I found myself asking Dave back to my place, for a drink, small talk, a reason to keep the conversation alive, and him close to me.
His presence in Oakville recalled a time when life was simpler, happier, and more worthwhile—most of it, anyway.
I was testing him, teasing with my choice of words (“What does a man have to do to get some decent company around here?”), reeling in the bait as unwavering, fast, and cleverly as I could.
Although, when we got back to my apartment, something in Dave’s charming demeanor turned dour from the easygoing man I had met earlier that night. I heard the click in the back of his throat; he made it when he was anxious about something, had a hard time to come right out and say it, or when he felt vulnerable, cornered like a caged animal.
“I need a drink,”
