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That’s when I spotted him. Banana boy. He was idly walking through the center aisle, his head slowly nodding as he read the different spines, most likely trying to decide which one he’d pick up. For some reason, I had an urge to peek into his thoughts, figure out what he liked to read, what he wanted to spend hours curled up with. Did he enjoy hard-boiled mysteries, or was he more of a romantic-comedy kind of guy? Did he like reading fantasy adventures or sci-fi rides through the final frontier? He turned into a section that blocked him from view.
I followed. It felt like some kind of primal pull, like there had been an invisible rope tied to the both of our waists.
The aisle he walked into was a dead end. He focused on a book with a hot-pink spine. He reached for it when I said, “Hey there, banana boy.”
He turned on his heels, eyes opened wide in surprise. “Oh, uh, hey, hi.”
It appeared as if I lit a match underneath his cheeks with how red they turned. “Nice show you gave earlier.”
“You’re lucky,” he said, finding his footing. “Usually it’s way more expensive.”
“Oh?”
He nodded before chuckling, a nervous sound that I wanted to drink up. We stood between two tall bookshelves that reached up to the ceiling. One wall held more books, their colorful covers facing us, adding a backdrop of rainbow to the man who smiled in technicolor.
“Just joking. I’ve never charged before,” he said before he added, “I guess there’s always a first time for everything, though.”
I laughed, the sound in the quiet space surprising me. “There certainly is.” I offered a smile to match banana boy’s as I reached up and flipped my hat, moving the shadows from my face. Tucked away in the back of this bookstore, I felt safe. I knew no one would be taking secret photos or throwing prolonged glances.
It didn’t seem like banana boy recognized me either, although he did seem a little taken aback when I flipped my hat. I saw a brief crack in his expression before he composed himself.
“This is my first time on a cruise,” I offered, wanting to keep the conversation going between us two.
“Really? You’re gonna love it. Soft-serve ice cream at any time of the day really makes any experience worthwhile.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
And to bumping into you.
“I’m Shiro Brooks, by the way. You can call me Shy.”
“Nice to meet you, Shy.” His smirk said he was a lot of things but shy. We shook hands, an action that felt much too formal for a man who I already envisioned naked with his legs wrapped tight around me.
I had to do a quick calculation just then. Did I offer him my real name, potentially handing him a key to figuring out who I really was? Or did I go the alias route, covering as much of my tracks as I could?
It was a choice that, if wrong, could really fuck up my time on the ship. A time meant for me to figure myself out and find a kind of peace and happiness I’d been missing in my life for a very long time. It should have been easy to lie to this virtual stranger, and yet, for some reason, his bright brown eyes convinced me that he was the most trustworthy human being on this entire planet.
“Nick,” I said, making a decision I could very much come to regret later. I reasoned with myself that I still didn’t give him my full name, but it didn’t take much of a leap to go from Nick to Nicholas.
“Nice to meet you, Nick.”
Our hands were still shaking. Barely shaking, but still connected. Through our palms ran an undeniable current. The hair on the back of my arm rose. I didn’t want to let go. I wanted to grab his hand and pull him to me. I wondered how he would feel against me, how different he would be compared to Cristella.
“Do you, um, like to…” Shiro looked around us. “Read?”
Our hands separated on a laugh. “I do, sí.”
“Are you from Miami?” Shiro must have picked up on my accent. Another clue I inadvertently dropped for him.
“No, I’m not.” More calculations in my head. I was always a bit of a risk-taker, and so the numbers landed on the “why not” side. “I’m from Spain.”
“Ohhh, a Spaniard.” Shiro looked me up and down. I did the same with him, taking a moment to actually admire him. The way he stood, with his legs slightly apart and his hands at ease by his sides. How he looked in his pressed khaki shorts, cut an inch above the knee, and how his thighs pressed against the hem. His shirt hugged him tight, too, showing off some of the curvature from the muscles underneath. He was a little shorter than me but still taller than average, with a build that made it clear he stayed fit.
