Where the hell are my pants? This is the thought that is ringing through my head as my hands clumsily root around the floor of someone else’s apartment. My Grindr hookup, Chris, or Carter or maybe his name is Cole, it’s something with a “C,” sits up in bed and watches me as I get dressed. I turn away from him, noting the irony that I didn’t mind the audience when I was taking my clothes off but his eyes on me as I put them back on makes me feel self-conscious and vulnerable.

I check to make sure I have my phone and keys, and then I do my routine. It starts with a smile, then comes reassurance that I had fun, and finally I finish off the interaction with a graceful and speedy exit. I head for the door. I used to say something like, “I’ll see you around” but I’ve grown tired of all the pretending. We both know this is the extent of us ever interacting, and I’m okay with that, or, I try to be. 

I mean it’s not like I expect to find love on Grindr. Even the options that say, “looking for a relationship” or “networking” have become something of a shared joke among gay men. We all know what Grindr is used for, but, even with this knowledge, even with the years of experience telling me what I already know to be true, I find myself feigning innocence and hoping beyond reason that Mr. Right will somehow find me in that sea of faceless torsos and whisk me away to a life of whimsy and romance. But, since that hasn’t happened yet, I try to appreciate these nights for what they are. Sure, hook ups can be awkward, but they can be fun too, nourishing even. They’re a great way to remind my body what it’s like to be touched, to be wanted, even if only for an hour or two at a time. I freely admit they’re no substitute for love, but a starving man would be a fool to turn down crumbs in hopes that there is a feast hiding around the corner. Sometimes we must take what we can and smile about it, even when it’s not enough. 

As I reach for the door, I hear whatever his name is call out from the bed, “Do you maybe want to get coffee?” 

I turn slowly and try to figure out his game.  He seems nice enough, though we hadn’t exactly gotten to know each other all that well. I wonder if this is his version of telling me he’d see me around, set up some coffee date in advance that would never come to fruition. Best to go through the motions and be on my way, “Um, yeah, sure that’d be cool. When were you thinking?” 

“How about now?” He smiles wide and pulls his shirt over his head. He rakes his hand through his curly mop of hair and looks at me expectantly. 

I don’t really know what to say, part of me just wants to go home and go to bed and the other part of me, that stupid part still full of hope, wants to say yes. I split the difference and spit out, “It’s like 9pm.” Not a no, but it gives him an out, a chance to reconsider. 

He checks his phone, corroborating my account of the time, and shakes it off. “I know a place that’s open late, it’s my treat.” 

Before I can help it, I find words slipping past the best of my defenses. “Uh, yeah I’m down.” 

He is dressed and opening the door in the same amount of time it takes me to process what has just happened. 

The walk to the coffee shop is cold and quiet at first. It’s late autumn and the sidewalk is littered with scattered leaves; their crunching only serves to underscore the silence. It seems neither of us knows what to say. It’s a weird position to be in, to know nothing about someone other than what they look like naked, to have an intimate knowledge of the external and an absence of understanding of anything that matters. 

“So, are you from the city?” His voice seems so little and unsure out here among the wind and trees, like it left its confidence at home. 

“No, no, I’m from Monterey, it’s in California. How about you, are you from Boston?” 

“Oh, wow! Far from home! Yeah, I am. Born and raised.” He lets out an awkward chuckle and then adds, “So, do tell, how are you enjoying my gorgeous city?” 

“Well, I’m not gonna talk any shit about it too a local. Really though, it’s been good, an adjustment, but good. A lot bigger and a lot more going on than where I’m from.” 

“That’s a good thing, right?” 

“Mostly, yeah. I mean it’s definitely nice to be able to go out and not run into anyone who’s known me since I was a rugrat.” I want to add how it can also be overwhelming, how a place this big can make you feel insignificant and lost, but I don’t, honesty feels too dangerous with strangers. 

I hear the coffee shop before I see it, indie pop sails through the air, the whole building seems to be vibrating with life. As we enter, I take note of how busy it is for being so late. There are folks scattered throughout the brightly lit space, it looks more like an art studio than a café. Abstract paintings that I don’t even pretend to understand cover every inch of the walls and hanging from the ceiling are plush clouds, and bright stars. If the other lights hadn’t been on I might swear we were still outside. 

Grindr guy notices my gaze and puts his hand on my back as I stare up in wonder. “It’s awesome, isn’t it? I made the clouds.” 

It takes a few seconds before I can focus on anything but the feeling of his palm through my coat, I finally manage to stammer out a response, “You did!? I didn’t know you’re an artist.” 

He laughs warmly, “Well, I won’t hold it against you cutie, it’s’ not usually the first couple questions one asks on Grindr.” 

“No” I concede “I guess not.” 

He asks me for my order and then relays them both to the cashier as I stay glued to that spot staring at the analogue sky. Wondering how a recreation of the stars could be more beautiful than the real thing, how they could somehow seem more important, more real. 

I’m still there when he slips a warm mug into my hand. “Do you want to sit? Or we can stand here if you like.” 

My eyes drop to his face, and I take him in. His features look softer in the light, devoid of shadow, his hazel eyes brighter, his smile a little more crooked. I begin to laugh at the idea of us just standing there the whole time, but then realize I don’t think he is joking, that he is perfectly content to stand in this spot if I like. 

“Yeah, lets get a table.” 

We sit at one of the only empty tables in the back. To our left a man clacks away on his computer, to our right a couple sitting on each other’s laps hold onto one another as if at any moment one of them might disappear. 

“So, I have a confession.” I sip my coffee, which has no business tasting as good as it does. 

“Oh?” He raises his eyebrows. “I like you and everything but it’s a little too soon for me to help you hide a body.” 

I have to stop myself from spitting out my coffee as I choke back a chortle. “No, no nothing like that I swear.” 

“Then go ahead what’s on your mind?”

“I um, you know, in the excitement of our meeting up, might have, accidentally, forgotten what your name is.” 

He laughs so loud I swear I can feel it in the table. I’m simultaneously awed and envious of the outburst, how unbridled his laughter is, how free. 

“Well, I’m sure you had other stuff on your mind, isn’t that right Anthony?” He flashes a wicked grin, and his voice takes on a boastful tone as he says my name, letting me know he hadn’t forgotten mine.  “It’s Marc.”

“It doesn’t start with a C?” I wonder aloud astonished that the only thing I had known of him turned out to be wrong. 

“Pretty sure it’s an M.” 

I smile into my cup, “Huh, go figure.” 

“So now that we have introductions out of the way, what do you do Anthony?” 

“Nothing as exciting as being an artist or making clouds.” 

“Try me.” 

“I work in corporate finance.”

“Okay yeah, sounds a bit dull. But I’ve been wrong before, do you like it?” 

“No, you’re definitely right, it pays well and-”

“Yeah, but do you like it?” 

“I don’t know, I mean, I never really stopped to think about it.” 

“You’ve never thought about if you enjoy what you do every day?” His voice is incredulous, and I understand, I mean it sounds crazy when he says it plainly like that. 

“I just- I figured nobody actually likes their job, and as long as I didn’t actively hate it, that’s kind of all I could hope for, you know?” 

“I do. But you’re wrong.” 

“Okay.” My defenses immediately go back up and the word comes out more curtly than intended. 

Hearing this, he reaches his hand across the table and rests it on my crossed arms. “I just meant, that you can and deserve to love what you do.” 

I roll my eyes and feel the familiar and familial inclination to ready myself for an argument, “That sounds really pretty, but I, unfortunately live in the real world. You don’t even know me.”

He pauses but leaves his hand on my arms, it feels like sparks are coming from his fingertips and spreading throughout the whole of me. My mind is irritated but my body betrays my want. He looks at me with a curiosity and intensity that gives me goosebumps. Like he is looking at me for the first time and not sure what to make of me. 

“I didn’t mean to upset you. Like you said, I don’t know you, I’m trying to, though. I wasn’t commenting on your choices, I just meant in general, all of us settle for far less than we deserve.”

The words fly from my mouth too quickly for my teeth ,o cage them, “Well, maybe I just don’t know what I deserve.” I mean the words to sound quippy and light but there is a melancholy that weighs them down, they fall limply onto the table. 

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Well, I’d say for most of us the best place to start is with more. We deserve more, more love, more empathy, more joy.” 

I smile, partly because of his kindness and partly because he talks like a self-help book come to life. “Yeah, I suppose.” I try to shift the subject away from me, “So what’s it like being an artist? As fun as I imagine?” 

“It’s a lot of worrying about money, stressing over your work, hating everything you create and then trying to sell the things that you’re still convinced aren’t good enough.” 

I interject, “But do you like it?” 

“Haha, yes, honestly, I love every second of it even when I hate it. It just feels right, like I am doing the only thing I’ll ever be good at. It makes me feel like everything I’ve had to go through to get this point was worth it because I am finally right where I am supposed to be, doing what I was always meant to do.” 

“Okay, yeah that sounds pretty amazing. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that way – about anything.” Taking a chance I continue, “Even outside of work, I don’t think I’ve ever really felt like I was where I’m supposed to be.” 

“Is that why you moved?” 

“I guess, in part.”

“Do you feel like you belong here?”

“Um, I want to, but no, not yet. Maybe it’s not where I’m at but who I’m around, I don’t know. I feel like sometimes I’m a supporting role in everyone else’s story first and a protagonist in mine, only when I have time. If that makes any sense.”

“It does, trust me it does. I felt the same way when I was living with my family and now that I’m on my own, and finally out of the closet, I’m free to be me, without all of the faking it.”

“Is your family supportive?”

“Well, they try. They’re old school and they don’t really get the whole gay thing, nor do they really love the starving artist life I’ve created for myself, but they do their best and I’m grateful for that. Yours?”

“I have six siblings, so I don’t even think they really ever had a second to stop and have feelings about it one way or another. We just don’t really talk about it. Everything is a fight with them, so I just took their disinterest in this case as a win.”  My cheeks get warm at the realization of how much I’m sharing. 

“Wow, that’s a lot of people in one house.”

“Tell me about it.” 

“I can see why you’d feel you’ve never been the chance to be the main character in your own life.” 

I try to deflect, “This is getting pretty deep for a first date.” 

The word date makes my heart jump and I’m afraid he will correct me and remind me that he never called it that. Instead, he laughs, “You were naked in my apartment an hour ago, but a conversation is too much?” 

“I-” I struggle for a rebuttal, and then give in entirely. “That’s a fair point. I guess I’m not very good at this sharing thing, not a lot of practice.” I take another drink of my coffee and try to come up with something to talk about that isn’t so intense.

“If it will make you more comfortable, we don’t have to talk.”  He stands up quickly and extends his hand out to me, “Do you want to dance?” 

“What?” The shock is apparent in my startled reply. 

“Would you like to dance with me?” He says the words slower, as if comprehension, not bewilderment is the issue. 

“We’re in a coffee shop.” 

“Correct.” 

“There’s people here.”

“Two for two. Good job.” He leans in and allows his hand to get closer to mine.

I pull away slightly. “We can’t! Everyone’s gonna think we’re nuts.” 

“Oh, I didn’t realize you knew these folks.” 

“I don’t.” 

“Exactly. Who cares?”

I hesitate. Marc turns to the couple who are still clinging to each other for dear life. “Do you care if we dance?” 

They both look at him like they didn’t even realize he was there until that very moment and shake their heads in unison. He turns to the man typing loudly on his laptop. “Sir do you-”

The man waves him off. 

“See no one cares, so I ask again would you like to dance?” 

I reluctantly take his hand and stand. The music is slow and unfamiliar to me, not that even the best music would make me more comfortable in this moment. He moves smoothly stepping back and forth, his hands are doing funny little jazz hands. He looks completely foolish and couldn’t care less. 

“Come on! You can do it!” He takes my hands in his and we start pushing and pulling each other away. My self-conscious mind gets the better of me and I am at once completely mortified, I look around at the other café goers hoping their faces aren’t filled with disdain. But to my surprise not one person is looking at us. 

“I told you they don’t care! Just have fun.” He laughs and spins me around, the unease leaves the pit of my gut, and suddenly I am laughing just as loud. I’m spinning and dipping him. I bust out steps I saw on TikTok and I suddenly remember bits of square dancing that they made us do for some God-awful reason in seventh grade gym class. Marc is delighted with my mediocre moves and cheers me on as he goes through his own deranged choreography. 

The song ends and I catch my breath in the sliver of silence. Marc places a hand on each of my shoulders, looks around at everyone still seated in the café and peers into my eyes, “You sure seem like the main character to me.” 

Before I can answer, a barista yells from the counter, “Alright love birds we’re slowing it down.” She winks at me, and the next song that comes through the speakers is a slow ballad. Marcs hand finds its way to my back and my head rests on his shoulder. We dance around unsteadily attempting to find our footing.  

I laugh to myself at the absurdity of it all, I am dancing in a coffee shop with a guy I barely know, in a city I am still new to and somehow, for the first time I can remember, I feel at home. 

And so, we dance. 

We dance as the other customers finish their drinks and pack up their things, we dance as the barista cleans the espresso machine, and we dance as they sweep around us. Only stopping when she politely insists they are closing. 

When we make our way outside, he pulls me close, the cold air vanishing between the warmth of us. “I had a great time tonight.”

“Me too.” 

“I’d dance with you anywhere.” His lips curl into a mischievous smile. He kisses me so quickly that it takes a moment before I realize it happened. 

I summon the courage to speak, “We just danced all night, I think I deserve a proper kiss.”

“You deserve what?” He raises his bushy eyebrows. 

“More.”

“You’re a quick learner.” My heart beats so loud I fear he can hear it. His parted lips taste of coffee, peppermint, and possibility. He kisses me with a hunger I hadn’t known him to possess.  This singular kiss somehow more intimate than anything we’d shared in the darkness of his apartment. 

I don’t know what will happen. I can’t tell you if Marc will become a lover or a friend. I can’t tell you if we’ll have a happy ending. All I can say for certain is that in this moment, here in his arms, I understand what he meant earlier, about being in the exact place you’re meant to be. 

---