Mikey and the Chickadee

Chapter 3 - Part 1

Before bed and after an evening spent in mostly worthless reflection, only half-interrupted by a trip to the gym and the resulting takeout meal, I made a promise to myself. I would never pressure Mikey. Whether out of fear or discretion, or some measure of both, he had arrested our quickly intensifying moment together. He'd done it with poise and certainty. His action revealed a striking ability that might have been otherwise difficult to distinguish: He knew how to look after himself. A further advance into intimacy would not have indicated the contrary; it wouldn't have proven anything other than the actuality I had already come to know (his attraction to me). But he had chosen to stop, an employment of the same deft certitude he'd used to rock us into motion. He lacked the clarity I possessed regarding my desires and certainly my orientation, but his authority eclipsed my own—which, with regard to sexual advances, I would relinquish.

With this in mind, I did not sleep poorly, and in fact felt revitalized during my walk between buses the next morning. I picked out his apartment building among the others as I passed his street. At this point our paths sometimes coincided, at which time one would follow the other while maintaining a suitable distance. I found it solacing to consider that this distance would no longer be necessary. Today, however, I saw no sign of him until I came to the bus stop.

He flashed a smile as I approached, so I smiled back and arrived to stand next to him in front of the shelter. He wore a black peacoat I had never seen before. His thick hair, blacker still, had been shaped a little more deliberately than usual, and was swept up, far away from his eyes.

"Any important meetings today?" I asked.

"No, actually. Nothing scheduled, anyway."

"Well," I said, choosing my words carefully, "you look ready, if they show up."

"Thanks." He must have known what I referred to, because he then said, "My hair's getting way too long. I can usually get by putting some gel in it and tossing it around. Today it needed extra attention."

"It looks good," I said. "I mean, it always looks good."

He smiled. "Thank you."

I leaned back against the glass wall of the shelter and after about a minute, so did he. We watched cars and pedestrians pass by for a short time, and then he turned toward me a little. Even though the roadway roared with life, he lowered his voice when he said, "I want to apologize for coming on to you last night. I shouldn't have done that."

"It didn't bother me," I told him.

"Well, it shouldn't have happened."

The bus arrived and the subject rested until we had boarded, offering me time to consider how to respond. I had not expected him to feel this way. I entered the bus before him, a fact for which I was soon grateful; I had taken it for granted that we would sit next to each other, and realized suddenly that this might not be what he wanted. I sat by the window, and was relieved when he did not ask, but simply came to rest at my side.

We did not say anything immediately. I gave a little more thought to what he had told me, and recalled the carefree way he had smiled when I first showed up. Both his attitude and his tone seemed to dismiss what I felt had been a meaningful exchange, and this annoyed me. I asked him, "It shouldn't have happened last night, you mean? Or it shouldn't have happened at all?"

He hesitated.

I could sense that he strained to find an answer and I stopped him. "I'm sorry. I'm not sure what I'm getting at."

"You're really putting me on the spot here, Chickadee." He laughed, but he also looked very nervous.

"Really," I said, "I don't need an answer. It's not a big deal." I tried to set aside my agitation; his feelings were obviously more complicated than I had thought.