I don’t want to see you anymore. I’m not feeling it.
The text slammed into Harold’s phone. A totally unexpected broadside. He had seen Brett three times in the one week since they met online and with each date the connection lunged deeper. Their first date was at The Windowsill Bar, an intentional decorative travesty with wood paneling, imitation Andy Warhol prints, Christmas lights, Mexican piñatas, and a display case filled with glass phalluses. They started with cocktails and shy, trite talk about the weather before whirling into a grope-fest so ferocious, the doorman warned them to cool it.
Coffee inaugurated dates two and three. After both they went from espresso to Harold’s place and spent hours sequestered in the bedroom engaged in round after round of the most animated sex Harold had had in years. They snuggled between rounds—fifty-one-year-old Harold locked against the chest of thirty-year-old Brett—and brainstormed honeymoon locations, each carefully stressing the strictly-hypothetical nature of such talk.
Harold: “I vote for Rio de Janeiro. I mean, if things between us were to get to that point.”
Brett: “Montreal’s my first choice. You know, assuming you and I get that far.”
By the end of that date, whatever remained of Harold’s defenses crashed and shattered. One week, three dates. He had run roughshod over infatuation and skipped directly to love. It felt right, good. He felt good. Brett made him worthwhile.