Looking for Michael

8:23pm

His skin was soft. It was young and unblemished. The lights from Times Square danced across it, showing the goose bumps that rose along his shoulders and chest. Neither of us spoke as he moved slowly forward. He stopped just in front of me, holding my eyes with his own.

His hand reached for mine and brought it slowly to him. He pressed his fingers into my palm, opening my hand and resting it above his heart. His skin was warm. I felt the steady drumming beneath his skin; felt my breath move in and out in disquieted rhythm.

He reached around me and pulled himself into me tightly. His head laid on my shoulder and I ran my free hand along the dip of his spine until I met the prickly hairs where his head and neck met. I could smell the shampoo in his hair and I breathed in the flowery newness of it.


10:07pm

“Are you thirsty?” He reached across me to get the glass of water on the nightstand. He laid himself across my chest and drank. The heavy condensation that collected on the glass as the ice had melted dripped slowly onto my skin. I chilled from the sensation of his warmth and the cold water.

He set the empty glass back on the table, but didn’t move. The sheets were tangled under him leaving his back and ass exposed. He was completely unabashed, unfettered and simple. He smiled at me, resting his head on the shoulder propped up next to me. I closed my eyes and extracted my left arm from under him, laying it on the small of his back.

“Comfortable?” He ran his right hand along the stubble on my chin.

I smiled in response. “Are you?”

“Uh huh.” He pried at my eyelids, “Open up.” I did, and enjoyed the glow of the perfect teeth exposed by his smile.

“How are you not with someone tonight?” I asked.

He crinkled his eyes together, “I am.”

Although it was pretty much a perfect answer that made me swoon just a bit, “I mean someone else. A boyfriend, or friends or whatever.”

“Well,” he leaned closer, “I don’t have a boyfriend, and my friends don’t do this.” He drew forward and bit gently at my neck.

I drew up in response and he laughed lightly. “You could do better, Michael.” I moved beneath him, rolling him onto his back. He pulled the sheets and blanket up to his waist and nestled into my side. “Says you. I’m having a good time."

I hesitated, but asked the question anyway. “Why?”

“What?”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you having a good time?” I could feel his head move to look at my face. I kept my eyes toward the ceiling.

“I guess what we just did was fun, wasn’t it?”

“Yah, but I mean you’re a good looking guy who lives in Manhattan.”

“So? You’re a good looking guy who lives in Kansas or wherever.”

“Missouri.”

“Missouri. It’s still a weird question.” He moved his head back to my chest and crossed an arm over my stomach.

We lay in quiet for several minutes. I felt his breath regulate with mine, or mine regulate with his. His fingers stopped moving along my skin and I thought he’d gone to sleep.

He was very still when he spoke. “You looked at me.” His voice had been a whisper and I let it settle for several seconds.

“Hmm?”

He spoke more clearly, but in silent, stalwart tones. “You looked at me. In the store, in your hotel, during… you looked at me.” I left the silence, hoping he would go on. After a minute or so, “No one does that. Not really. Not without wanting something. When you look at me, you’re like looking for me.”

Quietly, "I don't mean to be... creepy."

Michael reached beside me to fold his hand in mine. “I like that you look for me.”

I turned my head toward the lights of New York and the world beyond it that soared in echoes of indigo emotions and souls wanting so much to be found. My eyes pooled as I squeezed the hand of a twenty-three year-old who understood what it is to be noticed and thought of and for even four hours in a cold December, to be held to and cared after.


11:48pm

“My flight’s at two o’clock.”

“So this is it ‘til next time?”

I pulled his jacket off the back of the sofa and handed it to him. “Next time?” I smiled.

He stretched himself into the thin black leather of the jacket, lining up the red and white stripes and ran down the arms with his wrists. “You’re coming back, right?"

“I’ll be back sometime in January or February.” He smiled back. When he smiles his bottom lip sticks forward.

He leaned forward and laid the palm of his right hand flat against the top of my head. He touched his nose to mine, “Sure?”

“Sure.” I grinned back.

He moved to the door and stepped into the hallway. I followed with one hand on the latch. He turned and we kissed. Without another word, he moved down the hallway to the elevators.