low stakes

A long line at a crowded gay bar compelled me to strike up a conversation with the closest handsome stranger. I honestly don’t remember anything about what I said, what we were talking about. All I remember is five minutes later, kissing him. Giving him my number.
It was the going-away party for someone who was more of an acquaintance than a friend. I knew everyone there just enough to have some things to talk about with room to learn more, but no obligation to get deep. It was years ago, but I remember it as the perfect night. The stakes were low, but everything I put into it paid off.
Nothing is low stakes anymore. I long for small talk. I long for a kiss that feels good but weighs nothing. I’m tired of indexing my fears to recite to the closest people in my life. I check in on my sweet, handsome stranger sometimes, and I brace myself for his answer. I anticipate heaviness; he is over 70.


Location: Baltimore

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