Somewhere on the island of Manhattan, in a dimly lit room is a man in his mid to late thirties. In his hands a copy of The Hours by Michael Cunningham. Sections of that morning’s New York Times are scattered on the floor, on the couch, in the bathroom, a trail of paper that bears witness to his day. It’s a cozy apartment, wooden floors, warm brown leather chairs, entire walls made of books, and a window, which if looked at from the street, flickers blue.
He’s been living there for years. He’s thought of moving, but he likes it where he is, it’s home.
Most of his accent is gone, dulled by a life lived in New York, like a kitchen knife after years of heavy use. But even today, hints of another place still come out as alcohol seeps in.
Handsome, quiet, he’s had a few serious relationships and at least one major heartbreak. It’s been a while since anyone’s managed to surprise him.
Sure, there are cute guys out there, baby gays with tight, fresh skin who spring a boner every time the wind blows their way, but at this stage of his life he needs more.
He’s a romantic. He’s the one who remembers birthdays and anniversaries, the one who spends hours finding the right present. He likes to see the surprised look on their face as they open it, a gift that says, “See? I’ve been listening.”
He likes to think the right guy’s out there, he’s just not sure.
Somewhere in Manhattan lives a man. He’s a bit of me, and a bit of whom I’d like to meet. An idea of a person that comes to mind whenever I get dumped, go on a bad date, or have sex of the ordinary kind. He has no clear features or name. He’s the one.