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That same relief might be reflecting in mine.
Captain is one good-looking motherfucker.
3
Captain exudes an unusual power when he saunters across the room, a power that is somehow both commanding and humble. In his smart blue suit, fitted pants, and shiny shoes, he looks like the owner of ten casinos and a brothel in Las Vegas. I’d believe it in an instant if he told me he owned a snow leopard named Queen Delilah and three gold Ferraris. The glint off his watch as he cuts through the room winks at me like a knowing third eye. His smile grows the closer he comes.
As does his facial features, revealing his smooth tanned skin, a brownish-gray dusting of a beard—preened and shaped with meticulous attention—and a sharpness about his eyes. He told me before he’s in his fifties, but I wouldn’t put him past his forties, save for the modest bit of gray at his temples.
Honestly, I’m struck by how handsome he is.
Before I’m ready, he’s in front of me. “Zak,” he greets me at long last.
His voice is smooth as butter, deep, and strong. Yet his eyes are friendly and curious, putting me at ease at once. Well, they’re trying to put me at ease; deep down, I’m a permanent wreck. “Captain,” I greet him back.
He gives a brief glance at the other blue-suited man. “I didn’t anticipate someone else wearing—”
“It’s alright.” I shrug. “He was … polite.”
The gruff other man gives me a sneering look, as if overhearing that with ease, of all things.
I give my captain hat a tug. “I wore the outfit.”
Captain smiles, at last peeling his eyes from mine to get a look at my attire. “You sure did wear an outfit,” he agrees, nodding slowly as he wrestles away a smirk of amusement.
I lift an eyebrow. “An outfit …?”
He smiles endearingly. He looks so handsome when he smiles. Then he lowers his voice, leans in, and says, “That isn’t what you wore our first show.”
I blink, stunned. “What? Yes, it is. You asked me to be a captain, remember? Captain Zak? I—”
“You didn’t own a captain uniform that first show,” he then reminds me.
I open my mouth—and that’s when the truth of it hits me like a pretty bird crashing helplessly into a window it should have seen. It’s true; I didn’t own a captain uniform that first show when he asked for it. I had to order one that night. I didn’t wear the outfit for him until our second show. Instead, for our very first show, I wore—
“A crisp white dress shirt and blue tie,” I recall.
He smiles, watching the memory crash over my face like an ocean wave. “Blue … like my suit.”
I glance around the room, feeling self-conscious suddenly. And I never feel self-conscious. “Well … your request makes … a lot more sense now.”
“Are you embarrassed? Zak, don’t be. No.” He finds that funny suddenly. “No, no … You are the envy of this room, believe me. The envy.”
“Is that so?” I keep glancing around.
“Yes. That is very much so.”
Something in his tone pulls my eyes right back to his, like an anchor.
He smiles, then gives me a satisfied moment of appreciative observation. “You look rather smart in a captain’s uniform, even without the sleeves.”
I study his expression. “Yeah, well … ‘envy’ or not, I’m fairly sure everyone in here thinks I’m an escort.” I eye him. “Your escort.”
He shakes his head. “Let them think what they want. It’s not important.”
I find comfort in his eyes. Is this really the guy I’ve been talking to all these years? Is this really him, standing in front of me? It all feels so surreal. “It’s not important,” I agree mildly.
“Can we take a seat somewhere?” he suggests as he glances around. “Perhaps in the lobby? I … I pictured our first meeting a little differently than this, if I’m being perfectly honest. I’d like a chance to prove to you how super normal and harmless I am in person.”
I give him another onceover. I always imagined what it would be like to meet him, and here it is, and it’s nothing like I imagined. I thought through so many nightmare scenarios that are completely superficial and shallow, such as meeting him and discovering he’s frighteningly unattractive, or looks like he lives in a cabin by a swamp and cooks his dinners in a cauldron. I imagined his face covered in pus-filled warts, or his eyes to seem harsh, or for his voice to be snippy and conceited. I’ve thumbed through a mental book of possibilities of what he might be really like.
I was prepared to have to “appreciate” him, despite how he appeared in person. But I also told myself it wouldn’t matter what he looked like; I’d still have a form of genuine love for him, the love you give someone you appreciate and respect, the love you have for someone you might admire.
