Conversations With A Man by SKVokey at Inkitt

...who is Strange

It’s strange.

Everything about this is really, really strange.

So much so that I can’t help looking at my phone despite knowing his messages won’t change.

“Dinner at 7?”

“Huh?” I respond.

“Jenny’s could be great.”

This was the last thing I expected from a man whom I only started chatting with today. I thought to the usual; celebrate the fact that I only work the evening hours tomorrow by finding a quick hook-up for the night. Then, I’d relax for a bit, watch TV, and I’d be back to the cycle until the weekend hits, and I’d be off some proverbial leash.

This, though? Again, I can’t find any other word except strange. There are people next to me on this bus stop talking about some anomaly in the weather. When I look up, the tallest of the buildings in M city are coated with neon, while the rain soaks the few standing in the streets.

I can hear thunder rumbling, even though it was bright and clear only a few hours before the end of my shift. It could’ve spelt a good day, and I guess I could call it strange how everything came crashing down, only if this wasn’t stranger.

“Dinner at 7?” I mumble to myself.

You never find men who want anything else besides the obvious. It’s how it always works, always has, and I can only presume that it always will, but I had a good reason to start the conversation; no, he began it by sending a picture.

He had a great body and requested the goods. Asked who would do what during each minute, and the rain only came pouring afterwards.

Dinner at 7. Dinner at 7. Dinner at 7.

Why would you want anything else from a simple hook-up?

I only want to think about how indifferent I’d be, so I turn to the distorted expression reflecting off the red and blue puddle, hoping it is not spotted when I arrive to “dinner at 7”.

...and as soon as that notion crosses my mind, the bus arrives without much pizzazz. The few complaining about the weather leave a sigh, while I take my spot with some stress pinching my heart.

It’d usually be the part of my routine where it transforms into knowing that I’ll get to the better part of the day and undo all the indifference from earlier. It’d be the one moment I couldn’t care even more, but now I’m pressing my fingers against my temples.

No, I don’t have a headache. I wish I would, because it’d be easier to blame something other than my own understanding of the word “strange”, so I simply find a seat nestled at the back and stare out the window. I forgot to charge my headphones, so what I have left is staring out the window.

At times like these, I really do admire the skyscrapers. I can imagine those people from earlier trying to climb up to the very top to take a leap across or fly at the same speeds the bus swerves into more streets.

If it wasn’t raining, of course.

I arrive at “Jenny’s” a good thirty minutes later, courtesy of the nap I somehow managed to sneak in during my daydream. Well, it’s evening, but I rest my case.

The path from the bus stop was the usual crowded streets, while the outside spoke of nothing unusual. It was a neon sign, much like the sex shops I frequent before meetings of this calibre.

The difference here could be the colours. They’re inviting, and the inside pretty much resembles a semi-fancy diner. My diet consists of takeout and a bit of what I can steal from that old kitchen at the office, so even walking up to the menu could hurt my wallet.

It’s a one-time thing. Get some, talk some, land in the usual bed. We even agreed it’d be my place, and this time, as I check my little plastic watch, I’d be preparing so the evening would be as perfect a ritual.

Maybe I’m stressed because he took that away.

He...

I have to check my phone again. His name is Patrick, and he’s in his early thirties. No face pictures, as per usual, only a body that suggests he goes to the gym, but a bigger build that tells me Jenny’s a place for gluttons.

...but who is Jason, twenty-seven and resembling his forties to judge? It’d be a shame if I didn’t know who to search for.

After a quick breath, mumbling the words ‘dinner at 7’ under my nose again, I open the door to scan the insides. It really does look like one of those movie diners, though I don’t really watch many movies, just how I’d imagine they’d look.

There is a counter wrapping the place in a U-shape with a couple of people waiting for pints. The tables are all close to the rain-stained windows, and there aren’t many people waiting, other than a guy in the corner, eyeing me the second I stepped in.

Must be Patrick, already extending his hand around the table. The table is pretty big. I reckon you could put a whole Thanksgiving turkey on it. I skilfully grabbed the menu from a neat, orange rack and made my way over.

With my undiagnosed visual impairment, I only notice his features a few seconds away: a warm smile, some wrinkles highlighting his smaller eyes. Oh, wow.

I quietly take a seat on the brown couch as he leans forward, placing both hands beneath his chin.

“Dinner at 7?” I ask, with half a smile.

“Jason, right?” he soon extends his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

I stare at his fingers. Well, at least there isn’t a ring, like with some men. I shake it after puffing out air to the side.

He, however, just squints, staring me down. The loose tie, the unpinned buttons at the top and the jacket hastily thrown over. I could argue that I already looked like the stereotypical mess meant to be ravaged, but with how strange this situation was, I only got flustered at the thought.

He, in turn, chuckled - that was even stranger!

“N-Nice to meet you too,” I respond, fixing my jacket. “You’ve got a great face. Why didn’t you put it on the app? You the discrete kind?”

“It’s usually something else the other guys focus on,” he giggled. “It got you on the hook.”

It was as if the most stressful situation of this week was somehow just a joke to him.

“I just didn’t expect the muscular, well-faired and good-looking to uppercut me like that.”

I smirk.

Maybe he’ll chuckle again and promptly reveal that there’s a taxi waiting to take us home.

The evening would end, and maybe I’d find someone better for the weekend.

Not that I didn’t want him. Sitting and staring made me realise there was a massive gap between our demeanours.

He must’ve taken notice. He must’ve wanted to do something about it. He must have-

“You have quite a way with words.” he took the menu from my grasp, skipping through the different pages and stopping at some fries.

Light blue button-up, probably some high-end brand. The watch on his hand is way fancier than the one I got from Mom for Christmas. He raises his hand and asks the waiter for a steak, and I’m left scrambling to pick the cheapest option.

I half-expect him to tell me that he’ll pay, but I already decided that when it came to strange people, there was no predicting their next move.

“You could’ve gotten something nicer,” he mused. “I’m paying.”

“Give me half of your steak.”

“I’ll be hungry. You can just go and ask the waiter.”

I am, once again, uppercutted. He’d say it’s a nice word.

“T-This isn’t what we agreed on... Patrick.” I almost forgot his name through frustration. “I can’t just eat if you’re going to-”

I stop myself, hand sliding underneath my brown locks, longer than they should be.

If we had never gone to Jenny’s, we could’ve probably been more open with our discussions.

Patrick only offers a smile. Does he lure men with a grin and food, then trap them in his basement?

Why am I thinking of that?

I get up to ask the waiter for truffle fries and a burger, which is strange because I never liked such.

I sit down and wait for our food to arrive, then have a quick chat about our hobbies. He tells me he likes gardening, I say that I have some plants, and I lie, because they’re all dead on the freezing balcony.

Monster-like, from my side.

About an hour later (as I am once again anxiously observing my watch), we’re both done with our meals. While I did enjoy the food, his expression made all this less than desirable.

He’s not even wearing that smirk. It’s a soft, pretty beam as he scans the menu looking for dessert. In turn, I sigh loudly.

“You said tiramisu was your favourite,” Patrick said.

“I mean-” I’m honestly at a loss for words. “It is, it’s just. If we wanna get to it, we’ll have to make some changes, okay?”

“The tiramisu?”

“Do you not remember what messages you have sent me?” I whisper.

Patrick nods.

I let the air out of my nose; maybe I’ll finally get what I came for.

“It’s been an hour. We’d usually be-” I clear my throat. “-maybe halfway through with your body.”

I can’t hide it anymore. I just want to get on with it, finish this evening before I demand it sour.

The day was so perfect until the rain obscured my vision. In hopes of a quicker answer, I glance out, seeing that the downpour halted.

Patrick gazes out as well. His face seems to light up, despite his expression still being strange, because there’s really no better word for it.

His eyes shift with an even bigger smile.

“I’m full, actually. Why don’t we step out?”

My smile widens...

...though not for long!

We start making our way through the nearby park, and I admit that it is one hell of a shortcut. I wanted to order us a taxi to make do with what we were given, but Patrick wandered off.

I didn’t have the energy to try to question it anymore. I followed him, and his eyes met mine, full of the same gleam that surrounded the golden street lamps as the roads narrowed and shifted to a few people walking their dogs or laughing, thinking of better things.

It was eight. The longer I stared, the less I could make out of the surrounding trees, and a cold breeze of the wind followed. I zipped up my jacket, turning to Patrick, who hung his off his shoulder and stared up, completely dismissing what I implied, in a monster-like manner.

I went with the same rule. I wanted to say something, but I couldn’t feasibly expect a response. Instead, I let my eyes wander to the sky and recall better feelings.

The park was a calmer place.

I rarely frequented it, but I always took note of the same crack through the foliage of trees placed in arch-like shapes, revealing an X-spot where no building could climb.

During some incredible nights, and I really mean incredible, the stars were visible. This wasn’t one of them. There must’ve been clouds above, but I couldn’t tell, mainly because even through it all, I couldn’t imagine anything.

Something else had to happen.

Patrick turned, placing a hand on my shoulder.

“Is this your favourite park?”

I’m taken aback.

“Are there any others in the district?”

“You said you lived nearby,” he shrugged. “I thought this would be a nice place to relax.”

So he does remember what he sent and decided to ignore me. I want to add something, but once more he looks up, fingers still clenched.

It’s a nice, smooth touch. His hand isn’t cold, so I don’t flinch and slowly take out my phone.

I don’t want to read our messages. The charm of what he had planned was gone; I’m there to look for something else, because clearly, this guy is too strange for someone as strange as me.

He doesn’t answer my questions. He does and says whatever he wants to say. It’s like he’s not even human, and that’s what frustrates me.

From the moment I leave work, I turn back from the simple cog to a cog that can leave its mechanism and derust. That, or it’s the thousand other analogies I came up with. If I told him anything, he’d probably say something completely unrelated, so that’s how I decided I’m done.

I won’t get derusted, I won’t be planted anew, I won’t have a good night’s sleep with a man like this.

Luckily enough, a few scrolls away, new messages pop up. A guy who’s only a few minutes away, wanting to fix my evening.

I linger on lighting the cigarette I stuffed in my pocket, but with another look at Patrick, I squint before taking a decisive step forward.

A five-minute walk, a twelve-minute bus ride, and I’d be home. An hour would be good enough for preparations, I’d make adjustments and amends, and I could still have a good time, just not with Patrick.

...and as that thought turns to wash away the others (because the rain couldn’t do so), I turn back, hearing a few footsteps.

Patrick is following me.

I speed up, he speeds up.

I wait for the bus, he lingers a few steps away, and we take completely different seats.

I make my way to my apartment, walk the stairs and finally end up in front of my door with a huff.

Patrick, naturally, follows.

I lean against the door, wiping sweat off my forehead.

“What do you want?”

“Seems you want to get things going.”

“I thought my walking away without a word was a clear sign it wasn’t going to happen. Clear is what you made it from the very beginning.”

I turn to the door, shuffling with my keys. I stare at one keychain, a souvenir from Greece, before stuffing it inside the keyhole.

“Crystal clear like the rain if it didn’t rain in M city. In other places, it’s probably better than the toxic waste that goes up to stain the streets again.”

I don’t know why I’m saying that aloud. Patrick chuckles, and that only angers me.

So I halt, slowly turning back.

“...in other words. I’m not looking for what you’re looking for. I’m sorry.”

“You do have a really funny way with words.”

“Patrick, I-”

...and without hesitation, he does the one thing I almost wanted him to do. Leans down, and, without allowing me to continue, stuffs his tongue deep inside my mouth.

I push my hands onto his shoulders like it’s reflex.

It’s long, almost unbearable. I can’t catch my breath, but he operates as if he means it.

Unexpectancy should’ve made me angry, but that was what Patrick just kept doing, over and over again.

No sooner than later, I open the door, throw my items down, and we continue making out. His hands wrap around my back.

I manage to take off my shirt, then pants, throw them to the side, and get the evening done with. I let go for seconds, manoeuvre around the cramped apartment, before signalling to the couch.

I throw the blanket off, take a deep breath, as Patrick signals with his hands.

Therefore, I lay down, closing my eyes.

I don’t spot the moment he takes his clothes off. Again, soon, he’s there by my side, hugging me from behind, stuffing his hand under my arm to feel my chest, then using the other to pry into my underwear.

It feels good, the way it’s supposed to. I turn my head, longing for another kiss before he stops.

His face isn’t wearing that beam, but I sigh nonetheless, lying on the side.

“Jason.”

“What?”

“If I told you I’m a monster, would you still want to do it?”

“A monster?”

“Would you?”

“Just get over with it already.”

...and there’s the smile again. He almost scoffs before jolting up and putting all that he had undone back on.

I stand up, watching the scene slowly entangle, as the clock behind chimes away at the remaining minutes of the day.

“What are you doing?”

“Sorry, Jason,” he adds, before waddling through the darkness.