David sighed. Thatwasa point in his favor—if he had to hook up with one more guy who went on and on about how he’d “never been with a Black guy before…”
“Ah, I can tell you’re thinking about it,” Kyra said. “You need some dick to help you deal with all this stress.”
“Okay, first off, you can’t say that kind of thing at work.”
Kyra rolled her eyes. Somehow, though they’d only met when David started at Aspire, she acted like they were old friends.
“Second…” This Anthony didn’t sound… awful. David could almost picture him, imagine inviting him back to David’s place to chill. He’d finished furnishing his new house—he’d spent too long in a cramped Chicago apartment to not want to indulge a little bit in having a house again—and the new couch was cozy. They could curl up, watch a movie…
“You’re thinking about it?” Kyra asked.
David shook his head. He needed to be thinking about the stacks of note cards and piles of books and cases of wine blocking the TV.
“Second.” David cleared his throat. “I don’t have time to be dating right now. And for the record, I can get dick on my own just fine.”
“First, I didn’t say date him. Just meet him.” Kyra’s eyes sparkled. “And second,” she said, sticking her nose in the air, “you can’t say that kind of thing at work.” With that, she spun around and headed back toward the kitchen.
David snorted. Outmaneuvered again.
Still, that didn’t change things. Yes, he’d been in a drought since he moved back home, and yes, he could use some good dick. But his test had to come first. Once he got his master somm, he could get a jobanywhere: San Francisco. New York. Austin. Seattle.
All places with way better dick than Kansas City, Missouri. He’d grown up here. He knew the score.
Aspire was great, but it wasn’t permanent. He promised Jeri he’d helpget it off the ground while he finished out his master somm, but that was it. This was a temporary thing, not a permanent move. He had big dreams, and he was so fucking close. No way was he going to get entangled right now.
Besides. He had two hands and a nightstand full of toys.
He would be just fine on his own.
three
Farzan
Farzan was running late.
At least, later than he’d meant to. It wasn’t like he had a date. Or even a reservation. But cleaning up the kitchen had taken longer than he’d planned. He’d been overcome by the urge to scrub down the stovetop, imagining Cliff’s face in the black metal as he worked. And then he still had to shower, plus the streetcar was running behind because some bozo had parked over the line and they had to wait for said bozo to move his car. It was either that or get towed, and despite the screaming, the guy clearly didn’t want to get towed.
So it was past six when he finally pulled up at the Kauffman Center stop. Early evening light was streaming down 16th Street; uphill, the light caught the edges of the Kauffman Center’s two silver humps, turning them golden. But Farzan was headed the opposite way, toward Walnut.
Aspire had a tiny parking lot (already full), and Farzan was relieved he’d taken the streetcar, because he was shit at parallel parking, especially if there were witnesses. If no one was watching him, he could do it—most of the time. But like Schrödinger’s cat, as soon as someone observed him, his parking skills were dead.
A small patio took up half the sidewalk outside Aspire, dotted with two- and four-seat tables, hemmed in by a black metal fence and a few ginkgo trees with their leaves already fading toward yellow. The tables were full, though—no surprise—so Farzan stepped inside to see if he could get a seat at the bar.
Farzan had been to a lot of restaurants all around Kansas City—some amazing, some awful, and plenty mediocre. Aspire’s vibe was immaculate. Warm, cozy lights shone on the gray tile floor; abstract paintings by local artists dotted dark wood walls; a long mahogany-topped bar was laden with black rubber mats and cocktail fixings; and right above the host stand a kitschy chandelier made of empty wine bottles cast a greenish glow all around.
The restaurant was packed. Even the bar was crowded, but Farzan thought he saw a free stool. Fingers crossed, he approached the host stand.
“Hi!” The host was a lovely Black woman with box braids. Her pinstriped vest had a little pin that saidSHE/HERon the lapel. “Do you have a reservation?”
“No, sorry,” Farzan said. “You have room for one?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “We’ve got a spot at the bar, if you want to wait until a table opens up.”
“Sure. That’ll be fine.”
“Can I get a name?” She tapped at the iPad on her stand.
“Farzan Alavi. He/him.”
