Liko Greenman doesn’t think of himself as an introvert. He likes parties. He’s not afraid to join a group he doesn’t know. He makes small talk easily and more than once he’s been referred to as a social tether—someone who becomes the mothership of your party mingling and you often make your way back to him or her, just to catch your breath, process, collect yourself. Liko digs being that person. A beacon of social safety. Come stand next to me. Join my conversation. Or just stand here and siphon off some peace.
But this dude… The man whom Liko doesn’t yet know is named Danelaw Strong… He looks at Liko once, just a glance across a crowded room with a pair of illegally blue eyes, and Liko introverts.
Panicked, if we’re being honest, he thinks. He retreats a few steps to the living room’s bookshelves. Pretends to peruse. Glances at Dane, who is looking at him. Liko looks away, puts his nose into a random book, and introverts further.
Weird, he’s not even my type.
Liko likes to be thrown around a bed if he’s in it with a man. Bears are his type. Dane is not a bear. In fact it’s pissing Liko off he can’t get a bead on this guy, and that he’s even trying to classify Dane based on body type slang is pissing him off more.
Dane stands in his circle of conversation, head turning from one person to another. He’s a short man, so his chin is tilted up. His sandy hair is buzzed tight and he pulls the extreme style off well. Dressed in jeans and a V-neck sweater. A beer in one hand, the other fingers tucked in his pocket. He looks at the person on his right, and he’s a poet. He looks the other way, and he’s a construction worker. He’s whip-thin and sparse, then he moves or turns or shifts and he’s all fit muscle. Unsmiling, he looks early forties, tired after a long day, feeling his years. Then he smiles and he’s barely out of his twenties, rawboned and bristling with energy.
What is happening? Liko thinks.
Dane’s looking at him with those ridiculous blue eyes. Liko is used to being on the receiving end of eye compliments. His own are an intense purple-gray. Honest-to-god Liz Taylor violet peepers. Dane is competition. His gaze and Liko’s are two bucks circling each other, each believing they are the fairest of all, and they ought to take it outside and decide.
Or upstairs.
Don’t panic, Liko thinks, looking away.
He can’t get words to stick to his reaction. His ex-wife would probably call it a trauma response.
Don’t be dramatic. You’re digging someone. It’s been a while. Enjoy it.
He can’t. This isn’t enjoyable. He needs to get back to a mothership but he has no tether. He looks at Dane across a galaxy, walking free in space, placing his feet on nothing, aware of time and gravity and vastness and how everyone is a infinitesimal, insignificant speck of dust with no control over anything. At the mercy of a conniving universe who likes to put her cheek on the heel of her starry hand while with the other fingers she moves two motes into place.
You. Annnnnd you. Say hello.
Trust me. I know what I’m doing.
Some people you meet do an effortless end-run around your psychological constructs (or worse, around your chemical ones). One encounter and they’re suddenly wandering the emotional hinterlands of your soul, where the line between sad and wretched, or happy and manic, can’t be seen with the naked eye. These damn people not only see everything, but they make you feel shit to your bones.
The stupidly blue gaze of this impossible twink otter construction worker poet is slipping under Liko’s skin and throwing arms wide to encompass his entire emotional spectrum, right out to the hinterlands and beyond.
Some call this love at first sight.
Liko Greenman calls it pump the brakes, you moron.
In his twenties, Liko would fuck this guy in the next five seconds. Liko is fifty-four now and knows it’s wise not to eat this proffered delicacy in one sitting. He doesn’t even have to taste it.
Fine, universe, you obviously have a plan. Noted. I’ll take it from here. On my schedule, thanks very much. Bitch.
And so Liko Greenman walks away from the party. Grabbing his jacket from a pile on a bed, he goes up the stairs and down the hall to its end, where he opens a door to the attic steps. From the attic he opens another door, climbs a ladder and steps onto the widow’s walk. A railed-in space of maybe five feet by seven feet, with two Adirondack chairs, a little table, and Huff Jensen’s telescope. He clutches the rail and shivers, butthole clenched tight. Behind his closed lids he sees a million shades of blue. He puts an eye to the telescope, looking for the Universe.
“What are you doing,” he whispers. “What is this? Who is he?”
The Universe just shrugs.
Nothing for it, so Liko sits down, reaches for his vape and proceeds to get really fucking high.