I began shivering a little in the way I do when I’m talking to someone I’d just met, outside for hours, from the chill of the obsidian shadows of this ominous city, yet also from the intensity of making a connection. I liked him a lot. He seemed to be simultaneously more fucked up but also more like me — smart, sarcastic and self-destructive — than anyone I’d ever met in recent memory.
The coffee shop closed, and I invited him back to my place. We sat on my ratty couch and talked awkwardly for a while, attempting not to wake up my neighbor. (When it is quiet in my building, the slightest sounds are amplified.) He told me it was too late for him to find somewhere else to stay for the night, and that we could have sex so he'd have an excuse to stay over. We kissed, showing off our technique to one another. He pulled off his clothes and his belly was hard and brown. I snapped a picture with my cellphone. He reprimanded that I should had asked first.
As attracted to him as I’d been before, in that moment, it seemed as if we were both going through the motions. He said his dick was always shy the first time with someone, but he could go down on me.
The following morning as we shook hands on the corner, he said he didn't find it necessary to meet again. I nodded, looked down at the dirt as he jumped into an approaching taxi. I didn't watch as it pulled away, I stood there looking at the dirt.