– A Horny Short Series –

My phone gave a brief pulse of vibration, and I glanced at the notification. It was a text from Coworker. Instantly, I felt the familiar flood of adrenaline laced with shame. I dropped the half-eaten toast on the plate with a crusty clink and swiped my thumb up the home screen, realizing that I was shaking my head while doing so. I can’t keep doing this, I murmured as the latest gray speech bubble in long string of gray speech bubbles came into view.

“This afternoon?”

I raked my hand through my greasy unwashed hair and groaned out loud at the kitchen ceiling. I had a bad habit of being audibly dramatic when I was at home. Why was that? I supposed it could have been for Klaus’ sake. I looked at him on the windowsill. He stared back dejectedly, twitching his ratty fins in the cloudy water and confirming that his one true passion remained freeze-dried bloodworms.
Sigh.

As I trudged to the bathroom and flicked on the shower, I could feel the weight of the unanswered text resting on my shoulders with its little bird-like talons. The first time I had seen Coworker, it had been in the employee lounge on three. (At that point, I probably would have killed for a text from him asking about 2AM, let alone this afternoon.) I didn’t normally use that lounge, but the restroom off the one in my area had backed up again and sewer gas wasn’t going to go with my Frontega Chicken from Panera.

He was two tables away, hunched over a salad with his eyes glued to the news. I was sure I had seen him before, but only in a he-looked-vaguely-familiar kind of way. I doubt I would have correctly placed him as a colleague without context. His features were certainly pleasing—a wider planed face, strong jaw, athletic build made obvious by the tailored shirt. But beyond the strong resemblance he bore to 1950s Biff from Back to the Future, I was drawn to what was happening beneath his seat, where his dark brown suede chukkas were framed by the chrome chair legs.

It was out of habit that I surveyed a guy’s footwear, just like a straight dude might check out a girl’s breasts. Obviously, it was a little less convenient than that, since my eyes had further to travel, but I had perfected the flick, innocuously taking in the face and and the feet at the about same time in something that looked sort of like a combination blink and slight head-bob. But this occasion had been different. He was angled slightly away from me, and over the top of my wedge of focaccia I had a clear, unobstructed view to take in at my leisure. Do you remember the scene in Sex and the City where Samantha mindlessly shovels a chipful of guac into her face while she watches her hot neighbor shed his surfing suit? That has been me that day, pulling at shreds of aioli covered chicken with my teeth as he popped a buttercream-colored sock heel out of his shoe while lifting another forkful of radicchio to his gorgeous lips.

I lathered especially vigorously at the memory, hot water falling from me in splattering cascades to the bouncy fiberglass shower floor. It was in all likelihood that I would have started my day with a big finish had my elbow not dislodged the shampoo bottle from its niche and sent it clattering to loudly to my feet. Cursing and stooping to pick it up, my shoulder then snagged the hose to the handheld shower head, yanking it from its magnetic seat and launching it at the back of my bent head. I’m not sure how long I sat on the floor, slightly concussed. The shampoo oozed and mingled with water spouting from the upturned head, swirling in a fragrant froth down the drain.

I had been sitting at the bar in View Halloo when I encountered him the second time, nursing a beer rather than a contusion like I was now. I didn’t exactly frequent the club, but it was one place where staring at a guy was not only commonplace, but welcome. Sometimes, a guy’s gotta indulge.

“You work at Meckley, don’t you?”

His voice sliced as crisply through the din as a knife through double crème cheese. I hadn’t seen him sidle up next to me, so I’m certain the surprise had been plainly written on my face when I had turned and registered who he was.

“I do. I’m an analyst.” I had raised my glass to my lips for something to do. Empty. Fuck.

“I thought I recognized you. I’m in sales.” He flagged down the bartender in that classic I’ll-have-what-he’s-having-and-while-you’re-at-it-can-he-have-another-one-too gesture from the movies. God, did people actually do that? “Do you come here a lot?”

I had chuckled slightly at my glass and picked at the corner of my coaster. I didn’t think anyone invoked the code anymore, least of all here. “Yes, I’m gay. Do I assume you are, too?” He was at View Halloo. It was a Friday night. A fair assumption. I had glanced over at him to see him grin and slide onto the seat beside me.

“Sometimes.”

He had been wearing those same suede chukkas. His slim, light gray pants had hiked up as he perched with his feet on the rungs of the stool, revealing that his ankles were swathed in silky pink and gray houndstooth. They had stretched and disappeared into the yawning dark of his shoes, and I had immediately longed for my fingers to explore the cavern. To run them along the indentation at his Achilles…

“I definitely could be tonight,” he added.

That had snapped my wandering eyes back to his smug face and pinned them there. “Does that actually work?” I had intended to ask it in earnest, but it tumbled out as incredulous.

His grin stretched until it had cracked into a disarming smile. “Pretty much always.” He had tempered the cocky declaration by feigning modesty with a shrug. I could see it coming. His hand left the glossy bar, four fingers glued together, stacked and all pointing at me. “I’m—”

“A coworker,” I had quickly interrupted.

His dazzling expression streaked with confusion, a fly blundering onto wet paint as he withdrew his hand. “Okay. So…you don’t do—?”

“—names? No. Not in these situations.” The bartender had set our glasses down, and I raised mine to him. My own invitation. No further deliberation had been necessary. “Shall we?”

He had studied me for a moment before the grin returned, this time quirked at one corner. “You’re quickly becoming fascinating. Alright then…Coworker.” And he had raised his glass.

---

I checked myself in the reflection of the coffee shop door and carefully nudged a gel-casted curl into place before entering. One never knew what meetings could take place when waiting for an iced mocha latte. I took my place in the line. Everyone stood quietly in the honey glow of the morning light reflecting off the vinyl planked floor, trance-like and submissive. A queue of privateers waiting for their wages to be dispensed by the captain, except with an elevator bossa nova rather than a shanty to accompany the scene.

“Small chai tea with a hit of oat milk, right?” The barista rattled off the order when it was my turn at the counter, a false bright tone to her question.

“Cute, Sylvie,” I deadpanned. She cracked a smile without looking at me as she scrawled my usual on a cup—a caramel latte with whole milk—and slid it down the counter.

“I’ve gotta do something to keep it interesting. Scone today?”

“Croissant, please.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Oof. Someone’s stressed.” She clacked her tongs like castanets. “Work got you down?” She deftly eased a flaking golden spiral of pastry into a waxy paper bag.

“Coworker drama.”

She nodded knowingly as she passed passed the bag over the glass case. “I hear ya. You just can’t find reliable people anymore.” She slid a sideways glance at Frank, the compatriot behind the espresso machine, who waggled his eyebrows in response to the jab and twisted the portafilter in place with an extra flourish. I chuckled.

“Don’t rile him while he’s making my order, okay?”

Sylvie crossed her arms and rested her elbows on the bakery case. “Well your hair looks good today, if that’s any consolation. Besides, it’s Friday. Anyone can get through a Friday, right?”

I moved over to Frank, who was drizzling caramel over the ice in my cup, forcing plumes of milk down into the murky espresso below. “Right,” I said robotically.

As I took the cup from him, a trailer truck rumbled by. The coffee shop winked into a momentary darkness as the hulking shadow slid by the windows. I glanced up, tracing the burgundy lettering emblazoned on its side. TJ Maxx.