But … I don’t feel like he was annoyed. I feel like he was … god, I really don’t know. And I’m struggling to remember the exact sequence of events, but I feel likehestood close tome.
But surely not?
I mean, why would he? I’m not the kind of person things like that happen to. And what do I imagine was happening anyway? No one is interested in me, especially not someone like that.
I mean, come on. He was gorgeous. He had one of those perfect, masculine faces. The kind with a great jawline and ideal proportions. Nice lips, good nose. He’s probably been beautiful his whole life. Rich too, based on his clothes and confidence. He was wearing jeans and a leather jacket, nothing that demanded attention, but I know what expensive things look like. It’s subtle in casual clothes, but you can tell if you know what to look for.
And then there was the way he walked. Also subtle, but I know what power looks like too, so I know that he couldn’t possibly have been interested in me. He’s probably not even gay. I’m just blowing things up in my head because …
Because of what I did. I still can’t believe I submitted that request. Do I really want what I asked for?
At this moment, sorting limes in the middle of the bodega in broad daylight, that fantasy feels absurd. I’m embarrassed by it.
At three a.m., alone in my dark apartment, I could imagine it, imagine myself in it. I could be, in private, a different person than I really am. And then, for a second while that man stood behind me, while he spoke to me in that dark, dangerous voice, I couldfeelit. What I want. What I need.
But that’s not reality.
Reality is hunting down moldy fruit in the bin, sweeping floors, maybe getting a leftover sandwich from the deli at closing time. Reality is that I dropped every dollar of my savings, nearly a year of hunting down moldy fruit and sweeping floors, on what was almost certainly a scam.
God, I’m an idiot. Whoever took my money is probably laughing their ass off. They probably sent my request to all their friends.Look at this pathetic little bitch! Can you believe he’s willing to pay to be—
“Elias!” Emmy calls from behind the register. “Leave that, Saul needs you in the deli.”
I don’t call back because I’d have to yell for her to hear me and all she needs is for me to obey. Which I do.
“Onions,” Saul says at my approach. He doesn’t look up from mixing his aioli, so he doesn’t notice that I’m upset.
He probably wouldn’t notice anyway.
***
Eight hours should be long enough to get over feeling like a moron, but it’s not. It’s not the money I flushed down the toilet, not really. It’s that I finally acknowledged what I’ve been craving for years.
But when I asked for it, when I finally put into words what I need, I was speaking into the void. There probably isn’t actually anyone laughing at me because my money simply vanished into someone’s bank account and my words dissolved into the nothingness of a computer program.
It looked legit because of the required STD testing results, but that could’ve just been bullshit to fool people like me.
That’s what I think about as I walk home in the chilly spring darkness.
I could take the train, save myself a few blocks in the dark, but I never do. The sounds of traffic and music and voices have nothing to do with me. I’ve gotten scared a few times and once I got mugged. But the guy just wanted my cash, and I when I gave it to him, he ran with it. Never even touched me. I’ve always gotten home safe, and tonight’s no different.
There’s a guy passed out in the stairwell, but he doesn’t stir as I step over him. I get to my floor, moving through the gauntlet of noise. An argument in 902. A screaming baby in 905. A basketball game blaring from the TV in 908.
I initially walk straight past my own door because there’s a box in front of it and my brain thinks it’s more likely that I’ve misread the number on the door than that the box is for me. I backtrack to my door and stare at the box. It’s matte black with a shiny purple ribbon.
Um … what?
It must be at the wrong door. I crouch and look for a tag, finding it tucked under the purple bow.
Elias.
My scalp prickles and I look up, glancing down the hallway like someone said my name even though all I did was read it on the tag. I frown at the box. It’s not sealed. Only the ribbon is holding it shut. What is this? Why is it here? It can’t have been here long or someone would have taken it.
The guy from 902 emerges, slamming the door behind him. I jump, popping to my feet. I unlock my door and grab the box, ducking inside before the argument can resume in the hallway like it usually does.
I hit the light switch with my elbow. Harsh fluorescent light floods the tiny space. I set the box on the bed and switch to the lamps. Even with the softer light, the box looks as out of place here as it did in the hallway.
While the argument in the hallway runs its course—we’re at the neighbors-getting-involved stage now, which is really just the guy in 904 shouting “shut the fuck up”—I go into my kitchen area and fill the electric kettle.
