Isaac is sick of the smell of coffee. It’s in his clothes, on customer’s breaths, it lingers in his hair even after showers, and it long ago dominated his workplace. However, he has little to no say in the matter because he is neither brave nor stupid enough to quit his job at the coffee shop. He tells his boyfriends he works here because he wants to “stick it to the man” who is, in thiscase, Starbucks.

Isaac works at an all natural food café where he meets other faggots and has since he was sixteen. He is now twenty-two and friends with the owner of the establishment. He is now used to the repeated playing of bands like Fleetwood Mac and New Order despite how much everyone else in the building loathes it. He is used to girls who smell like walking bongs flirting with him and then getting threatened by their incredibly attractive boyfriends who are capable of ripping him in two.

He is used to all this bullshit and bad luck. Isaac might even entertain the idea he likes it now. He wants to work in a hospital, but he cannot. If a coffee shop is what Isaac calls a “Safe Zone”, a hospital is like a “Deepest Level of Hell Zone”. It is up there with cemeteries and mental institutions in levels of torture for him.

Isaac has told people all his life that it is “germaphobia” and for the most part, that is good enough. When pressed for further explanation as to how he is able to “know people so well”, he says his parents were Native American and so it is in his blood. That is where it ends finally, no matter how much a person intends to press him, they become disarmed by the idea that fair skinned Isaac could have gotten anything from the Indian gene pool. Isaac never worries much about anyone discovering his secret; it’s not like being a communist or even gay. People don’t go looking for signs of anything particularly supernatural in their friends.

And Isaac is not nor ever will be stupid enough to tell anyone about it. He can handle secrets on his own and does not need help. He has been doing it for years, almost all this life.

He has learned how to avoid unsafe objects, like wedding rings and suicide notes, and how to “read” people”, though complete thoughts are out of his range and ability (thankfully, he thinks) . Isaac has even done research and found others like him, but never contacted anyone.

Unbearable desires to share his talent with others do not exist; he is too independent for that sort of thing. Instead, he silently uses it to his advantage with flirting and finding friends. he has a passionate personality and people seem drawn to it and that combined with his odd knack for guessing their interests keep them around.

Isaac is not handicapped; he can still be around people. He chooses to avoid intense situations like funerals and too wild of parties, but he could handle it if needed. He does better, though, around the minds and emotions of those already familiar to him.

This is why he works in the coffee shop that he hates to love. He stands now in front of the coffee maker with a drink in one hand and a sandwich in the other. Both are increasing in temperature and quickly searing at his skin.

“A medium french espresso with a pepper bacon sandwich for Molly?”

Molly runs up and quickly snatches her midnight breakfast. “Thanks, Isaac baby.”

Isaac mumbles a standard “you’re welcome” and brushes the grease off of his hand. It is way too late at night for anyone to be having espresso, but he watches the petite blonde down half of her coffee in one sip. Isaac is jealously certain she intends to stay awake all night with the dark haired guy who has been moping in the corner for the last half an hour.


He hasn’t had the nerve to check if the guy is into guys yet, but Isaac would like to keep that flame of hope going as long as possible.

It’s eleven thirty on a Friday night and Isaac looks terrible. His brown hair has lost the soft, feathery look it had when he tormented it this morning. There is no doubt his coal eyes have sunken in from lack of sleep and he is idling over the idea of having coffee.

The concept makes his stomach churn and Isaac quickly focuses on his work partner instead. She is new here and he can feel the nervous pulsing of not knowing anyone even from here. he might be able to get away with telling her that “no one is staring at [her]” but Isaac is vaguely aware this will only make things worse.

Girls like to be stared at.

He slips past her bustling frame in favor of cleaning out the blender for the fourth time today. His indigo uniform shirt catches coffee stains surprisingly well and now left over sprinkles of ice mocha add to the design as he washes out the blender blades with an old towel. Some of the water splashes on him and Isaac sighs.

Great, now he smells like coffee and soap. At least he off his shift in ten minutes, then he can go home and mope about being single. Such is the life of Isaac Green.

well i went over it once and i was intending to go over it again but then i decided not to n_n so it's probably rough in places but here you are
you've got it
now stop whining


Dallas is unforgiving to those who wander from the straight and narrow.

Having lived here for ten years, I’m almost used to hiding who I am. Naturally, doing what I do, you’ve got to be good at hiding things -- I’m almost a professional at hiding things, if you want to think of it that way. I never like to think of my hobby as most people do -- disgusting, cruel, and profane; but, then, I suppose that makes some sense. Hiding things and weaving lies are two of my favorite things.

I step away from the brick wall that I have been leaning on for the past while, dropping my cigarette to dismal pavement and grinding out the flame with the toe of my shoe. I only manage a few steps, however, before I must stop and lean against the building, seized by a fit of hacking coughs. To keep my body steady, I put one hand against the brick; the other presses hard against my chest as I try to quiet myself. Since I’ve been a smoker for nearly half my life, I suppose I should get used to this. The coughs make me feel old before my time -- after all, I am only thirty.

“Pull yourself together,” I say out loud to myself, ignoring the glance I get from a woman walking by. She probably thinks I’m talking to her, old as she is. “You’re only thirty. Go get yourself a prescription for sleep aids, start going to the gym, and for God’s sake stop smoking. You’re too young to be killing yourself like you have been.” Filled with renewed vigor that will be gone within the hour, I start walking again. I have no idea where I am; I hope to find out shortly. This part of the city is unfamiliar to me, despite the fact that I’ve lived in the next neighborhood over for quite a long time now.

As I walk, I slip my pale hands into my pockets and start to whistle a cheerful tune. I haven’t felt this good in ages, even though I do sometimes get little bursts of energy that seem to come from nowhere. This is one is particularly refreshing. I occasionally wonder if these little highs are the leftover chemicals from back in my glory days, when I went out to all the clubs and came home with a different boy every night. I was quite out of hand back then; my parents didn’t know what to make of me. Not many did.

After about ten minutes of aimless wandering, I happen along a little coffee shop. It’s got one of those Support Indie Businesses posters in the window, I notice; I almost always go into the stores with those. My brother owns an independent record store, you see, and so I always feel like I’m inadvertently getting into his good graces whenever I buy something from an indie business. A couple of people are hanging around the outside of the place with Styrofoam cups in hand. I give a friendly nod to a man who’s looking up at me as I walk in the door, not expecting the smile that he gives back.

Considering the hour, I’m surprised to see so many employees behind the counter, but there are three instead of the one I was expecting. All of them look absolutely exhausted, and the several patrons don’t look much better off. Giving a smile to the boy behind the register as I step up to the counter, I examine the menu that hangs on the wall above it. Apparently, this is quite an upscale place -- they’ve got baked goods and sandwiches to go along with the coffee. It reminds me a little of Starbucks, to be honest, although I know the employees are probably working here because they can’t stand Starbucks.

“Hello,” I greet the boy, flashing him another smile. “I’ll have a medium decaf, please.” Having been raised by polite parents, I am always respectful to those I meet in business -- well, anyone I meet, really. I don’t see the point in being rude, as it makes no friends and gains much worse than that. As I pull out my wallet, I notice their tip jar, which is mostly empty; I drop a couple of dollars in it. This is another thing I always am sure to do. It makes people quite fond of me -- since I am so nice to others, suspicion stays away from me. I will admit that it is an unexpected benefit.

Glancing around at the other customers, I notice that they all seem rather tired, despite the caffeine fix that they are getting. Perhaps the late hour causes tiredness even against chemical effect.

Perhaps I will experiment with it one day.

A new customer enters and Isaac straightens up, moving for the counter before the newbie can.

The man –and really a man- smiles at Isaac and he immediately beams back. It’s nice to see someone cheery at this hour; it’s an uplifting and brighter air among all the stoned and fatigued emotions swimming around the place. Flotsam and jetsam is all that he is accustomed to at this hour, so Isaac finds it to be a real treat.

He prays it’s not obvious that he is focusing so hard on the guy, but it’s hard resist. Isaac will take oddly cheery flames over self conscious hums any day….or night. Isaac leans forward just slightly, he can’t hear over the crackly speaker’s old eighties songs. He inhales cigarette smoke, thick on the man’s skin… Isaac doesn’t mind it so much. Cigarettes make people seem more grown-up in his eyes.

The customer says please when he asks for his drink. Isaac considers this is the first time today anyone has tagged that wonderful word on to their order all day.

“Comin’ right up”, he assures before sliding over to the small arsenal of coffee making machine. Isaac is relived to not have to do anything incredibly difficult at this hour. Some of the college girls like a shot of this and half the amount of that; it’s too much to measure out after ten at night.

Isaac plucks a cup from the top of the Styrofoam tower and pours out the coffee. He lets it pour just a few centimeters over the fill line, just for something extra.

The odd sensation of generosity leaves Isaac to wonder and so he glances back just in time to see his golden customer drop a few bills into the tip jar.

“Hey, thanks”, he says with an effortless grin. Isaac carefully clicks on a lid and pulls a hot-cup sleeve around the drink before handing it to the man.

He silently regrets not asking for his name earlier. It is not like anyone else is waiting for their order, but it would have been an excellent excuse to get it anyways.

Isaac wouldn’t mind a number, either.

He has let go of the man’s mind by now, his emotional levels his own now. Isaac is only certain of this because there is no one as constantly horny as he is.

At least Isaac is aware of his faults.

“If you’re going to stick around, I recommend the red table. It’s right under the heater”, he hints in a hopefully artful way. He would like the guy to stay a bit longer if he could since Isaac gets off of his shift in just a little while.

Out of the corner of his eye, Isaac sees Molly dance out the door with Mr. Brooding and Mysterious from earlier. He is not surprised, but still a spot disappointed.

i am tired and lazy
enjoy

Shock registers briefly on the face of the employee that I’ve ordered from, and this makes me smile. Probably, most people that he meets at this job just demand their coffee, pay with big bills and sigh about waiting for change, then leave without gracing the tip jar with anything more than change. I have tried all my life not to be that sort of customer, and judging from the pleased looks the salespeople usually give me, I have succeeded every time I’ve attempted.

“You’re welcome,” I tell him when he thanks me for the tip, glancing around at the other employees. They seem a little… more awake now, as well, than they did when I walked in. Smiles are contagious, I have found over the years. I am convinced that if one went into a room filled with miserable people and smiled for long enough, all the others would start smiling, too. Perhaps I am too cheerful to have a hobby such as the one I do. Perhaps this very friendliness is what has kept me from getting caught all these years -- that, and my careful discretion.

As he hands me my coffee, our fingers brush a little; I can tell that I am not the only one to feel the little spark of electricity. “Thanks,” I say, unable to resist giving him a little wink. “How much?” I add as an afterthought, because he’s apparently forgotten that I’m supposed to pay for this coffee. Not thinking, I take a sip and scald my tongue; the pain causes me to wince. I look up at the boy to see if he notice; doubtless, he has.

“I’ll probably be here for a while longer,” I murmur, shaking my head. “Thanks for the tip --“ I lean forward to read his nametag -- “Isaac.”

sorry for the bit of god moding at the end, but.

Their fingers brush and Isaac quickly redirects his feelings to a more relaxed and less focused intensity. He has made the mistake before of sending his feelings to others and it generally causes some attention. Isaac has been getting better at catching himself, however.

He wishes he could read this guy with more ease. He doesn’t do so well with new minds. Every train of thoughts is a sort of acquired taste and so it will take some time. Isaac does, however, like him so far. There is something fast paced and upbeat about his attitude. He has the careless and excitedly electric air of a child, but with a profound sort of depth. He is shockingly intelligent, or at least has an uncanny amount of memories stored away.

This is so intriguing that it becomes hard to focus on what the man is actually saying.

Isaac makes almost a choking noise as his friendly customer asks how much the coffee is. Did he honestly forget? The embarrassment of it turns his hollowed cheeks red.

“That’ll be three seventy five…please”, he says quickly, looking down at the counter for a moment in an attempt to recover. He quietly thanks the knowledge that if his manager did notice, she doesn’t seem to care. There is an amused whir to her emotions, if anything. He clings to it only long enough to register the silent and sympathetic laughter is for him. This is what he gets for trying so hard, he supposes.

The man says his name, however, and Isaac flutters back to life. He smiles and nods, “Glad to hear it, Sir.”

When the customer is out of earshot, Isaac’s manager swishes over to his side. She giggles and whispers in his ear, softly urging him to “go for it” in her bell-high tones. Isaac throws her a threatening look at first, but sighs and nods as he falls into her slapdash attitude.

His shift is ending as it is and it seems like he has the approval of his boss, so Isaac carefully steps out from behind the counter. He grabs a towel on his way, to make it look like he is cleaning.

By happy chance, he would like it to seem, Isaac heads right for the tables closest to the generous customer. He forms some ideas in his head for how to go about starting a conversation.

It’s hard to believe -- it’s been such a short time since my last lover and I am already contemplating taking another. This Isaac looks so utterly embarrassed by the fact that he’s forgotten that I have to pay; he is actually turning red with shame. I smile at him as I hand over the money -- exact change, of course -- and turn away, taking my Styrofoam cup over to the table in the corner, the one that’s right near the heater. I don’t particularly need the heater -- though the air is a bit crisper than usual, it is still Dallas in early autumn -- which means it’s not exactly cold.

When I take my seat at the red table, I am careful to avert my eyes from the employees behind the counter. Instead, I study the others that are in the café with me. There are a couple of college students; a few ne’er-do-wells that probably spend quite a bit of time here, for one thing or another; and a couple of giggling girls that are on their way out. They look at me as they pass my table on their way to the door, and I smile at them, nearly sending them into hysterics. Watching them until they’ve gone, I let out a little chuckle. Teenage girls will flirt with anyone these days, won’t they? I’m far too old for them, although I suppose I am not unattractive -- I have a nose that’s a little too big and a mouth that’s a little too wide, but one of my boyfriends told me that these flaws were the most beautiful things about my face.

He’d died well.

By the time I turn my attention back to the inside of the café, Isaac is wiping down the table next to mine. I wonder if he’s making his flirting obvious on purpose; well, if he starts a conversation with me, I suppose I will know. I study his movements for a moment before taking another sip of the coffee -- and for the second time in five minutes, I burn my tongue. I restrain myself from cursing as I remove the lid of the cup. I swear I don’t know how people can drink coffee that’s come from the pot seconds before.

Settling back against the seat -- these booths are quite comfortable -- I let my eyes close. Perhaps I’ll become a regular customer at this coffee shop.

With a little more focusing, Isaac finally finds himself in tune with his thoughts. It is similar to music, he has learned. Listening to someone’s feelings and then growing to the point where he can truly make sense of them is like adding his own beat into someone else’s song. Like adding a voice into a round of a song.

Isaac wades through what he is fairly certain are stored away emotions –memories- and begins searching for something positive. He finds it easily enough, a familiar mix of beats. The sensation of reading associated with the French language, violence and…. sex. Gay sex.

Isaac blushes a little as he confirms his hopes; well good. He also recalls why the thoughts feel so familiar to him; he knows them because his old roommate –who has since long ago moved out- adores the same piece of literature. She used to rave about it all the time, how he should read it…

Exquisite Corpse. Isaac remembers the way the sound rolls of the mind’s tongue. Thank god that stupid girl talked so much about it, the book will be a good starting off point.

He finishes up the table and glances casually at the clock. He’s off in five minutes now, even better.

Isaac looks over to his customer, smiling wide. “Hey, so, I never did catch your name. I like getting to know the people come who in here”, he says, and despite his still somewhat withdrawn body language, he knows he is hardly being coy. This does not bother him much; he has a good feeling about this guy.

“You know, we have a couple books over there”, he nods his head to a shelf of beaten and dog eared paperbacks, some with post-its in them.

“I’ve read some great books. Especially a few books by Poppy Z. Brite, ever heard of her?”

Seconds tick by as I sit there, holding my coffee cup between two hands, blue eyes closed. After a minute or so, I start counting; I’ve gotten to seven when Isaac starts to speak. As he talks, I look at him and take another sip of my coffee --I nearly spit all over the table when he mentions the name of my favorite author. By the sound of it, she’s one of his favorites, as well; I am suddenly looking at my new coffee shop friend with a new point of view. Such an odd coincidence, my conscience tells me.

Perhaps we’ve met before.

As soon as this thought occurs to me, I dismiss it. It’s impossible, after all -- I would remember a face like Isaac’s, almost too beautiful to look at for a long time. I would remember a body like Isaac’s, thin to the point of pain and still graceful as a swan.

“They call me Gray,” I tell him, giving him a smile. “It’s really Grayson -- but who wants to be called that? One letter away from ‘gay son,’ and I get mocked enough already.” I laugh, feeling my spirits lift. My little high is nearly gone, but I’ve found a cute boy with good taste in books and a work ethic. I am certain that I will leave this coffee shop with his phone number programmed into the cell phone in my pocket, and plans for the next few days. Perhaps I’ll spend the next couple of days in a good mood, instead of the surliness that sometimes overcomes me just after one of my boyfriends… leaves.

I set my cup down on the table and watch Isaac carefully. “Poppy’s my favorite author. Do you like her new stuff, or her old stuff?” I’ve read it all, naturally -- and if he shows an interest only in the new stuff, then I obviously only like the new stuff as well. That’s how it always is for me, when flirting. It makes things so much easier, even if I do have to remember quite a few lies.

But lying is one of my favorite pastimes, remember?

Isaac gives him a sympathetic smile as Gray explains about his name and jokes while somewhat hinting at being gay. It’s a good, subtle way of doing it, he supposes. Isaac just has a LGBT badge on his messenger bag; it gets to the job done and his pushy personality is usually enough for most to take a hint, anyways.

“Gray is a nice name, anyways. It’s unique, I like it”, he says as he sets his wash towel down. He has time to talk, after all.

“Do you mind if I sit with you, Gray? I end my shift in just a few minutes”, he says, doing his best to be polite. He is a strong believer in “do unto others as you would have them do unto you”. Isaac tends to joke that it is why he gives really good head.

He winces inwardly and reminds himself to stop fucking thinking about fucking. Older guys are likely to want a few dates first, but Isaac has high hopes for getting Gray’s number.

He shrugs. “It’s a mix…. I really love her short stories and novellas, especially the ones that grow off each other. And her topics of choice… it’s really daring, you know? I like that”, he says with a quick and short nod, “But I admit, I don’t keep track of the publishing dates very well…” Isaac looks down at the table, honestly a little embarrassed. Talking about anything particularly violent in public, especially combined with fairly explicitly gay sex in a novel… and knowing several people in the room know what they are talking about, it does make him shy. Isaac can be shy, with the right cocktail and a tinge of irony.

“I like Brite’s stuff quite a bit, though. Her writing doesn’t just hint at things the same authors do. I like a little gore… which is sort of… I don’t know, I’m sure it should be more a guilty pleasure.” He shrugs and shifts what weight he has from one side to the other.

“What about Aimee Bender, have you ever read any of her stuff?” He realizes too late that most of Bender’s works have female protagonists.

Great, in case he was wondering if you were a flaming faggot or not. Way to fucking go. Isaac doesn’t have the kindest self esteem. He curses at himself regularly because he “messes up” repeatedly.

As I am joking about my own name, I notice the look on my new friend's face; he looks sympathetic, pleased, and a little worried, all at the same time. Out of nowhere, the vile-smelling dishtowel is on the table in front of me, its stench quite apparent -- however, Isaac doesn't appear to notice; perhaps you get used to it when you work here, but the whole place smells like a strange mixture of coffee and soap. I didn't notice it at first through the cigarette smoke from outside, but it’s strong. Quite strong.

“Won’t your boss mind?” I inquire, glancing back towards the counter, where two women are watching us with utmost fascination. Our conversation is perfectly audible throughout the room, I believe; it’s a small place, and we are the only ones really talking. A few others are murmuring to each other, but this does nothing to drown out the volume of our voices. “After all, she’s right there, isn’t she? And you’re skipping out on your shift, aren’t you?” I haven’t teased anyone in a long time; I think my skills are rather rusty. Growing up as the youngest in a family of four children, though, I had to be good at teasing, or my older siblings would have joined forces and beaten me up.

We’re talking about Poppy again, and I think that this subject is a little bit dangerous, but too enthralling at the same time. I want to tell him everything about me, just because he likes my favorite author -- that doesn’t mean he would ever do the things she describes, I point out to myself. He says that he likes her bluntness, how she doesn’t dance around things. That doesn’t mean that he likes to slit the throats of boys late at night when no one is around to hear how suddenly their screams stop. My high is gone and all I want to do is get away from this subject, suddenly; I am too tired, and something might slip, and then where would I be?

“I agree,” I tell him, and that is that. “No, I haven’t read anything by Bender; I’ve heard of her. A lot of friends of mine like her.” I take a sip of my coffee, thinking that perhaps I should have gone with the regular kind. My eyelids are drooping now that I’ve lost whatever vigor caused me to go walking around Dallas with no idea where I am. I probably look like a junkie, dosing up and dozing.

For once in my life, I have no idea what to do about it.

Isaac feels the vague tremors of discomfort, though he doesn’t know what to associate it with until the rhythm he had being feeling himself not too long ago approaches. He considers offering to go outside for fresh air, but decides it would be best to wait a few more moments.

He doesn’t think about the dishtowel, he’s far too used to it. Isaac does, however, move his hand a little away from it. The thing purrs the complaints of his fellow workers and is too distracting to have near when he is intentionally using his abilities.

Isaac does not consider empathy to be a power. It’s genetic; his parents fucked and this is what their chromosomes made. It gives him a little reason to wonder at his parents.

“Nah, I get off officially in a few minutes and I came in a little early today, so…,” he explains with a careless smile. Isaac decides it is alright to sit down with him; Gray is still talking to him, after all. He isn’t giving off any vibes to give Isaac the idea that he is not welcome, so he delicately sits and slides in legs under the table so that they are neatly tucked away and unobtrusive.


Then again… the girls are looking –staring- and he is getting a little tired of it. He knows he can get them to look away over something blush-worthy. The shadow of the table might hide it, anyways, so he very casually slips a foot back out, tugs on the tongue and as it makes its way back in, lets his foot brush against Gray’s ankle. Intent on going farther up, he moves just a little more and---

Isaac makes a small choking noise, quickly pulling away. He hadn’t meant to touch skin. Its fucking cold out tonight, the amount of smokers let him know that, but Grayson isn’t wearing high socks.

He quietly hopes that his new…friend is not offended. Or that he might have felt anything –sometimes Isaac’s own emotions seep through into whoever he touches. He doesn’t have as strong of a control over that.

He fidgets, looking down and away from Grayson as he thinks over what he felt from that brief amount of contact.

It is odd… Isaac senses something like panic, though maybe sharper- paranoia? from his new found friend. Maybe Gray feels the same way about their current subject; that’s fine, he doesn’t mind moving along much himself.

Isaac tries something more socially acceptable.

“So, uh…”, he glances at a neon green paper taped to the cork-board not far from the door. It is an advertisement for a local play, one that is being put on by a few of the regulars at the coffee shop. It is actually a very good production of Macbeth, if a little over the top.

“Seen any good plays?”, he asks, nodding over to the poster, “I just saw that one. A friend of mine is playing one of the three witches…I like Shakespeare a lot, too. It’s an impressive look into the human mind.” Which I should not know much about. Shut up.

As Isaac takes his seat, it seems to me that he is a bit nervous around me. Perhaps it is because he’s skipping out on his shift with his boss present -- even if it ends in a few minutes -- but I think it is probably because he is talking to me, and that he is finding himself liking me. He looks so much younger than I am that it’s easy to think that he isn’t sure what to do about it; he doesn’t seem very shy, though, so I am relatively sure this is not the case.

Suddenly his foot brushes against mine and I look into his eyes, seeing the awkward fear in them as his skin touches my own. For the shortest moment, I am very nervous; but this emotion is gone as quick as it comes, and I am left looking at him in confusion. I have read books about people who can transmit their own emotions to others with the touch of skin; however, these were only works of fiction, and I push the thought from my mind. It’s ridiculous to think that something like that could be real; call me a skeptic, but that’s how I think.

There is silence for a moment before my companion is looking at a paper near the door and asking me if I have seen any plays. I wonder what someone as surprising as him is doing working at a coffee shop in the bad part of Dallas; I put my chin on my folded fingers as I look at the boy, a small smile on my lips. He’s fun, this Isaac, although he is very young and perhaps unsure about his place in the world.

“I haven’t, actually,” I answer him with a small shrug. “I flew to New York a few weeks ago under the pretense of visiting my sister, but all I really wanted to do was see the version of Hamlet that’s on Broadway at the moment. It wasn’t bad, but I’ve seen better.” His comments about Shakespeare make him seem far beyond his years, and I reach out to cup his chin in my hand before I remember that we have just met. To explain my movement, I take the odorous dishtowel in the tips of my fingers and fling it on the closest table to ours.

“I’m sorry -- I’m sure you’re used to it, working here, but… It’s a bit smelly, isn’t it?” I give him a little laugh and wipe my hand on my napkin before returning it to my chin.

“You’re wise for your age, Isaac.”

There is an intuitive look on Grayson’s eyes. It is the look Isaac gets when he tells a friend he’s not interested in their female cousins. It is the knowing gaze that waifs like Molly get when they say that they already ate.

But Isaac does not have any secrets for Grayson to know and that look soon disappears before his heart gets a chance to panic any further. Grayson is just being over confident, Isaac reasons. Still, he does for a sweet moment entertain the fantasy of someone… like him coming along and sharing their secret with him. Teaching him and accepting him for it.

Isaac will not seek that sort of thing out for himself, but he wants someone to do it for him. This proves he is just even more of a lazy ass than his parents and professors think he is.

As Isaac listens to this man speak, he quietly decides for himself that he always wants to date men who pretend to be visiting family but are really just there to see something else. A lover, a modern art show, a combination of the two.

He laughs a little and smiles. “Hamlet is a very difficult play to put on. Even among all of the famous tragedies, that one in particular needs such an emotional level… I imagine that you would need incredible actors for that”, he says, only in the faint defense of the New York showing, “I’ve learned to start seeing things even if I know they may not be all that incredible. Around here, anyways, it must be hard to make a living as an artist.

I wish I could move somewhere like New Orleans, though.” He brings the conversation full circle, like a college entrance essay. Similarly, he feels like he only as so much time to speak before Gray may decide that he has failed in the course of intelligent discussion.

“A friend” A boy I once fucked. “told me that in New Orleans, music and discovery blooms. From what he said, at least, it sounds astounding.”

For a fleeting moment, Isaac is certain that Gray is going to touch him, maybe stroke his cheek. He steels himself for it, but only finds himself turning a positive cherry color as the man flings away the disgusting dishtowel that not long ago had been his excuse to come over and chat to him.

“Oh, god. I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think about it,” he apologizes quickly and tries his best to laugh along with Gray “, Yeah, I did get used to it; but at least it’s not all deadly chemicals. Like the food, the cleaning products are as natural and organic as possible. Saving the environment and all.” While still meeting health inspection standards. There is a proud and green “A” stamped underneath the menu.

Isaac does his best not to positively beam when Gray tells him that he is wise for his age. That is exactly what he is going for; he hopes that is what this man is looking for.

“Ah… well, thank you,” he stammers quickly, looking back at his hands and letting his toes curl in his worn shoes. Isaac glances at the clock next and sees that he is now officially a free man.

“Hey, my shift is over… do you want to go for a walk? Your coffee will cool down better outside and I think we could both use the fresh air.” Isaac is desperate to soak in the smell of anything besides coffee, though he would prefer the smell of intelligent and slightly older man to anything else.

He smiles at Gray.

shit, zan, i'm trying, i'm sorry