The Jake: Part 1

"And then" he says, his blue eyes flashing, his hands animated, "...all my mother can see is these 2 felt legs sticking up in the ditch."

I cannot help it, I am enchanted.

Later when we make our way through the throngs of leather clad men and beautiful boys with their exqusiite cheekbones the conversation never lulls. Continues, with nods and smiles, shyly sneaking glances at one another. When I talk, he leans in, his long legs slowing to match my pace, his gait in rythym with my own.

He stands, at the jukebox, looking at me. The tired waiter, immaculate and beautiful touches my hair. Brings us kitsch cocktails and battered menus.

I cannot stop looking up at the man smiling at me from across the room, my chin resting in the palm of my hand. He smiles back, shakes his head, makes his selection. Crosses the restuarant to our table, boyish grin brighter.

Sits opposite me and tilts his head.

Frank croons in the background, and he sings along softly off key.

I watch his lips move as he speaks, his leg brushes up against mine and stays there. It is too natural and fluid, spontaneous and reassuring, I feel dizzy, disorientated.
I have forgotten what this feels like, have spent too much time rushing in blindly with lust and unforseen consequences that somehow, I have forgotten that the beginning is supposed to be just like this. Have forgotten what it feels like to be left with a lingering kiss that reduces my worldy knees to liquid, lips burning and the feel of his hand against my cheek as he waves me goodbye and sees me off; my cab winding through Friday night revellers to take me home.