The Leanover.

After the show, I walked to the bus stop and I didn't see him. Inside the confines of the Empty Bottle, my body temperature rose. The impact of the brisk air outside wore off soon enough. Looking down Western, he finally spoke and asked if I was waiting for the bus. He gripped the headliner's LP in his hand and sat with his legs wide apart like most boys accustomed to take space on the bench. I said yes and he asked if I wanted to share a cab. I thought he was friendly and said yes even though the prospect of finding a cab on this corner this late at night did not bode well. Seconds later a cab pulled up with a young Black man driving. He looked at us, he looked at me and shook his head. Inside the cab, I tried to keep my distance even as I began to notice his features. He was my type and not: tall, skinny, vaguely alternative. His clothes hung off his lanky limbs. He seemed to drown in them. His hair was blond-ish and not short, which turned me off but then he said that what I said was "cool" and that turned me on. I hadn't realized I was talking.