Blink Read Free Page A

cocks, come spurting, deep tongue kisses pressed against faces that felt, even in dream, like sandpaper.
    But I returned his grin, and our gazes held for a record amount of time. I heard, vaguely, the conductor announce the stop for Racine was coming up. Our gaze broke as Carlos sidled between two people and began moving toward the doors. Racine. That was his stop.
    What would I do? Would I sit and watch him vanish into the sunny day? Would I ride this same train again and again, perhaps never seeing him? Could I allow that to happen?
    Forces pulled at me. Sensible ones told me to stay put, to resume reading whatever book I had in my lap that day. Was it some potboiler horror novel that I’d favored back in the day? Dean Koontz, maybe? Other forces, though, drew me irresistibly toward the broad back and the high ass of Carlos as he prepared to exit the train.
    I got up, my heart pounding at what must have been three times its normal rate. I stood on shaky legs to take a few steps and stand behind him. I could see him turn his head slightly and regard me out of the corner of his eye.
    And God help me, I followed him off the train. The air outside was sweet, despite the exhaust from cars speeding by on the Eisenhower. He stopped. I stopped. We waited for the rush of passengers heading for the station’s exit to thin.
    And he smiled again, a big joyous grin that crinkled his eyes and lit up his face. I will never forget that expression.
    It was joy.
    And it was because of me.
    He spoke first. “I’ve been hoping this would happen.”
    Now, confronted with having to talk, I didn’t know what to say. Not only that, it was as though the power of speech had deserted me. I could only helplessly and, I was sure, stupidly grin at him.
    “I wanted to meet you so much,” Carlos said.
    His words were like a warm embrace. I wish I could recall what I finally said. But I can’t. I can only recall what my words led to—I invited him over that night. “Meet me at the South Boulevard ‘L’ stop in Evanston at seven,” I said and walked away before I could change my mind.
     
     
    W HEN I got to my little cubicle that I shared with Doreen, my cowriter, and my boss, Sheryl, I was shaking. Not just in the melodramatic sense of novels, but literally trembling.
    I sat down at my green Formica-topped desk and took in my surroundings as though seeing them for the first time. There was the H. R. Giger insectoid monster drawing I had cut from Fangoria magazine and pushpinned to my wall. There was my antique-even-for-the-80s manual typewriter, also a sick shade of industrial green. Here were the various schedules we needed to adhere to to get each catalog out on time.
    Fortunately I was the first one in that morning, and there was nobody, at least up close, to witness my tremors and my breathlessness. I remember actually letting out a burst of laughter, but there was no mirth in it, only a touch of hysteria.
    What had I done? Back then it wasn’t like I could text him and cancel or drop him an e-mail and say that the idea of us getting together was not only ludicrous but also impossible. The image I had of myself, a young man poised on the brink of marriage to his college sweetheart, could not, would not, tolerate the idea of this gorgeous hunk being in my apartment that night. The two images collided with one another, battling righteously. The juxtaposition of the two made me squeamish, made me either want to tip over in my rolling office chair, laughing like a loon, or run to the bathroom and throw up the Froot Loops I had eaten for breakfast that morning.
    The phone rang and I gave out a gasp, startled. It rang again and I stared at the black instrument on my desk, as if I wasn’t sure what it expected of me.
    If there had been voice mail back then, I would have let that particular stroke of electronic genius handle the call for me. But in 1982 one picked up the phone when it rang.
    I silenced it in the middle of its third ring. “Andy