Monday Running (ijuh - ch 1)

Monday Running

I run in my local park every Monday at nine o’clock. Afterwards I stretch and sit at a nearby picnic table under a pavilion where I settle down with my phone to do voice-typing. My device is technically a smartphone, but I don't have a voice, text or data plan—I only use it as a miniature computer. The phone that I use for texting is a flip-brick model from 2006.

I must look strange, talking to an empty table. I sometimes get weird looks as people pass by, but since I do my voice-typing on Monday mornings, the clientele in the park are usually older and less judgmental than you might expect. Also, I assume that these grannies have poor hearing, which eases my embarrassment enough that I can speak about my fantasy worlds in this wide open, public solitude. Just me and my stories about romantic, lusty heroes. Told to a park full of squirrels and septuagenarians. And to my ghosts…

This park is the best place to escape my hectic life in the big city. I live in the first suburb on the north side of Chicago—it’s busy and I hate it. I need to get away. I grew up in the country and I’ve never quite grown out of the itch to see trees everywhere, and for the absence of rush hour—the quiet.

This story—the story of me and Mark—started on one of those famous Monday runs where I was desperate to reconnect with nature. As I look over my notes from that time—our initial falling in love—I can’t help but laugh at my descriptions of Mark, almost none of which have anything to do with his attractiveness. If I were to describe my husband now, I would comment on how incredibly handsome he is (he has brainwashed me to notice this). If I were to have written this as a paperback romance, I would have a picture of a physically fit, impossibly good-looking man on the cover. No joke, and I hate to say it out loud, but Mark really is a very handsome man. I don’t think I can possibly inflate his ego any more than it already is, and I know he’s going to read this and his vanity will kick into overdrive, but let’s just chill, Mark, the world doesn’t revolve around your smile (though my world maybe kinda does).

Anyway, back to the beginning of our story, the story of how a non-sexual man fell in love with a gay man (a really, really gay man) who deceptively hid his gayness until I was too far in love to change course. Oh yeah, warning and spoiler alert for my Dear Readers: if you don’t like stories where the protagonist gets tricked into falling in love… this book is not for you. If you don’t want to read a gentle, sweet romance between two men, this book is not for you…. Or maybe you should read it. It doesn’t have any sex (until waayyyy down the line). It’s really only about love and romance. Who cares if it’s between two guys?

It was early summer and my work schedule was finally empty enough for me to do some serious writing. I tutored as one of my side jobs and since the school year was over, that meant I only had a few middling SAT students to groom. Thus, there was more free time than I knew what to do with—and a burning excitement to start another novel, and not a ghostwritten one, but one of my own. Finally. I’d felt the novel building within me for the past few weeks as my summer freedom approached.

The story was finally here, fully present in my mind. I started fleshing out the mountainous obstacles set between my hero and heroine, using my voice to sculpt the characters and build drama. I described my medieval world with so much enthusiasm that I was firmly embedded in the middle of a quickly forming story. So much plot! I could practically see my characters, hear them talk with their own voices! It was like watching a movie! The words came out of my mouth so effortlessly, like they were already written and I was merely reading them off the page. I wasn't in a park in the middle of Chicago, I was in a fantasy world with magic and maidens. The flow was great—one of the best I’d ever experienced.

Then he happened.

“Hello,” he said loudly, breaking me out of my writing zone.

I looked up from my screen, my earbud swinging violently. The guy—the idiot guy—that interrupted my solitude was young and looked about college-aged. It was a warm day so he’d taken off his shirt and stuffed it in the back of his basketball shorts. His chest glistened like he’d just finished a run. His hair was longish, neat and casually styled, like he continually ran his fingers through it to keep it perfectly shaped in a wave over his forehead.

His face was open and friendly, a little too square to be called heart-shaped. His smile was charming and bright. Eyes: pure blue; hair: soft brown.

I couldn’t figure him out. Normally I formed a backstory for every person I met like they were a character in a book, but I couldn't figure out this guy's motivation—why would he stop here and talk to me? What was he doing here on a Monday morning when most people our age were at work? So I asked a blunt question—maybe I was a little extra testy because he had broken my authorial concentration.

“What do you need?” I asked roughly, my voice not used to talking outside of my cheerful voice-typing story mode. I should have asked what he wanted, but a person who randomly walked up to strangers to start a conversation has a problem that’s more urgent than a want, this guy had a need.

He looked taken aback by my question. Maybe I glared at him too harshly. He stuttered nervously, looked down at his feet for a second as if chastened, but then he gave me that wolf smile again.

“I saw you jogging earlier. Then I was walking by and heard you talking to yourself. I wondered what was going on.” He twirled his hand around to encompass my entire area. “So what is going on?”

“I’m working,” I said flatly.

“Oh that's cool. Working on what?”

I hate when people fake an interest in something. It’s the most annoying thing ever. “I'm a writer. This is my writing time.” Then I asked the same question again—more forcefully but with less heat. “What do you need?”

My repeated question really put him off his game, like maybe he didn’t expect this encounter to turn aggressive. He stopped moving around. His hand, which had up till then been casually rubbing against his abs, swung loosely at his side. He looked around and then out beyond the pavilion where I was working, like he needed a distraction.

He's desperate. And in pain.

I felt bad for him. He was stressed. I shouldn’t have felt anything for him, but I was a nice guy. And I had a soft spot for strays. And I always felt guilty after I was mean, like I had done something wrong. I was too nice to strangers, but also knew that my personality wasn't going to change... and people readily took advantage of my gentle nature.

I offered him an apology. “Hey, I'm sorry.” My voice was softer and more intimate. “What do you need?”

Now it was his turn to look surprised, or maybe confused. “What?” he asked.

“That was kind of me being a jerk, wasn't it? I'm sorry. Again. I shouldn’t have jumped at you.” I shook my head and looked down at my phone. “I can get that way sometimes. I was really in the zone with my writing. Anyway, what I meant was that you clearly have something important weighing on your mind. Hence, what do you need? I mean, people don't normally walk up to me. Strangers. So you must have something on your chest. What do you need?”

I couldn't stop asking that stupid question and my words were a little rushed, a little professorial. I often hid myself behind big words, especially when in uncomfortable situations. Maybe I should have just brushed this guy off and told him to leave, but I was never that kind of person. If someone needed help, my heart was a sucker for that.

But it appeared that my little monologue did not put him at ease as I had intended. If anything he looked even more out of sorts. That engaging smile was a distant memory. His face was serious and his eyes seemed to look at me in a different light, like he was weighing something important. The guy no longer exuded confidence. He walked to my side of the table, but stopped a few feet away when I glared at him. I hated people invading my personal space, especially strangers.

No hands. No touching. No getting close. No germs.

He leaned against the table and put his hands on the edge for support. Then he stretched forward and made a great drama of taking a deep breath. We were side by side. He looked straight ahead and spoke without looking in my direction.

“I need a friend,” he whispered. “That’s what I need.”

“A friend?”

“Yeah.” He glanced at me shyly. “Fuck, I don't know why I said that.” He nervously coughed out that breath he'd been holding, then unclenched a hand and ran it through his hair. The guy was under a lot of stress—more than I had previously assumed.

My heart went out to him—me being too big of a softy, a con artist’s dream target. What kind of character was this man? Anytime I met someone new I wanted to understand how they worked, what their motivations were, how they were raised, what they did for a living. Strangers fired up my storytelling brain... so I sometimes asked penetrating questions at awkward opportunities—it was a bad habit of mine. Questions like, ‘What do you need?’ instead of ‘What do you want?’

When you dish out unexpected questions, you sometimes get unexpectedly true responses. Unvarnished. Interesting. Mark was unvarnished and interesting alright. He confounded me right from the start.

It was apparent that this kid was having a tough time and that despite his swagger and charm, he was suffering through some loneliness.

I knew all about loneliness.

“So you need a friend,” I stated.

“Yeah. I don't know why I said that. I'm so lame. Sorry I bothered you.”

“Okay, you can leave if you want to.” I shrugged as he turned to leave. “But I run here every Monday at nine o'clock. If you showed up around that time next week, we could run together. And afterwards get to know each other a little bit. I could be your friend... sure, why not?” It cost me nothing to make that offer.

He sighed and looked resigned, then reached behind his body to pull out the tee shirt that was stuck in his waistband. He used it to wipe his chest, but didn't leave. He looked even more anxious.

I didn’t have time for this. It was one thing to have nice intentions and to be a nice person; it was another thing to be a saint. I wasn’t going to wait around all day to make him feel better. This was my free time—my writing time—and I was fiercely protective of it.

“So… I was in the middle of work. I need to finish this project. I'm under a tight deadline. I don’t have any time to waste, so…”

“Yeah, sure,” he said distractedly. “I'll give you my number so if your plans change, you can give me a call.”

“No thanks,” I said. “No numbers, no names. Let's keep this anonymous for now. I'll see you in a week.” I was polite, but firm. All business. If I took his number, then he would weigh on my memory even more than he already was.

“Come on, dude. Your phone is right there!” He pointed to my smartphone.

“It's not a phone. I only use it for voice-typing. My actual phone is a little flip phone that I keep on the counter in my bedroom.”

“You're joking.” He was incredulous, relaxing as his exhale turned to a laugh. He had a nice laugh.

“I'm serious. This little computer is part of my office.”

“You still use a flip phone? Dude, 2008 called and they want their technology back.” He looked me over once again, though this time I felt comfortable under his stare. Then he shook his head and laughed sharply. “I was not expecting that at all. My name is Mark.” He held out his hand.

How am I supposed to get out of this? I had specifically told him I didn't want to do the name thing. The more information I gathered about a person, the more attached to them I grew. Now that I knew his name, I'd begin assembling a personality profile. I’d think about him after he left, this Mark. What does Mark do. What does Mark like. What kind of life does Mark have.

I didn't want to go down that road. Not yet. I had this thing with strangers where if I had a favorable first impression of them, then I immediately raised them to the level of 'friend' or even 'good friend'. I don't know what it is about me, but I must have gotten the ‘extremely trusting gene’. I hated that about myself. Always trusting, always burned. So I kept myself extra guarded, especially with first impressions… as much as humanly possible, anyway.

“Chris,” I said after an extended pause during which I couldn’t figure out how to shake him. “I'll see you in a week, Mark.”

“Alright. It was nice meeting you.” He turned around and promptly slumped his shoulders like a defeated puppy.

“Wait,” I called as Mark walked away. I closed my eyes and wanted to bang my head against the table.

He paused, then shrugged into his tee shirt, which fit him perfectly. His whole appearance was like he had walked out of a fitness catalog.

I waited for him to get closer before saying: “I was kind of a jerk earlier. So let me ask you, do you have anything pressing that you need to get off your chest? If we're going to be friends, I’d like to be the good kind of friend, not the kind that takes advantage of you. And I've been through enough low points to recognize the symptoms. Are you going to make it till next Monday?”

“I'll be fine,” Mark said confidently, but he seemed insecure. “I am under a ton of stress… taking a summer course in business and it's really kicking my ass. Masters classes are not like undergrad.”

“What's it about? What's so stressful?”

He sighed dramatically, then stomped back to me with exaggerated steps. “I have to write all these fucking papers and I'm no good at it. I handed in the first one. And I had to give him examples of my earlier writing. He was not impressed. It’s been horrible.”

“Okay. You'll get better. That’s why you’re taking the course. So you can improve. What's the subject matter?”

“Advanced Argumentative Essays. It’s not even required!”

“Then why are you taking it!”

“I need to take an essay course. And this is general enough that it will combine with any specialty.”

“Specialty?”

“Yeah, like my focus. I’m technically in the micro-finance section, but I might want to jump over into something else.” Mark had visibly relaxed. “I feel better already... just talking about it with someone.”

“You don't have anyone to help with these tough decisions?” A guy like him with a handsome face and charming personality... it was hard to believe he wasn’t overwhelmed with friends.

“I moved back to try to reconnect with some of my college buddies. It hasn't been going as well as I planned. And then this coursework is just so crazy.” Mark ran his fingers through his hair again. It hadn't looked out of place.

We chatted about his coursework. Then he pushed away from the table during a lull in the conversation. “I'll let you get back to your work. It was nice meeting you, Chris. Thanks for listening to my problems.”

“No worries. Catch you next week.”

He walked away, but my writing flow was gone.

I pushed myself to get back to my voice-typing, but it was impossible to focus. All I could think about was Mark and his unusual problems. I watched as he left. He drove off in a fancy car. I wasn’t impressed. My grandfather was a mechanic so I could work my way around basic engine trouble, but that didn't mean I felt like cars should be status symbols. From my perspective, there were four categories for vehicles: Fancy, Economical, Family, and Truck. I’ve since added a fifth category: Electric. Those descriptions usually serve me well.

Mark drove a fancy car.

I updated my mental profile of him. He was easy on the eyes. So he had 'pretty people' problems. Add to that a fancy car and he had 'rich people' problems. Or perhaps he had a debt problem?

I tried to get focused again, but couldn't do it. Thoughts of Mark's business class interrupted me at every turn. One of my college roommates had been a business major. How hard could it be? Not impossible, that’s for sure.

I gave up on my work, knowing it was a losing proposition. My mental energy had already been diverted and I knew better than to fight it. That’s how life worked for me—I would get curious about something, then learn as much about it as possible until I felt a moderate level of mastery. I would read every book I could get my hands on, read every blog. Then I'd fiddle with some problems until the pieces fell into place or work through thought experiments until my interest was either satisfied or died.

Then I would move on to the next thing that fired up my curiosity. That's how I always operated. Curiosity was my fuel. It kept my writing fresh and constantly refreshing.

These side projects were not a waste of my writing time, or so I told myself. Even if I didn’t make any money from these projects, they were challenges, and I loved challenges. This 'Mark Problem' was no different than any other challenge. I could help Mark get through a business class. And my ghostwriting was technically a small business. Maybe by learning with Mark I would learn some good business practices to apply in real life.

I got in my car. It was not a fancy car. My car might actually have been below the Economical class of car—in a class all of its own. My car was what you would call a poor person’s car—full of rust and bound to break down. But it still got the job done. And I kept it alive with my slight mechanic's touch.

When I got home, I walked straight to my computer. The first thing I did was order as many business books as possible. I logged on to my library account to see what was available, then ordered a couple off Amazon. I suddenly had a lot of reading ahead of me before the next Monday run.

I acted scatterbrained at home for the rest of the week. My parents understood my little eccentricities and knew this obsessive phase was normal for me. I might be distracted from the everyday things, but that was because my mind was completely consumed with esoteric hierarchical organizations or by reorganizing obscure theorems. My parents learned long ago not to ask me what I was reading.

I devoted as much of my time as possible to reading and understanding the business problems that Mark might face. From what little he had told me about his paper, I could be really off base with these books—this reading could all be a waste of my time. Mark might not even show up for our Monday run. His body was more like a gym guy’s than a runner’s. He was heavily muscled and confident in his physique, like a typical jock. I was exactly the opposite—keeping to my cardio exercises for health reasons. I didn’t have my usual stamina, but was slowly getting back to my pre-diagnosis level of fitness.

Then there was the nagging worry, as was common upon first meeting someone, of whether the stranger I met might be a serial killer or in some way a strange person like that. My stranger danger lights didn’t go off with Mark, but I was notoriously bad at detecting danger to my person. I could read a room like nobody’s business, but I never put myself in the equation. If anyone interacted with me, I viewed it through the lens of my default position: I never wanted to harm anyone, I never wanted to seduce anyone, I never wanted to be noticed. So, to my mind, no one would want to do those things to me, either.

I was very innocent like that. Now that I'm with Mark, he protects me from myself. I love him so much. He's made my life so much simpler. Today I can focus on my writing career with laser precision, and that's thanks in large part to Mark.

After an extended inner monologue and a pro/con list, I decided to keep our upcoming Monday run on a one-mile loop so that if this guy was a serial killer, I might at least have a fighting chance to break away from him and get back to my car. I didn't want to go too deep into the park on our first run.

The guy was bigger than me.

And he could be a serial killer.

I rolled up to the park promptly at nine o'clock. Mark was waiting for me. I was neither surprised nor pleased—it was simply an objective off my checklist for the day. The man was here, and now he must be dealt with.

I strolled to the picnic table in the pavilion where we had met the week before. He grumbled at me.

“I take it you're not a morning person,” I said. That was good to know, another thing to add to my mental portrait of him. (This grumbling in the morning has been a constant personality trait with Mark and it hasn’t changed in all the years I’ve tried to modify it.)

“No,” he said blankly. Last week he had a boyish amount of energy, even when he was nervous. I didn't see that brightness today. He was grumpy and sour. I might have even guessed Mark was angry.

“What kind of workout are we doing?” I asked.

“You're the expert.”

Apparently he’s going to be short on words today.

“Hard or soft? Are we jogging or are we running?”

“Up to you.”

I rolled my eyes (the first of many times I’ve been exasperated with this man). I didn’t sign up for this attitude. My first impression last week was that Mark was fundamentally a nice guy. Guess I was fooled. “I scheduled today as a hard workout, most of my Mondays are. Or we can do whatever you want.”

“Hard sounds good.”

“Okay.” I was a little alarmed by his sourness, having pegged him as a frivolous airhead, but I guess that wasn't the case either. “We're going to do a one-mile circuit three times. Every half mile we will increase the mile pace by thirty seconds. Between the second and third mile we're going to exceed your standard race pace, whatever that is.”

“I'll run with you.” He spoke simply and with clipped sentences. Then, he crossed his arms over his chest and stretched his shoulders.

“Okay… then you can set the pace.”

I instructed him on how to stretch his lower body. He was focused on his chest and core, which needed to be loose, but wasn’t as important as the quads and calves. We jogged for a half mile to warm up, during which he was completely silent.

“Is everything okay?” My curiosity couldn’t be held at bay any longer.

“No! Things have gotten so much worse. My week has been complete shit!”

“Okay, well, you came here and you're here now, so let's focus on the run. Can you compartmentalize and put that stuff away for half an hour?”

He nodded, then looked away and snorted.

“Alright then, let's get going. We're going to focus on our pace. Remember, start out slow and incremental before we reach our race pace, then exceed it.”

“Let's go. Whatever.”

We started out slow at about an eight-minute-mile pace. That's pretty good for someone who does more bench presses and deadlifts than cardio.

Once we were deeper into the woods, he got chatty.

“So how was your week?” he asked in kind of a stilted manner.

“Fine,” I huffed.

“Man, it's beautiful down here. Perfect weather.”

“It's hot,” I said under my breath.

“Yeah, it was hotter last week, though. That's why I changed into my compression shirt, it'll keep the heat off me better.”

Now I was the one who didn't want to make conversation. We were running and we needed to be focused. I was a strict, goal-oriented person. No frivolities.

Mark did not get the hint to stop chatting and focus on the pace. “We're going pretty slow, I can go faster. Don't hold back on my account.” He bounded from foot to foot like a hockey player attacking the ice. That had to be exhausting.

“We're setting your pace,” I said sternly. “We do what you want. Go at whatever you think you can and I’ll follow.”

He picked up the pace. We weren't even at the half-mile mark. We jumped up to probably a seven-minute mile. With five more intervals coming, that would put me way ahead of my 10K pace and right at my best 5K pace. And those times were from before my illness and diagnosis. My body hadn’t faced a workout like this in years, but I’d been working my way up to this. I’d been training for months, and the pain from running wasn't sharp or invasive anymore, it was a normal kind of pain. And I’d woken up that Monday morning with full power, so there were no real excuses to hold me back. And it was also a ‘hard day’.

And maybe this new guy had me feeling competitive.

Might as well give my body a chance. Let’s see what these old legs have left in the tank.

Mark kept talking and I kept giving him one-word answers. We reached the half-mile point. “Increase our pace by 30 seconds,” I said.

“How do you know what that is?”

“Your body gets used to it, just run with me. We're going for an average here… this is not an exact science.”

I pushed the pace and he settled in beside me. Mark wasn't talking anymore. His steps were awkward and lunging. His breaths were already sharper and his body glistened with sweat. I was never the kind of guy to sweat during a race. My body cooled itself pretty quickly while running, but when I stopped, that's when I would sweat buckets. Like turning on a faucet. I could usually wear a shirt or tank top during a race without getting it too sweaty.

I wore my favorite running tank that Monday, which was too tight to wear anywhere else.

Mark was already drenched. We made it to the mile marker. He peeled off the compression shirt and threw it in the grass at the entrance of the mile loop. “I'm so fucking hot,” he complained. “Fucking compression bullshit.”

Jeez, he cusses a lot. Like a lot.

“Increase pace,” I barked.

“Oh my God.” He kept up with me, but his feet were stumbling and his body was breaking down. He couldn't catch his breath. His face showed strain and deep concentration with each step. He was really feeling the burn. Mark ran like a naturally competitive athlete, like he didn't want to lose to me so easily.

We made it to the mile-and-a-half mark and were already running at a six-minute mile.

“Increase pace,” I said.

He huffed and heaved, gasping. “I can't do it!” He kept up with me for another few steps, then stumbled to a stop.

I slowed down and called over my shoulder. “Meet me at the start. Keep jogging in the loop. I'll turn around when I’m done and jog the other direction to meet you.”

He waved to me and picked up his knees as if to jog.

I took off and regained that extreme pace, not knowing if my joints could make it, but I was sure going to try. I hadn’t felt this good in a long time. It had been a hard year of adjusting my body to its new limits before I was able to reach this level again.

I buckled down and hit the two-mile mark with a surprising amount of energy, then pushed through to the next pace. The end was in sight. My energy was flagging, but I wanted—needed—to prove to myself that I could compete at this high level. It’s not like I was an old man, but it wasn't every day that I had this much energy. I pushed myself as hard as I could, using every trick in the book. I convinced my legs to move, to take that one next step.

My legs were so thirsty for oxygen—so thirsty for a break. Just one more step, I growled, lying with every breath. There were hundreds of steps left.

I came up behind Mark in the last hundred meters.

“No walking!” I yelled between gasps of air, which sounded like a growl. “Run, you fool!” I yelled.

Mark glanced back at me and started jogging. When I passed him, he tried to sprint to keep up with me.

“God damn,” he said. “You’re a fast fuck.” He caught up and passed me, then looked over his shoulder with a boyish grin and laughed. “I'm going to win!” he crowed.

I pushed on the accelerator, dipping into an extra reserve of energy I didn't know was in me and kept abreast with Mark. He looked surprised to see me. But I was the runner and he was the gym guy. I should have been able to leave this overly-muscled bro in the dust even if he was fully rested.

We thundered to the end. Mark said he won. I called it a draw.

Then I leaned over with my hands on my hips and gasped for air as Mark picked his compression shirt off the ground. I pulled my tank over my shoulders and felt the sweat flooding out of my pores.

I directed him to walk through the mile loop again. “We should walk and cool down, then jog to stretch out the muscles.”

He kept wanting to talk, but I didn't have the energy and still needed to catch my breath.

“You're, like, a real runner,” Mark said.

“Not so much anymore.” I felt light-headed. “That was the hardest workout I've had in years.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

“I have an autoimmune disorder. I'm finally managing it, but it's been a rough couple years since college…. College was when I did most of my running.”

“Oh, I'm sorry man. Sorry to hear that.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. It is what it is. I changed my diet and with my medication and therapy, I've been managing my energy. The symptoms come and go unexpectedly. Leaves me tired. At least I can run again. I really missed it. This is one of my favorite things to do.”

“That's good to hear.” He hesitated, then fell silent. We walked the rest of the way back to the pavilion. We didn't jog—I couldn't do it. Then I directed him through the stretches again. Finally, we leaned back and cooled off in the shade.

Mark didn’t put his shirt back on. I put mine on as soon as my chest was relatively dry because I wasn't comfortable showing off so much skin.

“So what are we going to talk about?” Mark asked awkwardly.

“Now we're going to talk about you. You're Mr. Grumpyman who showed up here with a chip on his shoulder. What's got you so tied up?” I punched him playfully on the shoulder. Jocks liked that sort of thing, the physicality.

Why did I do that? Don’t be weird.

“It's my paper. Due tonight at midnight and it sucks. I'm gonna fail the class.”

“Is it written?”

“Technically. But it's shit.”

“Then what are you doing here? You should be polishing it.”

“I know, I'm just so overwhelmed. I can't think about it anymore. I spent all week and some of the weekend working on it.”

“Some of the weekend?”

“Yeah, I had a gig, couldn't get out of it. It was good for my career, but that’s not an excuse.”

“Wait, you have a career? But you're here on a Monday, during the day. And you're taking classes at the college?” Something isn't adding up.

“Yeah, I have odd hours. I'm a model.” Mark offered that revelation casually, like he was commenting on the weather—as if everyone knew that models worked odd hours and had stringent demands on their time.

I think my eyes bugged out of my head. “A model? Like in a Macy's catalog? Or like with the runways and catwalks and flashing bulbs?”

“Like the flashing bulbs type model.”

I looked at him. He was, I guess, what you would call conventionally handsome. His face was youthful when he smiled, yet perfectly symmetrical when he was serious. His cheekbones were pronounced and his chin was perfectly proportioned. He had a skinny nose that ended in a little point and eyes that, once again, were perfectly symmetrical and amazingly blue. His entire face was easy to look at. I could understand why he was a model. He also had a very athletic body.

I didn't know what to say. I had never met a model and I couldn't stop laughing.

“You can stop laughing now.”

“I'm sorry, it's just so funny. When we met last week I made up a character for you in my head. And one of the chief concerns at the top of the list was 'pretty people problems'. And here you are, exactly that kind of pretty person. Even I wouldn’t have guessed you were a male model.”

“I know. And I had a big fashion event this past weekend—”

I laughed deeply... it was so unlike me—uncontrollable and uncomfortable. I think that laugh was what you could describe as a guffaw. The way he said 'fashion'... it sent me over an edge that there was no coming back from.

Mark ignored me. “And my paper is going to be shit.”

“Don't be so negative. I'm sure it'll be fine.” I wiped away the tears from my eyes, trying not to dissolve into another fit of crazy laughter.

Fashion...

“You don't understand, my professor is an ass. He’s a stickler for details, and he won't give me any slack. I don't know what to do with this guy.”

“Hey, I am technically a tutor.” I finally had some hard-earned free time to work on my novel, but I had a friend in need. So I could be flexible. And it was summer... so of course I was going to blow my spare time. My novels could wait, like always.

“I thought you were a writer?”

“It doesn't pay the bills. I have to tutor and take odd jobs on the side. I'm willing to take a look at your paper.”

“I don't know, man, I think it's too little, too late.”

“Hey man—dude—bro, I'm offering to lend you my assistance. And I'm a professional writer. I think you should probably accept my help. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth.” I wiped the remaining sweat off my forehead and was finally cool enough that my scalp wasn’t sweating. That was when I usually started my voice-typing.

Mark was skeptical. “Yeah... I guess. Seems a little weird though, doesn't it? Us just meeting and all that?”

“Yeah, I never met anyone in all the times I've come down here and typed. No one ever approached me and called me crazy for talking to myself. I had all my arguments lined up so if anyone made fun of me, I would know how to get out of the situation, but I never had to use them. Not until you.”

“You planned that conversation? Is that why it was so weird?”

“I plan all kinds of situations. I play them out in my head all the time. It's like an obsession with me. I think that's part of why I like writing so much. I get to make up whatever situation I want. And just write and write and write. It’s a blast.”

“But if you’re a fiction writer, what good will you be with my business class?”

“One of my college roommates was a business major.”

“And so…” Mark rolled his shoulders and turned his head from side to side. “What does that have to do with anything?”

I shrugged. “Paper due at midnight. Challenge accepted. Let’s get it done.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.” I snapped my fingers for emphasis. “Now, let's head out and go work on it. I don't have a change of clothes, though. Is it alright if we're a little stinky?”

“You want to come back to my apartment?” He sounded like a lost child.

You want to come back to my apartment?

“Not really, but it sounds like an emergency to me. Major surgery ahead. Why, is your place a mess?”

“No. But maybe give me a ten-minute head start.”

“No way, from here on out every minute needs to be accounted for. If you have a paper due at midnight tonight, you're working from now until the end. And I’ll be your coach. Got it?”

“Yes, boss man, I got it.” Mark raised his hand and sarcastically saluted me.

“That’s the right attitude. I won’t steer you wrong.”

He gave me general directions to his apartment. I told him I had to follow him because there wasn’t GPS on my phone, seeing as it was a flip phone.

We exchanged numbers. I told him that I didn't do phone calls or texting—only for emergencies (or for my mother). And that I preferred communicating by e-mail and would give him my main address when we got to his place and started editing.

He looked at me weirdly but left for his fancy car without further comment. I got in my pile of junk.

He didn’t have to look at me like that—I wasn’t a weird person. Well okay, I was kind of weird. But I preferred to use the term 'particular'.

I was particular about everything—it was either my way or the highway (or so I projected). But as particular as I could be, there was no doubt that I had an immediate, measurable comfort level with Mark. He might not have been the kind of person that I would ordinarily hang out with, but he seemed like a nice guy with a generous personality. He was a jock, and handsome, and had money, and probably a hundred other things that I would ordinarily hate about a person. But I got along fine with him. And he was clearly in need of something to cure his loneliness. Poor guy didn’t have any friends! I hadn't quite worked out the details of his backstory.

Why is he in this sad position? Maybe he’s recently off a bad breakup.

Whatever the reason, he was in a pretty sorry state. And like I said before, I'm a sucker for helping sad people.