What Happens When You Connect With Your Missed Connection

From the end of the block I spot Dick leaning against the brick wall out front in the shade. He looks presentable, beyond what I would have expected from someone suffering from a hangover. When we step inside it becomes painfully apparent that the two of us are on different pages about what constitutes fancy in this town. From the moment we say “hello” things are weird. The late-night exchange looms heavily; unaddressed. The mutual awkwardness growing, we both look away from each other, to the walls and the nearby tables, listening in on brunch rush conversations.

The waiter sucks and our banter lapses repeatedly. After our food arrives we settle into talking about the recent heat wave before Dick mentions his excitement about the seasons shifting again. Winter seems so far off as I feel sweat rolling down the back of my neck, beads accumulating on my chest — boots, coats and gloves hardly seem like something I should be thinking about, but he’s on a roll. I let him do the talking, chewing each bite slowly while I nod and stare at my plate.

“I’d love a pair of leather stranglers.”

It’s the first thing he’s said that’s caught my attention since we sat down. I wonder what his leather-encased fingers would feel like, squeezing my neck with just the right amount of pressure. Another slow sip of coffee, and I wait for the mental image to fade.

Our server doesn’t bother to clear our empty plates before dropping the check face-up on the end of the table. Dick looks at the white slip then up at me. He doesn’t reach for it. I was expecting him to. But unfortunately for him, this time I really don’t have any cash — and he’s stuck paying for it. At times like this, I love the fact there are still places in New York that don’t take plastic.

He leads the way on a slow walk down a nearby side street, stopping at a junk store a few blocks over just long enough for us to look at piles of overpriced broken housewares. A line of eager Brooklynites clutching cast-off glass tchotchkes to their chests take up most of the front room by the time we leave. We wander along in the shade until I realize our proximity to his apartment.

“Going home already?” I ask, assuming our outing is over, and that when I get home I’ll wonder why I even bothered brushing my hair and putting on a dress.

“You got any better ideas?” His tone is not harsh, but I wonder if he is incapable of finding his way between places without needing a destination.

“Not really. I mean, holiday weekend. Drinking aside, there probably isn’t much going on around here.”

I continue walking with him, down the half-flight of cement stairs and into the basement he shares with a handful of roommates I’ve only seen in passing. Daylight makes it impossible to ignore just how filthy the apartment really is; the lingering scent of sweat and cigarettes left behind by the bands that practice in a converted front room; undertones of mold and wet concrete in a bathroom that has surely never been cleaned.

We head to his bedroom and he arbitrarily picks out a documentary neither of us will be watching, but we lay on his bed and I rest my head on his chest because that’s what adults do when they’ve already fucked but aren’t trying to make eye contact. Our ability to touch each other is obviously forced without the aid of liquor. I force myself to zone out, listening to the dull thumping of his heartbeat, not responding once his hand begins to move from the back of my neck to my shoulder. It slides along my side slowly and he struggles to find the hem of my dress before lifting it, his palm settling on the curve of my backside.