A Gentlemen's Stroll
“Have you heard back from Theodore yet?” asked my good friend Felix.
“Not a single text.”
It was a cool afternoon in October when the two of us departed on our monthly gentlemen’s stroll. Taking-out coffee from Chinatown, we buttoned our cardigans, and walked the residential streets of Strathcona. Above, the big yellow sun lit up the vibrant colours of fall. Exploding like fireworks, the leaves on the trees showcased the most dazzling hues of red, orange, yellow, and green.
While I should have been relishing the beauty of the present moment, instead I found myself distracted. It had been 79 hours and 46 minutes since Theodore last messaged to tell me he was sick and in the hospital.
“I just don’t get it,” I told Felix, playing back the details of our second date. “One minute, I am sitting on his couch, sipping rosé, and thinking there might be a chance I get chopped into bits. Then we spend the most beautiful night together, I leave his apartment in one piece, and he ends up in urgent care. What if I am the reason that he is there? What if I was the actual threat all along?”
“I don’t know man. I think you might be over-thinking this. Surely, the sex couldn’t have been that bad.”
I met Felix working at The Pasta Shack. He was hired on as a line cook just before the start of the second wave. Sporting a full head of hair and the gentlest German accent, I remember the first moment I saw him. I wonder what he looks like without a mask on, I thought to myself. In his early thirties, heterosexual, and married, I made a conscientious point to stay on my side of the pass, and out of the HR department.
As the case numbers waned, and winter turned into spring, our friendship began to blossom. “I really admire your technique,” I observed him rolling meatballs one day. His forearms were built for the kitchen with the burns scars to prove it. His wedding ring served as a reminder that I should return the conversation to eye level. “Thanks man,” he smiled, “the shape and size are not as important as the taste.”
“I wonder what he looks like without a mask on, I thought to myself.”
By summer, the two of us ventured on our first gentlemen’s stroll. Tipping our hats to the ducks at Lost Lagoon, we discussed our common interests, life stories, and future goals. Typically, I have trouble forming friendships with handsome straight men, because all I want to do is make out with them. This, however, was different. The sophistication of our conversation, paired with a genuine sense of comradery, proved to be much more satisfying.
“What if I killed him?!” I asked Felix, taking a sip of coffee, and turning left on Union Street.
“Rugged, my good man,” he brought me to a halt, “I am certain this story is far from over yet.”
Ten days later, I heard back from Theodore. Turned out a bad oyster at buck a shuck had knocked him off his feet.
“Still interested in that third date?” he asked.
