It was a brisk Thursday in January and, despite the breezy cold, the sun was shining. The contrast of the glimmering, melting snow against the radiant sunshine was a paradox of reality that I seemed to grapple with in my own daily life. I paused getting ready and my mind began racing, torturing my ability to focus. I snapped out of my lingering gaze and finished buttoning my trench coat.
Let me start by introducing myself.
Hi, I'm Ben and I am writing about this recent experience because it has given me a lot of pleasure replaying it in my mind and I would like others to share in that experience.
I am a good looking guy so my girlfriend tells me anyway, about 6ft, light brown hair, blue eyes with nice muscle definition and a hint of a six pack.
It was the wrong choice of swimwear, and I was headed back to the guest room to rectify that, when the cause of it all stopped me in the hallway. The new owner of our company had invited me to his country place for a weekend to discuss some details of a project we were working on, and it turned out there was a pool party included. But, not knowing that, I hadn't brought my suit. I had assumed this would be all business. So there I was, having to pick out a loaner suit from Thad, my boss, and I'd picked the wrong one.
"Hey, look at that," Ronda nudged Jerry. "I told you we could set the clock by him."
The bank's loan officer and new accounts clerk, whose desks were set side by side in the bank branch's lobby, were leaning into each other and marking the rapid progress of the senior teller to the exit door.
Ahh, the days of drifting down to the square after lunch and sitting around ogling the local Turkish Cypriot men and letting them ogle me until I got that certain look from one I fancied and took him up to my Lawrence Durrell-rented villa and let him vigorously, joyously, and noisily fuck my brains out on a lounger under the sun on the terrace overlooking the Mediterranean.
I had finally returned to the grounds of Oakton Park to scatter Luke's ashes.
We had spent the last two months of Luke's life in a small cottage in the grounds of the main house, and it had been Luke's wish that the grounds should be the final resting place for his ashes. I had wanted them to go somewhere that I could return to to mourn him. But in those last weeks he had been insistent. And I couldn't break the promise he had forced me to make to him.
"I think he's signaling to you, sugar."
I'd stopped to talk to the two guys who regularly positioned themselves at the corner of 4th Street Northwest in Albuquerque and the alley in which I temporarily resided in a cardboard carton. I hadn't been there long following a relocation from Las Vegas and, although I'd found some work as a gofer on a high-rise construction project downtown, I didn't have near enough funds yet to rent a room—or even to have three squares a day.