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OMG. I’d gotten over a thousand likes and close to fifty comments. There were also a couple of DMs waiting for me. The first one was a total scam, but the second one looked like a legit request to talk to me about sponsorship as an influencer. The third, though—holy shit!—was from the owner of the Mastiff, and he’d just sent it!
I swear, I just about peed in my pants. From terror or excitement, I didn’t know, but I had an overwhelming urge to shut down my phone and run out of the apartment. I didn’t, but I did close the message window and made myself take some deep breaths. Then I clicked on the message again.
Him: Hey! Are you the guy on the motorcycle who took this pic of my dog? I see so many people laughing when he’s looking out the back window, now I know why. I can’t thank you enough for taking this photo. His name’s Hrothgar, by the way.
Hrothgar? What kind of a name was Hrothgar? So of course, I had to ask.
Me: Phew. Glad you like it. I didn’t have a chance to ask if it was okay to post. Late to work. I added a shrug emoji. If you don’t mind me asking, how’d you come up with the name Hrothgar. I’d love to add that bit of info to the post if it’s okay.
I hit Send and waited. One minute. Five minutes. I got up and made myself a cup of coffee, then opened the pastry box and retrieved the galaktoboureko, which, thank heaven, had survived the ride home intact. I’d gladly donated all the other pastries to my coworkers, but this incredible combination of semolina custard and filo was all mine, and everyone at work knew to keep their hands off.
My first bite was nearly orgasmic, and I hummed around the fork as the silky smooth custard and sweet, crunchy pastry hit my tongue. I had no idea what flavor the Castellanos used, but it was heaven. I could taste vanilla, but there was so. Much. More. Than just vanilla in it. It didn’t matter because it was absolute perfection, and if I was going to bury my grief in sweets and get fat, this was the way I was going to do it.
Across the room, my phone dinged with an incoming message. As nonchalantly as I could, I put the plate on the counter, took a sip of coffee, and then strolled over to the couch and retrieved my phone from the coffee table. As if. I was lucky the plate didn’t break when I threw it in the sink.
Him: LOL. Hrothgar is a character in Beowulf.
Me: Beowulf? Is that like the story of a wolf who howls too much?
I got a crying emoji, a heart, a dagger, and a drop of blood in response.
Him: I teach Classics at Cal and specialize in Medieval and Renaissance Literature. I teach a graduate course on Beowulf.
I did a quick search of the faculty at Berkeley and discovered—hello!—one Professor Elliott Porter, who specialized in Medieval and Renaissance Literature and was, hands down, gorgeous in my entirely subjective opinion. And, at the moment, mine was the only opinion that mattered, thank you very much. He had sandy brown hair, a bit of a scruff around his jawline, and wore a classic tweed jacket in his faculty headshot, but it was the smile that had my heart beating a little harder, along with those incredible eyes that I had seen staring at me in his rearview mirror this morning. I wondered how those plush lips would feel against mine, what he would taste like…
Him: Did I scare you off?
The new message brought my brain out of fantasy land and my feet back to Earth.
Me: Got distracted. …by hoping that you’re gay, Professor Porter, but I wasn’t going to say that out loud. Or type it either. Truth, tho, now I feel intimidated. Professor, huh?
Him: I probably shouldn’t tell you I did my undergrad at Oxford, then.
Oh shit. I sent back the wide-eyed emoji. Nope. That’s fine. We all have to go to school somewhere. Shame you went to such a second-rate one, tho.
Him: LOL. What about you?
Me: What about me what?
There was a pause as the three “I’m typing” dots danced in front of me. Either he was typing a lot, or he was typing and erasing. A lot. I really hoped it was the former. When his message came through, I wasn’t disappointed.
Him: Well, I know you ride a motorcycle to work on Great Highway, which means you either live in the Sunset or further south. You wear black-framed glasses. And you take pictures of unsuspecting dogs and post them on social media without having them sign a consent form. [winking emoji] But I don’t know your name or where you work.
My brain just about melted into a chant of OMG. Stop being so cute. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Along with a single thought of, Paul who?
Me: I don’t know if I’m ready for that kind of commitment yet. And now the chant of stop it was directed at myself. But he had to be gay, right? Or bi? Or something in the LGBTQIA+ alphabet. Straight guys didn’t flirt, and we were definitely flirting.
Him: Too bad. I was going to ask you to meet me for lunch.
Me: Lunch? As in…
Him: As in…yes. A date. Confession: I’ve looked through your IG, and I’m intrigued. So a date. If you want.
But how did he know I was gay? And then I knew. I had a rainbow marriage equality sticker on the side of my bike. He must have seen it when I zipped past him in my panicked flight to freedom.
Me: I do.
Confetti showered across my screen. Great. Hrothgar will be so relieved. He was really worried you’d say no. He’s kind of insecure that way. He looks all big and tough, but he’s really a teddy bear. Beowulf walks all over him.
