He was staying with me six nights out of the week.  He… however old he was, one-shouldering his overnight backpack, occupying the other with a twelve pack of whichever beer he was feeling that day.  These six out of seven days my chest would start pounding, my stomach a symphony of twists and turns no matter whether it was the third or thirty-third time I was seeing him. All fear aside as the double iron doors separated, revealing this flawless figure.  A tanned face hiding behind a flat bill hat and shades, broad swimmers’ shoulders, sculpted and clothed in an extra large white tee, vibrant board shorts lead down to his tanned legs, and finally the slippers (flip-flops).  This gorgeous man was waiting in my lobby, waiting to see me.  He picked me, how you might pick through a handful of carefully gathered grains of sand on a glowing sunny day at the beach.  You hope to find the prettiest one out of thousands of crystals and shattered shells.  The handful makes a quick run for it down through the slits of your palms.  You eye the one you want to take home and make your treasure.   It rests on your fingertip as you stare at it, squint at it, study it, finding its’ ins and outs —  what makes it, it.  You cherish your new treasure holding it high above all the others, on a pedestal reaching up into the clouds, away from all the fury. It doesn’t know any better than to shimmer in its’ own light, putting on a show for you and the world to see…

More from this short story in the next post.



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