Love’s Chances

Love’s Chances By Thomas Grant Bruso We met in the parking lot of Great Escape in Queensbury, New York, an hour before sunset. The hot air was the consistency of creamy soup, and my polo shirt clung to me like glue; I ran my hand through my short hair, and my fingers came away, sticky and damp. Under the boiling heat of a late August sun, I felt twitchy, waiting for Devon Ryder, the man I had been chatting with for a month from behind the safety of my computer screen. I checked my watch for the third time. I had only been waiting for ten minutes after receiving Devon’s IM to meet him in the parking lot. Packing my sweaty hands into my shorts pockets, I leaned against my old car, a 2010 blue Civic, my heart pulsing. Fifteen minutes later, when his light brown Volkswagen pulled into the congested parking lot, I popped a stick of Juicy Fruit into my mouth and mopped my brow with the back of my hand. I watched Devon reversing the car, driving it forward, and trying to fit it into a narrow spot between a large SUV and the monstrosity of a bumblebee yellow hummer. I stared at him with a commiserating look. He glanced over his shoulder and into the rearview mirror for any wandering pedestrians or other slow-moving vehicles. Two old-schooled dudes on a date, I thought, my mind scrambled from the heat and tension of the moment. Devon approached me, his skintight tee taut against his broad shoulders, his armpits stained, sweat glistening along his buff arms and I could hardly speak when he reached out to shake my hand. I envisioned his handshake to be as weak as his dry humor when we exchanged IMs: His deadpan delivery was oftentimes lifeless. “I want to walk around the world one day, but I don’t own a comfortable pair of shoes.” It was hard to judge someone from talking to them behind a computer. We shook hands. Surprisingly, his grip was firm. “It’s finally nice to meet the T.J. Alton I’ve been talking to online,” he said.