Mr & Mister Danvers: Initiation - 8. EPISODE 7: RENOIR'S LUNCHEON

EPISODE 7: RENOIR'S LUNCHEON

We were in Vauxhall at Bonnington Square, parked a few metres away from this Italian restaurant called Gruppo.

Despite the partly cloudy skies, the afternoon sun that irradiated the jumbled outdoor crowd of chic bohemian lifers sitting in the alfresco area was an allusion to Renoir's Luncheon at the Boating Party.

Incongruously hammering with sounds whittling from a distance by nearby scaffolders and picking off plates of charcuterie, to a cat caterwauling harmoniously from a tree climbing through a narrow wooden gangway onto an open window with an old record player humming the tune of Pavarotti’s Nessun Dorma—this was a scrappy, toffee-nosed contradiction of a charming London I had never seen.

For this area was a leafy enclave for the wealthy.

The perfect destination to observe the grazing habitat of the rich was also the consummate place for posh pricks to convene.

I looked at the outdoor menu board.

I was stumped by the prices.

"Their daily offer is 76 pounds for two bloodclart sandwiches, a lasagna, and a mimosa," I said to enunciate my outrage. "Everyone’s going to die anyway. Why don’t we just eat some leaves and call it a day? These prices are crazy."

I decided to walk around to find cheaper options since, upon checking my wallet before hopping out of his car, I only had a tenner, no, five pounds and sixty-five pence, to spare.

But before I could take a step, where my foot had planned on treading the 7/11 across the street, he locked me in place by holding my shoulders, and said, "It’s my treat. I was the one who asked you out, so I’m paying."

"Well, you better. You know I can’t afford this place. We’d be washing dishes if it were left to me."

He smiled, paused briefly to marshal his thoughts, and then gestured at an empty table outside. "This’ll be our first date, so it has to be special."

"Whatever you say since you’re paying, you are paying, right?"

He nodded. “You don’t have to worry about anything."

When the server came and handed us the menu, my mouth was left ajar—the indecent prices were enough to make me faint. "36 bucks for coffee. £53 for an open-faced sandwich? What the hell is in this sandwich, my future? And £97 for a tomahawk steak? Why?"

He was amused at me for losing my mind.

"Everything is organic and halal here. That premium price point requires an extra charge."

"You order then. This is giving me a headache."

He pointed at the menu and said some complicated words to the server.

I was surprised that the entire restaurant looked like a soup kitchen.

The entire restaurant’s aesthetic looked rustic, but you wouldn’t expect a place like this with a wooden table that smells of cat piss to be ripping people off with these prices.

While waiting for the food he’d ordered, I went straight to the point and asked, "Why are you so interested in me? I didn’t poison you with a love potion did I?"

"Back at the supermarket, before I met you, there was this man speaking to a child. He said, ‘I’ll be back in a bit, sweety. Daddy’s just at the supermarket buying some stuff. Do you want anything?’ And the way he spoke to that child was filled with...love. I turned around and there was you."

"So you were eavesdropping on my call?"

His mouth twitched—not quite a smile.

"I was. And I was glad I did. You made me feel warm, as stupid as that sounds. I want that."

There was this genuine need that stemmed from his expression, a need evident amongst all humans.

A need I wouldn’t expect to be present in a doctor who touches people’s hearts, arteries, intestines, and guts manifested itself in the way he longed for my hand with an obscured, almost palpable desire to hold it.

For a person like him, I would not have expected to be deprived of such things.

But there he was, gazing at me like a toddler seeking and yearning to be held by a stranger he had just met today.

I caught his gaze as he stared at the tips of my fingers.

"I thought you just wanted to sleep with me or something," I said coyly.

"Well, there’s that. I’d be insane not to sleep with you if you allowed me to." It was a response said forthrightly, as he looked me straight in the eyes, spoken with no doubts or uncertainties. "But I’m not really rushing to get to that part since I am confident in my skills in that department."

"Woah! Ok. Wow mate! You’re the sexpert then. But how sure are you that I’d be into you?"

My eyes dotted around the idea of it.

Usually, I would wander off with whatever sexual positions or bodily gymnastics my prospective partner and I could think of.

But Nathan seems to have this hint of vulnerability that I sensed that no other person experiences except those he shares his bed with at night.

And clearly, I am not the person to be thinking of such things.

"You look concerned," he said. "I’m not here to have sex with you Greg. But what I said wasn’t a joke. If you allow me to sleep with you, I will sleep with you. But as you said, you haven’t decided if you like me. What I am more concerned with is getting to know you. Though I am sexually attracted to you, dopamine and norepinephrine stimulate euphoria because of certain biological triggers like scent and symmetrical features, which stipulate that you are a good breeder—"

I suddenly choked on my water. "Sorry, I’m a what?"

"You have the physical attributes to be an ideal mate, thus appearing to be a good breeder. Is my observation questionable? You do have a very good proportion. But then again, I do prefer doing the breeding in the process of homosexual mating."

I had to stop drinking water at this point because I felt I would be drowning in shock with the things he was saying.

Quickly, he grabbed my arm and wrote his digits in my hand with no warning.

"Save this number. I’d be very upset if you didn’t save it."

"You’re very bossy, aren’t you?" I said with considerable asperity as I grabbed my phone and began typing his digits. "You’ve been ordering me around since this morning."

"Sorry, er, it’s a quirk," he said, brushing his dirty blonde hair. His eyes drifted to the table as though he’d been found. I just assumed it was a product of his uniqueness that set him apart from everyone else. "I’d like to get things done efficiently. There’s nothing wrong with that, I hope." Then he changed the subject. "Your child's eye grade seems fairly high."

I leaned on the chair, my hands on the back of my head, and said, “Yeah. He has very high astigmatism, 650 and 750 on his left and right. That kid is blind without his glasses. I worry that he’ll get bullied at school for having them. You know, kids can be brutal. So far, it hasn’t happened yet." I sighed deeply. "If only I could keep him at home, you know, doing homeschooling or something...I would do it in a heartbeat if that meant protecting him from bullying and that sort. But I can’t. I have to work and earn money."

"I know some people who could help him get better glasses. The one he’s wearing is barely hanging on with scotch tape. I’d like to help."

"And why would you want to help me? Are you my sugar daddy?"

He breathed softly and slipped his hand on top of my hand.

"I can be if you want to. I have no problem financing everything you need in life if that’s what you want."

"Great. It’s official. You’re now my sugar daddy."

He didn’t buckle; he looked way too serious for this to be a joke.

I quickly pulled my hand away, and I burst out laughing anxiously.

He said, "There’s not much age difference here, so I don’t think I’d fit in as your sugar daddy."

"Well, how old are you? I remember you mentioned you were 36."

"Yes. How about you?"

"I’m 30."

"See—I can’t be your sugar daddy. We’re both in our thirties. But I could just be your daddy, if you’re aware of what gay slang dictates an older person to be who’d then call themselves daddy when providing financial assistance to their sexual partners. Of course, us having sex would be optional."

"I’m highly aware, Nathan, and I'm not sleeping with you."

"Very well then. Whatever suits you."

"So, if I’m already a daddy and have another daddy, that makes you...a double daddy?"

"Correct. But I’m only one person; I’m not two daddies. I can only be one. "

I snorted and said, "Alright then, double Dutch daddy, even if you helped, I wouldn’t be able to afford it. I’m poor and broke, if you haven’t noticed."

"Yes. I know that. But I’m already emotionally invested in you, and I’d like to keep pursuing it, so, I would want to help you as much as I can."

"Wow mate," I said, crossing my arms. "You really have no filter, do you? You realise we just met today."

"I don’t have a filter. Do you want me to have a filter?"

"No. I have a feeling that it's an exclusive quality that makes you—you. Like it’s your superpower."

The corner of his mouth lifted, and his shoulders seemed to relax better.

I wanted someone who didn’t give a shit, and he seemed to be the type to lay it on the ground, no holds barred.

"I’m glad I dropped by the supermarket this morning," he said.

"Why?"

Slowly, his hand moved over to mine and caressed it with a smile.

"Otherwise, I wouldn’t have met you."

I recoiled almost immediately and said, "Don’t be creepy," sending him into a fit of confusion that made the surrounding patrons gawk at him as he laughed forcefully, trying to understand the humour in what I’d said, while I swallowed my amusement that a different version of the three-letter word disarmed him.

His brows were knotted as his laughter slowly died into an awkward smile.

“I was trying to be funny.”

“Oh, you were trying to be humorous.”

He began laughing hysterically.

“Don’t do that; it’s weird.”

He immediately stopped laughing and said, "I don't get it. I wasn’t meaning to be weird."

"I was being obtuse. Hey! I used a difficult word. That makes me smart eh?"

Then the server came to our table just in time.

The wet confit garlic and burratina on toast with monk’s beard was first on the table.

It was draped in those wilted green fronds from toasting fennel and had these squishy, honking cloves of garlic drizzled with this aromatic jus of lamb oil.

It looked extremely fancy, and he sounded like a food critic with the way he described it to me.

He was very passionate about food, so I asked, "Do you cook?"

"I don’t. I’d be caught dead if someone saw me in the kitchen. But I appreciate good food." He cut a portion of the bread and said, "Open wide."

"What are you doing?" I immediately searched for eyes and ears that were curious to look at our table. I put aside my paranoia and said, "I’m not a child."

"Everyone goes back to being a child when they’re hungry. Come on, open wide. Stop slacking off and just eat."

I swallowed the fork that went straight into my mouth, seeing as I had no choice.

And oh boy, was the food marvellous!

"Bloomin’ heck! This is very tasty."

"The thing about this restaurant is, it’s to share. The name itself is gruppo in Italian, meaning group," he said, cutting another portion. "You don’t see individual people hoarding tables around here because the food is pricey. But it’s always good for two or more. Even their coffee is good for two people."

Then the server placed two wine glasses with a bottle of 2016 Chateau Cheval Blanc St Emilion and a gigantic 64-oz caramel macchiato in a glass bottle, along with charred courgette with chickpeas, whacking slices atop glistening shreds of kohlrabi, and a blob of cooled ricotta, accompanied by a slow, nectareous pop of diced bullhorn.

I asked him, "What’s the other one?"

"That’s orecchiette in spiced rabbit ragu. There’s parmigianino reggiano, and the flaking, almost gently gamey meat is very tasty with the tomato sauce. Tomato sauce, right?" He asked the server, and the server nodded. "There are also hints of toasted sesame seeds that add to its sprightliness."

My eyes pointed at the coffee with two straws.

"Wouldn’t we have seizures if we drank this much coffee? I don’t want to die."

Nathan said, "That’s equivalent to two cups of coffee. The remaining half are sweeteners and additives. Try it; it’s very tasty." Sipping the cold iced drink was very soothing, almost relaxing.

It definitely tasted like coffee, but I’m almost sure it had crack in it because I kept coming back.

As the food and drinks were flowing, he inquired about my life.

He asked why I didn’t look like my dad. I showed him a photo of a younger pop tucked inside my wallet before he had an accident, and he said, "I get the resemblance now. Your father’s looking very snappy—very good looking. In fact, you look like him."

I also showed him a photo of my mom, who left us to go to America when I was 5.

Dad said he'd pushed her to go away and that she really loved me, but she had to go.

I never believed him.

It was a nice thought to go by and tell your son whenever he’s feeling lonely.

The problem was that, when I was young, I always missed the mother I don’t remember.

In fact, I don’t even remember what she looked like.

This photo of hers I have in my wallet, a very blurry photo, was a stock photo kept inside a picture frame that I had cut into a square to fit inside my wallet.

For more than a decade, it was the picture I’d look at every night to remind me of her—a photo of what she looked like inside my head.

It was the only photo that made sense.

And as I grew up, I stopped looking at that photo.

What made sense when I was little grew to be ridiculous as I got older.

When I had Brady, I understood what my father did.

The lies were sometimes what kept me going—to believe that lying had somewhat eased the burden when I felt I needed the warm touch of an imaginary female figure in my life that I hoped I could look up to was the consolation my father thought I deserved to hear, that she didn’t abandon me for a better life, and that she didn’t leave me to have another family.

Several years ago, I did some digging into her whereabouts in order to satisfy this lifelong curiosity I’ve had of hers.

She was very easy to find.

It turned out that she has a husband, two kids, a 26-year-old son with a veterinary clinic in Stamford, a 22-year-old daughter taking up Liberal Arts at Yale, and two dogs and a cat.

They were living in a 6-bedroom, 2-acre mansion in Greenwich, with a river dock connecting to Mead Point, a private gated community.

I had a day to resent her and her newfound life with her family.

After that, I stopped thinking about her.

I had to forget that I had a mother to prevent this ache from hurting anymore.

I was glancing at my opened wallet at the table when Nathan asked me, "Are you alright? You were zoning out for a moment there."

I quickly realised the cloud in my judgement and said, "I’m good."

I closed my wallet and began questioning him about his father in response to his inquiries.

He answered incoherently, briefly, and in rather few words overall.

"My father’s not important."

"You don’t want to answer?"

"How about yours? Your father..." he said quietly, as a masterclass in avoiding the topic, while wiping his hand with a serviette after fingering the lamb's neck.

"What about him?"

"How many years has he been paralysed?"

I tilted my head as he tipped the bottle of wine over my glass, filling it with a pool of glowing rose.

He held his own glass by the stem, turning it to his face before drinking the ruby-colored liquid.

"Since I was 13 or 14, I’ve forgotten when exactly, but yeah, they left him on the side of a road by this driver who drove a lorry." I drank a bit of wine as I tipped the glass lightly into my mouth. But having finished the coffee by myself, I was more than full. "He won the settlement, and dad was paid handsomely. It’s how he was able to send me off to a good university. And if you’re wondering, the money’s all gone now."

"I admire what you do with your father. Not everyone has the guts and the commitment to do what you do," he said in all seriousness. "How about Brady’s mom? Is she in the picture?"

"Oh, her?" The grin I had turned to a partial smile. "Well, Jessica was a character."

"Was?"

"She overdosed on coke. On the night she had Brady, they found her in the Mersey tunnel with a needle in her arm. She was taking cocaine while she was with child. Brady was in the NICU suffering from cocaine withdrawal. He was barely eight hours alive, and he was already an addict thanks to his mom." I lifted my glass and drank forcefully. "Jessica was my bestfriend. I loved her to bits, but I’ve always found her death to be a circuitous but creative method to the way she died. I’ve always believed she was murdered."

"Murdered how?"

"Jessica was five years older than me but we always jived together like we were siblings. She was in London studying as a nurse. I was just turning twenty, and was just about to leave university when she asked me to take in her son as my own. Without any explanation at all, she mentioned it so casually. She begged me to take him. It felt like she knew she was going to die. She said that her kid has no one except me. Just like her child, Jessica had no one. No mother, no father, no relatives. It was one of the hardest decisions I’d ever made, 'cause I did not know how to be a father, you know—I was just a kid, like, I didn’t know how to change a nappy or how to burp an infant. Those things were foreign to me." He was keenly listening as I continued, "Minutes before she had overdosed, the cops were called in time for them to save her baby. She was dead when they gave her a C-section."

"That’s an unbelievable story—not that I’m implying that you’re lying; I mean, it’s truly unbelievable. So why do you think she was murdered?"

"Who would dump a body inside a busy tunnel in the middle of the night? Why would they drug her when I know she’s never taken any drugs in her life. And why would they call the cops conveniently for the doctors to be able to save her baby? It all sounds planned for me."

"That does sound conspicuously convenient. I’m sorry about your bestfriend. "

I smiled as I took a sip.

"Thanks. She’s the one who inspired me to take forensic anthropology. Someday, I’ll have my answers. I’m going to get the fucking bastards who did this to her." He was deep in thought when I said, "I was studying for my finals when they called to tell me she was dead—I was her emergency contact. I was two weeks away from graduating. Jessica and I were meant to be roommates in the city. That was the plan...but,” I said, quickly shifting my eyes from the table to the nearest group of young friends cheering and celebrating something. “Anyway, Dad was still in his wheelchair so he still had his mobility, and we both took a 6-hour trip to London to see her baby. I was silent throughout the trip; Dad simply held my hand, squeezing it tightly when he sensed I was about to break down and cry. When we arrived at the hospital, you know, when I saw her baby, when I saw Brady...it was like something sparked inside of me, like my life flashed before me and I saw my life without him, and life with him, in it. And I chose the latter. It was one of the greatest decisions I’ve ever made in my life. I know it’s not for everyone. But it is, for me."

"Do you have any idea who the father is?"

"No. She only told me that he was very unique—and she was madly in love with the bloke. Not sure if it was mutual or reciprocated. I tried getting more info when we met in the city, but she avoided talking about him, and instead, we always talked about something else like she was avoiding discussing him. She never even showed me a photo of the guy. But that was her greatest gift though—there was no one to claim my son. No stupid dickhead to tell me that he’s the real father."

"Oh, I see. Does Brady know that you’re not his real father?"

"Yeah, the kid knows. I tell about her mother every chance I get. I tell him that his mum was my bestfriend and that his father was a stork—not sure if he believes that one. But I don’t think it matters to him if I were his real dad or not. Kids his age; he only sees me as THE father who’s taken care of him all his life. And I’m proud to have the privilege of being called his dad." Nathan gave a muted sigh of bewilderment as he stared into my eyes. I wondered, "What’s wrong?"

"You’re amazing, do you know that?" He gazed around at every person eating at the restaurant and made a comparison. "None of the people here are as interesting as you are. I say it as a fact. More so, when that lady at the bakeshop said you were a policeman? Is it true?" he said, closing his eyes, inhaling the wine’s perfume, and chugging the remaining fill in one go.

"Yeah, I was a police officer for ten years."

"Why’d you leave?"

"I wasn’t happy anymore," I said censoriously, leaving it at that. There were more exciting things to discuss than talking about months of therapy and counselling. "How about you? What made you decide to be a doctor?”

"Nothing really. I know I’m highly intelligent and I’m blessed with my great looks and height, which is to say that intellect and surgical skills are the only factor in the field of medicine that matters, and the rest are rubbish."

Trying my utter best not to laugh vociferously at how inscrutable his expression was, a man approaching our table suddenly alerted me.

I grabbed his hand and said, "Pretend we’re having a great time and that you’re my boyfriend."

"Ok. If you say so."

Jeremy came up behind Nathan and prissily greeted us.

"What are you doing here Greg? And who’s your friend here?"

His group of friends sat inside the restaurant, with one man standing in the corner browsing his phone.

He held my shoulders and squeezed the muscles underneath my jacket, as was sufficiently seen by the doctor, who glowered at him and quickly changed his expression to that of withheld rage neutered by a smile.

Jeremy’s watery blue eyes inspected the piles of food on our table, assuming I must have money now—he looked surprised.

He swiped the spikes in his stringy brown hair, and with his skin perennially burned by the sun, he said to me in passing, "I was just in Ibiza last month. I tried calling you several months ago."

"Oh yeah, I changed my number."

"Why don’t you give me your new number then?" He handed me his phone, his eyes stuck to Nathan rubbing my hands, and slowly, he saw the large hands move further to caress my arms, which may have been a bit much. "Is he your boyfriend?"

"Yes," said Nathan, "I am his boyfriend, Nathan. And we’re happy. We have intercourse every chance we get."

“Dear Lord,” I mumbled.

Confusion set in when Jeremy glanced at me. "Er—alright then. Well, I-I’m happy for the two of you." Jeremy swiped a stare at his friend, pointing at his watch. "Catch up later?" I had just finished typing my digits on his phone when he said, "It was nice seeing you Greg. You look great. Nice seeing you too, er, Nathan."

He peered at Nathan, who was glaring at him for no reason.

The two of them soon joined their friends grouped around a large table.

I flicked the man’s shoulder as he kept looking their way. "Stop being weird."

"No, I wasn’t."

"Yes, you are. The poor sod could barely hold his breath with the way you were staring at him."

"But you advised us to pretend that we’re in a relationship—though I don’t see the appeal of lying since eventually that’s where we’ll be, lovers who frequently sleep together. Sleeping together is euphemism for sex, if you didn’t catch that."

"Yeah, I heard it clearly."

Nathan crossed his arms, his eyes narrowed, and said, "Who is he exactly?"

"Er, erm, well he," I mumbled, "he was a guy I’d ghosted for weeks. We were dating for a month till I lost interest."

"Badly done Mr. Danvers, badly done."

"You’d be pissed off too if he kept reminding you about money. I remember we were having lunch in Chinatown and he kept saying to me, ‘We should’ve gone to eat at La Belle’s, I was feeling Mediterranean today.’ The prices in that restaurant were around twenty quid per meal item. He knows I couldn’t afford it. Like I buy a coffee, yeah, for less than two dollars. But he brings me to Starbucks and orders two of those frappuccinos for eleven quid...five pounds thirty for coffee is too much. And I just couldn’t stand doing wretched selfies the whole day. The whole of Starbucks became our photo studio. It was annoying.” I leaned forward and mumbled. “I’ve had this feeling for a while that I think he was only with me cause I look like this like he was parading me around town like a trophy or something. I was earning a salary for a bobbie back then. There wasn’t much in that." Then my phone buzzed. "Funny, it’s him," I said while reading his message.

There were several missed calls on my phone from an unknown number, when Nathan said, "In order to kill those annoying weeds, you’d have to cut them from the root."

He snatched my phone from my hand. "Oy! What are you doing mate?"

Tweaking something in the settings, he said, "There. You just blocked him."

I took the phone from his hand. "Don’t bugger around with my phone."

"You’re welcome," he said, propping his hands on the table, his chin resting on the top of his palms.

"Shit! It’s already 42 minutes past 4." Seeing the time blinking 4:42 on my phone, I might be late for the 6 PM event tonight. "We have to go. I have work at 6." He looked at me oddly. "It’s a waitering gig."

"Alright."

He patted something in his front pockets and pulled out two cards, a Coutts World Silk Card and an Amex Black Card.

He dangled the Coutts card, as though he were deciding which to give, until he handed me the Black Amex.

One thing strewn across my mind was: how fucking wealthy is this guy?

Two cards that don’t have any credit limit—is this guy for real?

"Go to the cashier and pay with that card," he said. "Let’s see what Jeremy thinks of that."

"You’re ordering me around again."

"Please go to the counter and pay for our meal. How about that?"

I threaded my way to the counter by the bar area as Jeremy was seated with his friends at a nearby table.

He walked over to me smugly, his hands in his pockets, tilting his head to flaunt his brown spiked hair that had played out its popularity back in the early 2000s.

He leaned on the counter like a predator out on the hunt, eyes squinting with a dash of sexual jest, and said, "Are you and that guy serious? He doesn’t look chuffed seeing me. Is it because he knows we have a history? Is he that jealous that we had something?"

This prick must think our month of dating was running deep to the point where I still think about him.

I frowned at his narcissism and said, "It’s not like that."

Then, the server at the registrar read our bill before paying for the transaction. "It’s £1,845.00."

I didn’t want to sound ignorant of what we ate, and I didn’t want to look surprised, but bloody hell, eighteen hundred bucks for a meal was never on my bucket list to spend on.

I dug around carefully and said, "I thought the bill would be around two thousand."

Jeremy slithered his hand behind my neck, fingering loose hair around my nape.

"Only two thousand quid? Greg, you’re a changed man. Anything past a tenner, you’d be freaking out."

The server explained, "The bulk of the bill came from a bottle of Chateau Cheval Blanc St Emilion; that’s £1,445, and the £400 came from the food. Are you paying by card or by cash?"

I gave the Black Amex card, and I swear to god, Jeremy’s hands were around my neck, his other fingers tucked around my torso, feeling the curves of my abs.

He glanced over at their table and pouted slyly at his friends, as though to coax them into believing he was with me, despite the contrary.

Their table was close enough to the bar.

I heard one of his friends say, "That’s the guy Jeremy’s been talking about, yeah. I hear he shags like a battering ram. Jeremy’s obsessed with him. See that twinkle in that nancy’s eyes—oh, he wishes he’d get shagged tonight. He’s very hot though, a fact he didn’t need to lie about."

It felt like I was worth a million dollars. Imagining myself as one of those people able to afford to pay for thousand-dollar meals was more than I could chew.

But if there was a sense of lie I dreaded living, this was it—living my life as a poser, as a wannabe, as a fraud.

Once the server gives back the card, this dream of experiencing a speck of classy life ends right here.

The moment I step out of this restaurant, I’ll be back as the single father with two dependents, with a child, and a paraplegic father who lives on the couch.

Someone had grabbed my wrist.

My instinct was to elbow strike and do an undercut chokehold to the one behind me.

I turned my head, and it was Nathan.

"Let’s go. You’re going to be late, babe."

He had fingers like steel.

Disregarding my efforts to free myself, he turned my wrist from one side to the other as we dodged tables, hastily walking out of the establishment with a timer.

Once we got past the view and were in the street where the car was parked, my derisively annoyed expression retreated somewhat, but did not disappear completely.

I yanked my wrist and shouted, "Enough!"

I rubbed my wrist, brows furrowed against him, as though to erase the thought that this man is harsh when he’s very jealous or when he chooses to be.

There were three men conversing in front of a black Range Rover.

Men in black suits were discussing things as they glanced over in our direction.

"Don’t ever, ever, ever grab me like that. I nearly toppled you when you were creeping behind me. You got that?" He nodded obediently as he held my wrist and began massaging it gently. "You’ve really got a hard grip there."

I saw his gaze, and he smiled.

"Thanks," he said, quickly reverting to the deadpan expression I’ve been noticing throughout the day.

"It wasn’t a compliment."

"Oh, I see. I’m sorry for grabbing you like that." He kept massaging my wrist with circular motions, his fingers pressed into the veins, and his eyes were observing me. "I didn’t mean to hurt you. I should’ve been gentler."

"I’m fine." He gazed thoughtfully into my eyes, gently fondling my fingers as the electric current swirled across my body—a current formed with how gently his skin grazed across mine. His touch was simply electric. I dropped my hand and said, "Come on. Let’s go."

"Ok. No problem." Already in front of his car, he stepped into the driver’s seat, pressed his head out of the window, and said, "Get in. You said you’re going to be late. We need to hurry."

It was difficult to deny that he and I have chemistry; it's like we’re in a vortex that keeps pulling us together, no matter how hard I try to run away.

If I were on the same footing as him, if I had a decent job, a house, and the money, if I didn’t have a kid, if I didn’t have an enfeebled father, we’d be heading home after dinner, and we would be making love like the world wasn’t entitled to ask for shits.

But reality has a harsher way of reminding me of my place in this world.

After this, I know I’ll never see him again.

So I’m enjoying this dream as much as I can while it lasts.

"Thanks for everything," I said, gazing out the side-door window as the streets of London looked majestic with the auburn glaze of the afternoon sun dripping on the top like flashing lights.

Later on, we were at the intersection near my flat, at the crossroads, waiting for the sign to turn green.

I leaned my elbow on the door, my chin resting firmly, and said what was on my mind.

"You saved me with my father's diaper situation. At the bakery, you were the only one that took time to help me. You encouraged me to vent my frustrations and even volunteered your face as a punching bag. You aided me in repairing my injured hand. You even fed me while I was starving. Where have you been all this time?" I laughed, then it slowly lost its mirth and trailed off into a moment of clarity when I said, "You’re like the Christmas gift that keeps on giving. It was nice knowing you, Nathan. I’m really glad to have met you."

He dipped his head toward me and went back to gazing straight into the road.

"You’re going to call me, right? Or text me, I hope?"

I didn’t answer.

He then grabbed my hand and said, "Please tell me you’re going to call. I won’t let go till you say yes. Please say yes."

I smiled, knowing very well the lie I had to say to appease myself, who wanted badly to be with him, and said, "Yes. I will."