microscope. He thoroughly dissected me with his pretty blues, his head cocked to the side. He tried but failed to look confident. I saw his fingers tapping on the edge of the table softly. He was still staring. I was three seconds away from some serious squirming when he nodded and exhaled.

“’Kay,” he mumbled, leaning back in his armchair, getting comfortable, rolling the earphone cables into a ball. No way were we done here. He’d easily let me buy him the contents of the whole bar, and then he would say thanks and head for his room with a half-hearted wave. A challenge. I couldn’t wait.

 

 

THE BAR emptied out slowly, and the bartender with a buzz cut disturbingly similar to mine eyed us evilly, willing us to go the fuck to bed already. I ignored him. My companion didn’t notice.

“Ondro,” I repeated for my bumblebee’s benefit.

“On-druh?”

“Just call me Andrew.”

“But that’s not your name!” He talked with his hands a lot when he became agitated.

“It’s close enough.”

“No way. You’re not calling me some weird Slovenian version of my name, so I should learn yours properly.”

“Slovak.”

“Beg your pardon?” He sounded remarkably British just then; it was adorable.

“You said Slovenian. But the language is Slovak. Spoken in Slovakia, population five million, capital Bratislava, former Czechoslovakia, split amicably back in 1992. Slovenia is a whole other country. Think of it like Nevada and Nebraska.”

He looked contrite at first, but then he flashed me an annoyed frown. He didn’t like me overexplaining. “I knew that. Slovenia used to be a part of Yugoslavia.”

“Not bad for a Yank.” I laughed.

He narrowed his eyes at me. “So, On-drooh.”

“Ondro. Say it like drop without the p.”

“Onn-droh.” He was genuinely trying.

“Close enough.”

He nodded to himself and continued the interrogation. “So you’re going home? From where?”

“Everywhere. Anywhere. I’m a steward. Or I used to be until last week. First, it was Frankfurt for a couple of years and then the Emirates.”

“Dubai?” Instead of awe, there was disdain. “For how long?” He asked as if we were talking about a nasty skin condition.

“Since 2009.”

“But… it’s illegal there!”

I lifted my eyebrows and stage-whispered, “You mean intercourse between individuals of the same sex?”

He scowled; I chuckled.

“You just can’t do it in public restrooms, then,” I clarified.

He remained dead serious. “I can’t imagine how that must have been.”

“Yeah, it was abysmal! I went four years without a quickie in a stall. Terrible!” I was already halfway down the statement when I heard myself being a jerk.

“You know what I mean,” he said indignantly.

We were on our second round. His cheeks were rosy, and he smiled every once in a while. He smiled like a toothpaste commercial. Pretty, pretty boy. And he wanted to talk. Like really talk. I realized I could be honest. I wanted to be honest for once. It surprised me and made me warm inside. God, I’ve been such a misanthrope lately. “It was pretty much the same as Slovakia,” I said. “Thousands of closeted men and fumbling encounters in the dark. Except there’s the threat of getting caught by the police. Some risk it, some never do. I preferred to keep to myself while living there. I was abroad most of the time anyway. Being a steward has its perks. People assume, and it’s easy to meet someone without having to put yourself out there. At the same time, nobody ever stays in one place.”

My companion seemed thoughtful. “Must be nice not having to out yourself every other day.”

“That is what the hat is about?”

“The hat is a joke. Self-irony maybe. It’s a gift from a friend, and I’ve only had it for this trip. Usually, it pisses me off when I feel like my sexuality defines all the other parts of myself. I know some guys just take it and make it their thing, queening it out and owning it. I seriously hate it. What does liking cock have to do with how I drink my coffee or what shoes I wear? It’s like you ask about a straight white guy and people say: he’s an accountant, lives close to Castle Hill, a great soccer fan, a bit uppity but a reliable friend. And then about me, they go: Him? Yeah, he’s gay. Period. That’s the most important thing, the defining quality. And everything else comes second or not at all.”

He was a breathing, talking oxymoron. The alcohol had this great effect on him—he said whatever came to his mind. Listening to him was enthralling. His head opened up, and everything was laid out on the table. “I studied in SoCal, and there is this whole overexcited culture wrapped around it. The shit you see in the TV shows? It’s just like that, I swear. Even my mom expected me to become a swishy interior designer who goes to the opera and calls everybody sugar. As if who I fuck and how had to be broadcasted by my clothes and hair, the music I listen to, the work I do. As if it means everything.”

It’s not like that where I come from, and it’s surely not like that in Dubai. I was used to being inconspicuous without my uniform—the perfectly average male. But I’ve been enough times in San Francisco, London, or Barcelona—I used to live in Frankfurt too—and I’ve seen my share of things.

“Because the whole society revolves around sex,” I said. “All the stories, books, music, movies, clothes, even food, schools, and workplaces. And politics! Everything boils down to mating and procreation. Only we call it noble things like finding happiness, family comes first, save the children, romance, and shit. It’s all about sex in the end. Humans are driven forward by fucking. So if the fucking you do differs from the majority, it defines you, defines your subculture and your place in society. People always talk about how what you do in your bedroom is private—it should be, but it’s not. It’s what everybody’s most interested in.”

He looked at me in all seriousness, his eyebrows knitted in a thoughtful frown. I knew I did not even agree with myself 100 percent. Undoubtedly, he wouldn’t agree. I reveled in his full attention. And when he digested my speech, thinking hard on his answer, the lines on his forehead deepening and smoothing out again, he was cute as a button on a little girl’s frock. He didn’t just wait for me to pause long enough to butt in. After what felt like years of parallel monologues, I had an actual conversation. With a hot guy. I was tempted to let out a celebratory whoop when I realized.

“I don’t agree with that,” he said. “People are defined by a lot of things. A lot of actions have nothing to do with sex, and it still makes you who you are. Like whether you voted yes or no for Scottish independence. Whether you stepped up when you saw a kid being bullied in high school. Whether you are a cat or a dog person.” So sweet. He smiled, gently screwing his hands in his lap, and then frowned. “Whether you believe in God or not.”

I was starting to feel rather jaded in the face of all this guileless naivety. I am jaded. And probably a nihilist. Time to joke it away.

“Religion is all about sex! It’s a set of rules about when and how and who are you allowed to fuck, with a Big Daddy as the overseer.”

He laughed at that. “Yeah, probably.”

I rarely care if my lack of belief annoys or insults anyone, but this man’s easy answer and laughter made me feel a smidgen of relief. And that made me tense again. I wasn’t supposed to care what he thought about my inner moral system. But just like me, he seemed to drift miles away in his head. When he started talking again, he had me mesmerized.

“It’s like there’s this paradox weaving through my life, connecting all the dots. I’m a man, Caucasian, an academic, both of my parents were moderately wealthy. I’m an American with the bonus of a British passport. A proper WASP. It doesn’t get any more privileged than that.” The bitter curve of his mouth told me that he somehow felt like he didn’t deserve those privileges. I didn’t dare to interrupt him. “It may sound ridiculous, but being gay is the only thing I have left. I could have been the worst cliché of a self-centered, white, rich asshole. So I can resent being defined by my sexuality, but at the same time, it gave me something genuine to fight for while growing up. Something to claim as my own to fight for, without feeling like a spoiled fake who thinks he can change the world out of boredom and lack of his own problems. It taught me compassion. That way, it defined me too. Am I making any sense?”

It was necessary I said something. And I didn’t want to. I was on very thin ice, and it seemed to be cracking.

“If we accept the premise that you are obligated to care for something more than just yourself, you are making sense.” I was disgustingly vague; I knew it. But admitting I was a cynic through and through didn’t scream “have sex with me.”

“If we accept the premise?” he scoffed.

I spent my life surviving, faking my way through the debris, counting my dimes and avoiding conflict. My life was about me and nobody else. Apparently, I didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as he did. Deflection, right the hell now.

“My family was Catholic. It took me a long time before I saw any perks of being gay. You’re saying there are some?”

“Clubbing?” he indulged me.

“Oh yeah! To sweaty bare-chested dancers.” I lifted my glass, and he chuckled.

“You know that inside every cynic, there’s just a very disappointed idealist?” he asked, smug.

“I’ll take your word for it,” I answered neutrally.

He watched me, not saying anything. Weirded out by the intensity of his stare, I scrambled for a new topic.

“So where do you hail from?” I asked.

His face gentled. “Ketchum, Idaho.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“Lots of hiking and skiing,” he said, still smiling. “I don’t know if it’s an irony or what, but I was born in the town where Hemingway killed himself.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“I’ve never liked Hemingway. I mean the language is brilliant. But all the machismo and pointless heroics….”

He didn’t say anything, just looked at me thoughtfully, a hint of mischief in his eyes that I might have imagined. Hopefully, I hadn’t just insulted his favorite author. But seriously, have you read The Snows of Kilimanjaro? It’s fucking terrible. And misogynist. Bleh.

“What do you do for a living?” I asked.

He winced and gave a strained smile as if forced to compliment a meal that he found bland. It only made me more curious.

“I’m at the University of Edinburgh.”

“Student?” He did look young.

“Not anymore. I do some research and teach.”

“What do you teach?”

Again with the wincing. Was he ashamed? For being that educated? In my book that was awesome.

“Biochemistry with a bit of genetics.”

Oh. Okay. “Wow.” And that was about the end of my conversational skills. I mean how do you talk to a guy who is probably three times smarter than you are?

“See! That’s exactly the reaction I hate.”

I played stupid. Pun intended. “What reaction?”

“You clammed up on me.”

“I did not.” But apparently, I regressed to primary school.

He raised his eyebrows.

Damage control! “Okay, okay! You have to admit it’s scary. You’ve achieved a remarkable level of education in subjects most people find elusive. It makes an average Joe like me feel a bit of stage fright.”

He laughed. “You’re such a bullshitter! You call yourself an average Joe and use words like elusive in the same sentence? And stage fright? I bet you can flirt in your sleep!” He continued chuckling when he looked away and finished his drink. He was on his way to being moderately tipsy.

So I decided to put my cards out there. “If I make an idiot of myself, I won’t get into your pants.”

He didn’t seem nervous anymore. He cocked his head, narrowed his eyes, and made a show of assessing me.

“Maybe I don’t mind having sex with idiots,” he said, a sly smile tugging at the corners of his mouth at last.

He was smart, freakishly so. And moody, changeable. He felt like sand running through my fingers, and I desperately wanted to hold on to him. He saw through me, and he still hadn’t decided if he’d play along.

I didn’t only want him in my bed. I wanted him to like me, to remember me. I wanted to be enough for him to say goodbye tomorrow with just a little bit of regret. That damned ego of mine.

“That’s how you compensate for being a nerd?” I asked, pointing my finger at his Doctor Who T-shirt.

He laughed, and I saw the tip of his tongue flick against his front teeth as he grinned at me. He said nothing.

“Why were you afraid of me when you saw me in the terminal?” I asked quickly. No time like the present.

He paused, looking at his hands. The nervousness was back, and I wanted to kick myself. I preferred the cocky flirt.

“I wasn’t afraid. Just surprised. It was the way you looked at me. Intense. It caught me off guard,” he admitted slowly.

“That’s it?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. You have an unusual face. I mean, obviously, you know how you look. You looked pissed. Like you knew me and had a valid reason to be pissed. And then you changed. Your face is… expressive.” He fidgeted, looking down. “I wanted to know what you thought.”

“I thought you were beautiful.” A loose cannon, there it was.

And he snorted. “Yeah, right.”

Excuse me? The little brat thought it was a line. Well, it was, in fact, a line. But it was also the truth. Damn him. “Hey! I meant that. I liked what I saw, and I like looking at you now, so quit the attitude. Learn to take a compliment, nerd.”

“You do this a lot?”

“Hitting on strangers at bars abroad? And you want to know because you want to hear how special you are?”

He blushed but answered immediately. “Basically.”

At least he deserved to know if I constituted a health risk. “Honestly, not anymore. Yes, I used to be the kid at a candy store. But that was years ago.”

“And now?”

“I like a conversation, a connection. But it’s hard to find something that’s not… transient when you travel constantly.”

“Transient…,” he repeated and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

I twirled the pink straw between my fingers. Every time I tried to tell him something truthful, it spoiled the mood. This was going to be another one of those. But I wasn’t going to bullshit my way into this guy’s pants anyway; that much was obvious. Still, the whole evening was marvelous. I had an intelligent, beautiful man talking to me with interest and full attention. I wanted to tell him about myself just because he listened. I took a breath and looked away. “I think my longest relationship since I started this job lasted three months. It was with a colleague, and our conflicting schedules killed us before we even got started. We managed four very careful dates in Dubai and roughly one thousand Facebook messages. Then he called it quits. He said he couldn’t imagine being faithful with that much traveling. I gave him credit for honesty.” I felt his eyes on me but didn’t want to see his reaction. “I hook up with people sometimes, of course. But it’s been rather rare and… unfulfilling.”

“That sounds lonely.”

“It is what it is.” I shrugged. Yeah, I’d killed the mood all right. And I kept kicking the corpse.

He sighed and stared at his empty glass. “I’m not good at this.”

“What? Drinking? Conversation? You’re doing very fine on both counts, according to my high standards.”

He studied the empty glass like there were secret inscriptions on it. I don’t know where it came from, but I felt as if the moment were pivotal. As if whatever he said next would mean a lot. Possibly more than I’d like.

He put the glass down and looked at his hands, intertwining and twirling his fingers. “I got to go on this trip only because a colleague of mine got sick. Otherwise, they would never send a lowly minion like me. And sure, it was about work primarily. There was a meet-up about stem cell therapy in ophthalmology.” He stopped himself with a wave of his hand. A very graceful hand. “Never mind. I had a few days off in Zurich. I wanted to try something new, maybe let a little loose… I didn’t expect anything to be life-changing, just maybe get a little taste of a slightly different lifestyle. Nothing crazy or dangerous.

“But my friend, she had this idea that it was supposed to be more of an adventure. She bought me a travel pack of some stuff, you know. Like a go-out-and-get-laid kit. Ginny’s a bit weird. And she gave me the hat. She made me promise that I’d wear that thing.” He gestured toward the hideous headgear and sighed again. I sensed that I wouldn’t like the direction of his speech. “I googled some crazy club and tried to go out in Zurich. And I felt like an alien there, exposed. It’s ridiculous but getting hit on only freaked me out. It’s not my thing. In the end, I was ready to go home, looking forward to it even. And then….” He stopped talking and threw his hands up in the air, scrunched his face in apparent frustration. With me? With himself? With the boundaries of the English vocabulary? “And now you are sitting here flirting with me. And I… I’m sorry. I like you, I do. You’re funny and hot as hell. But I’m not….” He waved a hand in the air again, fishing for the right words. There weren’t any. “I’m not comfortable with one-night stands. I’m sorry.” He paused and seemed to brace himself before delivering the final blow. “I should go to bed. Long day tomorrow.”

It wasn’t my first I-like-you-but conversation. I was a champion of those too. More often pitching those than receiving, but still. I knew the game, but this time, it tasted bitter. Maybe it was because I was in a weird place in my head, feeling like the world was changing around me, and I was changing, and my life was at a crossroad, and it was all a chaos like a freaking Hungarian goulash soup. The world was bleak, and I didn’t want to let go of the only one still colorful, even vibrant thing in it. Since I felt that clingy, I should have ripped off the Band-Aid, fast.

“It’s a shame,” I said. He was probably the most interesting guy I’d met in months. Or years, to be honest. Such a damned shame. “But tomorrow we’re flying away from here in opposite directions.” That shy smile he gave me…. So, so sweet. “I understand. I guess I respect it even.”

He had to think I was a slut. By some standards, I probably was. I stood, stretched my arms, and finished: “I’ve had a lovely evening. Thank you for not ditching me sooner.” It sounded whiney, and I winced inwardly. I gave him yet another crooked smirk and went to the bar. I took a napkin, borrowed a pen, and scribbled down a number. I went back, put it on the table in front of him, and he looked at me, frowning.

“In case you change your mind.”

I went all the way this time, and the odds were against me. But I would bang my head against the wall later if I didn’t try one last time.

He stared at the napkin for a second and scratched his temple. He lifted his large tired eyes at me, and my heart started beating a little faster.

“Thanks. Have a good flight tomorrow,” he said. The coffin snapped shut, the dirt was scattered on the lid, black shadowy figures stood in the rain, heads down—with that kind of finality.

I would remember him forever. If only for the hopeless kind of lonely he made me feel. So lonely, like I was at the bottom of a crater on the dark side of the moon, the temperature was absolute zero, and the last space shuttle left days ago.

My gaze slid over the napkin with my room number on it, and suddenly I felt like an ass. He was so much better than that kind of shit.

“Sorry for that.” I gestured toward the napkin briefly and went away, not looking back.

I was on the verge of a new era, trying to reclaim my life. Apparently, that made me vulnerable as fuck. I dragged my sorry ass upstairs, stripped, and packed my bag, in case I wanted to sleep in the next day and would have to leave in a hurry.

I brushed my teeth, took a piss, washed my hands, and blew my nose. Then I was lying in the strange bed unable to fall asleep. I felt a little cold but too lazy to get up and look for a T-shirt.

Funny and hot as hell, he said. It sounded lame, forgettable. And true. There were twenty-five of me in every gay bar in every larger city in Europe. And he was brilliant, genuine, most beautifully human, and real.

Jamie. His name was Jamie.