There’s no point going back to sleep, so I start my morning routine. Make coffee, have a shower, drink coffee. Feed my half-starved cat. Dress in some sweatpants and a t-shirt, and go for a run. The city is just waking up, a soft golden light creeping over the river. Our neighbourhood is still pretty empty, only a few insomniac joggers like me and a few folks heading to work. I end up in Coliseum Square Park, which, early in the morning, is a haven of solitude with its big, gnarly oak trees and old benches.

I use the benches and everything I can find for a bit of bodyweight exercises. I’m still one sandwich short of a six-pack, but I’ve noticed some changes in my upper arms and torso. I’m not doing it out of vanity; running and working out just help to clear my mind. Being out in open space is always good. I’m running a few laps around the park, stopping here and there for some planks and squats until I discover Amos’ lemonade stand in its usual corner of the park.

After my final round I make a beeline for Amos and treat myself to a cup. He waves at me from afar and has my drink ready for me when I get there. Amos is amazing. He knows all his customers, has a nickname for them (I’m “Slim”) and is always ready for a little chat. He only has a folding table, a lawn chair and a big glass jar of his famous home-made lemonade, but what else do you need? I think he must be living close by because occasionally his wife Edna brings reinforcements in the form of a fresh jug and sometimes cookies. There aren’t any cookies today, though.

“Well, look at you runnin’ circles ’round this place. You got any plans for when that energy runs out?” He says with a big, slightly toothless smile. I always get a lemonade when he’s around.

I huff out a breath and grin as I reach for my drink: “Tryna outrun my bad decisions, but they got better stamina than me.”

Since I started working in a “proper job”, I felt like I should sound like I earned it. But when I talk to Amos, that New Orleanean flavour still comes through. He cackles, slapping his legs in amusement, and I walk over to my favourite bench for a little break. I pull out my phone and open the messenger app. There are two blue ticks behind my last text to Rashid – he read it – but nothing else from him. We’re meeting in a couple of hours anyway, so what would he say?

Despite everything, I’m excited to see him again. I’m going to see my mystery man again. Sounds good, doesn’t it? Even if nothing comes of it.

No other messages either. Which reminds me that I didn’t answer Josie. I tap on our thread. What can I tell her? I ponder my options, then I start typing:

WD: “Promise me you won’t freak out”

I don’t expect a reply from her immediately. She’s always so busy, probably getting breakfast ready for everyone, but it doesn’t take long for a gif to appear. It’s Anna from Frozen freaking out. I send her an eye roll emoji back. She must have her phone close because her answer is almost instant.

JD: “TELL ME!!!”

Her impatience makes me grin, and I deliberately take extra time to type.

WD: “I’m meeting Rashid later today”

Just seeing these words written out in front of me makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Another gif appears on my screen. This time it’s Carlton from Fresh Prince doing his happy dance. I can’t help but laugh.

JD: “SO HAPPY FOR YOU!!!”

I feel a pang of guilt for not being able to tell her the full story, but it also feels good that I made her happy, not worried about me, for once. I can’t even finish that thought when my phone rings. It’s Josie. When I answer the call, she basically squeals in my ear.

“Really? You’re seeing him? Today?”

“Gee, don’t sound so surprised, sis.” I mock-growl at her.

“Listen, we’re on our way to the in-laws, so I don’t have much time. Just wanted to say ‘Well done, you’ and good luck!”

I can hear the car radio playing in the background and Soso singing along to a Taylor Swift song. At least trying to. She’s not getting all the lyrics right. Bless her little, so far unbroken heart.

“Well, don’t get too excited. This might turn into nothing.”

Josie blows out a breath. “Oh, come on, Wendell, stop being so pessimistic! Just enjoy the moment! You never know what’s going to happen next, so there’s no point worrying about it.” Coming from Little Miss Worried All The Time, this is a bit rich. But deep down I know she’s right. Enjoy the moment. If Rashid asks me to have sex with him, I’ll do it. I’ve not had any in two years, so it’ll be good. The restroom stall on the far left at Rosalie’s is a little wider and pretty perfect for it. It also gets used quite frequently for that purpose. Rosalie knows and largely ignores it as long as it’s consensual and we don’t leave any mess.

“So, his name is Rashid? That’s unusual! But pretty! Bet he’s pretty, too. Is he a nice boy? He better be, or I’ll come after him!”

Sheesh, girl… Josie is usually not a big talker (much like me), but pregnancy hormones and the excitement that her baby brother is going on a date with a “nice boy” (I snort at the idea; Rashid is so not a “boy” anymore) seem to have gotten the better of her.

“Calm down, sis, the banns haven’t been read yet.”

She suddenly goes very quiet. Then I can hear her giggles.

“What…?” I’m laughing with her even though I don’t know what’s so funny.

“Baby bro, if you already have marriage on your mind, you got it bad for this boy. Real bad!”

I groan and sink back on the bench.

“Anyhow… we’re here. Gotta go. Love you, baby bro! Have fun – and good luck!”

“Love you, too, sis,” I manage to say, then the connection is cut off.

I’m lying on the bench, legs dangling over the armrest, my eyes are closed, half-empty lemonade cup on the ground beside me, and my phone is resting on my stomach, my hand laid protectively over it. The sun is fully up now, and I can feel the warmth on my face. The foliage above me creates flickers of light and shadow through my eyelids.

The next thing I know, someone’s nudging my bench with his foot.

“Ain’t no hotel service out here, son. You want a mint on your pillow, too?”

I groggily open my eyes. “Just been restin’ my eyes for a moment, man.”

Amos cackles. “Near ’bout noon, son. Ain’t you got places to be?

Fuck!

I shoot up, instinctively keeping a grip on my phone. A look at it confirms Amos’ statement. It’s almost noon. Still time, but I can’t believe I slept here for hours. The advantage of sleeping rough for almost five years is that you can sleep anywhere, in any position, at any time of the day. The disadvantage is that you will. Being a chronic insomniac with a messed-up sleep pattern doesn’t help either. My legs, still dangling over the armrest, have fallen asleep, and I massage them back to life.

I finish my lemonade; it’s lukewarm now but still good. I return the cup to Amos for recycling and then hobble back to my apartment. I usually run, but my legs are still in pins and needles, so it takes me a lot longer than normal to get back. On the way, I make a quick stop at Whole Foods to stock up on some groceries and a wrap with avocado and grilled tofu to munch on the way. At home Bruno demands my attention, so I cuddle him for a few minutes and then find him a table tennis ball that he loves to chase around the room. I hop under the shower to the ping pong of the ball being ricocheted across the room while contemplating the hardest task of the day. Picking the right outfit.

How do you dress for a date that’s not a date?

I stand in front of my wardrobe, naked, hair still dripping with water. It’s a bit longer now than I normally wear it and might need a trim soon. I grab a towel and rub it dry. My gaze falls upon the mirror that covers one of the wardrobe doors and the image of my body that I’m presented with. I guess some folks fill out; I just stretched out.

I know I’m not ugly. My clients liked me well enough, so that’s saying something. And I’m not the scrawny, half-starved kid I was back then, either. I’m not too tall, just average height, I would say. And maybe you could call my body lean? My shoulders are a bit broader now, and I can see some movement underneath my skin when I flex my arms. My chest and stomach are flat; actually, no six-pack in sight. I puff out my belly, give it a light pat and sigh in resignation. It is what it is. Just let’s not talk about my legs, which are pathetically thin and refuse to change no matter how much I run. Or my tiny ass.

I pick a pair of black boxer briefs, make sure there aren’t any holes in them (just in case) and black skinny jeans. They’re a bit ripped at the knees, but they look cool. I can’t decide what shirt to wear and end up spreading the whole collection (I don’t own that many) across my bed. I try one after the other, not satisfied with either choice. I take a look at my old Rockstar Lestat band t-shirt. Maybe a bit too obvious. I pick up a bright pink one that says “slut” in glittery letters. Rafa, Mari’s “hotter than salsa” cousin, gave it to me for my birthday last year. It’s his kind of humour, and no, I don’t know either how I put up with him. Definitely not wearing his t-shirt today, though. Or one of my superhero shirts.

Thinking of Rafa also makes me remember the first time I met him. It was at Lestat’s concert, and Mari had tried everything to hook us up. She’d sworn he was gay, and he definitely had flirted with me, fondled my thigh and kissed me on the cheek. When I’d made a move – egged on by Mari again – he apologised for giving me the wrong idea because it turns out Rafa is “100% straight” (his words). We’ve become friends, and he’s currently dating a nice girl named Elodie, but it makes me question everything about Rashid. Not that it takes much to make me question everything about anything.

In the end I choose a simple t-shirt in a dark teal colour. It’s not flashy but not boring either. It’s not too tight but not too loose either. It’ll do. I check the time. I definitely need to get a move on if I don’t want to be late. I slip into my sneakers, pick up Bruno, who squeaks in protest, and plant a kiss on his forehead.

“Wish me luck, buddy!”

I make it to Rosalie’s a few minutes before 5 and spot Rashid from a distance. He’s already waiting in front of the diner, hands in his pockets, still as a statue. I use the chance to unashamedly check him out. He’s dressed very casually today, in dark blue jeans and a cream-coloured t-shirt. It’s short-sleeved, so I get a good look at his upper arms, and my imagination wasn’t wrong. They’re not bulky but strong. Perfect. I wonder what they’d feel like wrapped around my body, my head nuzzled into that hollow between Rashid’s neck and his shoulder. There’s a slight dip, just wide enough for my forehead to fit in.

Before my daydreaming can progress any further, I’m rudely brought back to the present by a buzzing sound coming from my back pocket. It’s a call from Christine Claire’s office, and I remember they already sent me an e-mail. It’s probably important, but not now.

I don’t know if it was the noise or the movement when I pulled out my phone to decline the call, but something made Rashid look my way. I smile at him and give him a little idiotic wave before I continue to walk towards him, feeling nervous and a little sad that my time secretly observing him got cut short. I try to read Rashid’s face, see if he feels happy, nervous or excited, but there’s nothing. He doesn’t look cold or distant. Just very guarded like someone who’s learned to shield his emotions.

I remember the smile in his profile picture. I’ll be damned if I can’t crack his shell a little today and get at least a fraction of this smile. With a few determined steps, I close the distance between us.