Chapter Text
On one occasion, he read in the unmistakable typography of the The New York Times that studies confirmed only 48% of employees in New York City felt comfortable with the idea of returning to the office, implying that nearly more than a third did not want to, often because of the monotony of in-person environments.
Offices where keystrokes sounded like music, their noise blending into the usual silence, clashing over and over against dull pale walls, synchronized with the almost nonexistent ticking of the clock; lukewarm coffee from an old neglected machine that diminished the flavor with every cup. All of it was an alienation of people, stripping away their essence and turning them into disposable products that generated nothing but more and more numbers.
A large percentage of people shared similar routines.
Everything was the same: the place where they spent most of their lives, their families, their jobs, their personalities. A copy-and-paste pattern.
The kind of life you could infer just by looking through the large windows of a building. Men doing the same work, dressed the same way, waiting for quitting time so they could return home to their perfect wives and live the life everyone believed every New Yorker desired. From that moment on, he knew that no matter what happened, his life would never end that way.
Whizzer Brown glanced sideways at the men beside him, imagining their lives as he strolled carelessly through the hurried streets of New York City. Step by step, monotonous men rushed toward their jobs like a flock of birds traveling without purpose. He smoked calmly, feeling the path of the cigarette through his body; with gentle pricks it left behind the memory of its stay inside him, a pleasurable burn. Unlike the workers, Whizzer walked in the opposite direction, occasionally bumping shoulders with them, chuckling under his breath whenever one of them seemed eager to start a fight, only to quickly back down after looking at a man far too attractive to bother.
He would never be like them. Instead, he had a different life. A free life.
Every day of the week was different for him.
The latest from Ralph Lauren: silk shirts in daring shades, soft combinations melting into one another to create elegant outfits. It was a reflection of his versatility, of how effortless it seemed for him to please others.
Perfectly smooth white trousers, lightly steamed from ironing, paired with a fine shirt in a shade of blue that emphasized the purity of the color.
People looked at him more than once while waiting to cross the street. He received discounts at his favorite stores. He loved being noticed, being desired.
Fabrics in unique colors perfectly woven into long coats with buttons sewn on with meticulous detail, seams made to be modeled. It contrasted with the tasteless gray that seemed to dominate clothing in the great city—just as bland as the smoke spreading through the air from his cigarettes or the tea he drank every day.
The new haute couture jacket collection smelled of pure elegance, though they were the same jackets that left the photographer without heating and surviving on cigarettes for breakfast, and sometimes lunch as well. Even so, they stood out beneath the streetlights, among the yellow taxis and the greenish leaves scattered across the streets after being blown around by the summer wind.
Leather heeled boots in a rich brown shade struck the pavement confidently, splashing tiny droplets from fresh puddles left by the morning rain.
The newest and most coveted cologne of the month—the one high-fashion magazines had declared the trend of New York City—left traces of its scent as he entered the large photography studio where he worked.
A building that remained rooted in the antiquity of the Upper West Side, managing to coexist with the modern era without losing its essence. Large windows adorned it, revealing the great city beyond them: avenues crowded with people living their own lives and following their own paths, chatting among themselves while walking their dogs or having breakfast at a café. A single piece of evidence of how diverse life truly is.
Whizzer walked through the company hallways, carefully minding his steps as he tried to keep the hot drink in his hands from spilling onto his expensive coat. The photography studio was usually chaotic. Racks of costumes and lighting equipment were pushed from room to room, not to mention models being chased by their makeup artists or the reception phones ringing nonstop because of how sought-after they had become.
At last, he found his coworkers in the department assigned to him. They were giving instructions in the middle of a photoshoot for the next cover of a high-fashion magazine.
“You’re late,” one of them muttered, shooting him an irritated look as he shoved the clipboard against his stomach. Whizzer didn’t feel intimidated; they needed him just as much as he needed them.
“I know, I got stuck in traffic. Remember the construction right by Amsterdam Avenue? Right there,” he whispered, trying to keep his voice from interrupting the clicking of the cameras or breaking his coworkers’ concentration. He slipped off his gloves with fluid movements, along with his sunglasses, concealing the fact that he had a terrible hangover. In reality, he had gone out partying after work and slipped away with some model. He normally didn’t drink alcohol because, to him, it was nothing but wasted calories or a shortcut to wrinkles, so despite having a decent tolerance, whenever his body was intoxicated to that extent, it punished him with the worst hangovers imaginable.
“The construction they finished a week ago?” the other replied flatly while barking out instructions on how the models should pose. Whizzer grimaced at being caught. He had the urge to bite his nails, but instead he quickly changed the subject, trying to salvage his reputation even though most people already knew his habits.
“So, what’s on the schedule today?” he asked with a sweet smile. “I’m doing the next section, right?” He tilted his head toward the model posing nearby while sipping his tea, calmly savoring the delicate herbal infusion.
“They assigned you another job.” The man mimicked his smile, pointing with his pen at Whizzer’s name and the task listed for the day. Whizzer didn’t bother looking at the paper. He knew he was the best photographer out of all of them and always delivered the finest results, so instead he focused on returning the smiles the passing models gave him.
“Alright, what is it? Some fashion editorial?” he asked, stepping closer to a nervous coworker behind the camera preparing the next shot. Whizzer adjusted the lighting until he found the perfect balance, earning himself a quiet word of thanks.
“No. It’s for a bookstore opening.”
“What?” He finally looked at the woman in front of him, unable to believe what he had just heard, carefully examining the paper.
“They asked for one of the best, and the agency sent you. Isn’t that wonderful?” she mocked before walking toward another set.
“They can send whoever they want. It’s not like it’s important enough for me to go. Come on, they won’t even notice me there,” he pleaded, following after the employee while dodging camera flashes in every room they passed through.
“It’s already decided. Take it or leave it. Besides, that’s not up to me, Brown.” Whizzer looked at her with pleading eyes, sensing the envy in her gaze and conveniently ignoring it.
“Come on, it’s not that bad. There’ll be important authors signing books, and it’s a huge company.”
“Switch shifts with me, and I’ll work the next holidays for you,” he argued. It was foolish of him to bargain like that because even though he was the star among them, his work didn’t come close to matching the pay he received. The company he worked for kept most of the profits, leaving the talented photographer exploited and begging for scraps of recognition. Whizzer knew this, but he kept convincing himself to endure a little longer until he found the right connection to get out.
“Did you know it’s the first branch opening in the city, and it’ll be right here on the Upper West Side? It has a children’s section, a book-lending service, and even a café. All the nerds are losing their minds over it.” She tried to cheer him up, showing him a section of that day’s newspaper where a massive line of people could be seen waiting for the doors to open in front of a large building covered with signs reading Coming Soon and cheesy promotional photos.
“I’d rather work on something that actually conveys a message, not just some place everyone will forget about in a few weeks,” he continued complaining, refusing to change his mind.
“It’s the only option. They already sent the whole team and some assistants too. All you have to do is show up.” She finished by handing him a sheet with all the necessary information and patting him on the back before walking off to strike up a conversation with another photographer working for a luxury brand.
_____________
He tried to lift his spirits by giving himself a motivational pep talk, convincing himself there would be another opportunity to capture garments of different textures, colors, and shapes.
It was all pointless. He would never forget that betrayal; it made him feel useless.
With strands of hair falling into his line of sight, he glanced from one side of the street to the other as he drove. He was, without a doubt, a good driver. He wore helmets even if they messed up his hair or ruined his outfit, and he always yielded to impatient drivers or clumsy pedestrians. Still, the city was often chaotic because of the endless traffic, so he had gotten used to maneuvering through it this way.
To him, New York City was a busy, overcrowded place where something was always happening on every corner. That was why he rode a motorcycle; it seemed far more practical than a car. He could weave through endless lines of traffic and save on gas, not to mention that it made him look irresistibly attractive.
He was a modern man, always changing with the trends, the seasons, or whatever the magazines were saying. He never stayed rooted in one place; he was constantly trying to improve himself, to escape monotony. He knew when to leave, when to run, understood perfectly the steps required to end things that had already been completely drained dry—things that had become dull and flavorless. The mere idea of being trapped somewhere, of having his freedom questioned, terrified him.
He didn’t believe in men, nor in the words they spoke, nor even in all the love they claimed to feel. The truth was that Whizzer himself could easily pass as one of them. The only difference was that he didn’t like lying about what he wanted. If all he desired was a fleeting connection through carnal pleasure, he made it clear, even if the other person begged for his love. If romance itself were a crime, Whizzer would need a very good lawyer.
He fled commitment the same way someone runs from a wave they know will eventually drown them. He imagined himself in a dream, running through the city away from a wedding chapel, the wind racing across his body as he escaped everything he hated, always coming out victorious.
He ignored the scars on his hands. Cuts scattered across different places, each one born from a different reason—memories he did not want to revisit, memories he chose to ignore over and over again. He avoided studying his reflection in the mirror and losing control of himself, smashing the glass into thousands of fragments that reminded him of his imperfections, shards piercing into his skin in crimson proof of his hatred.
Having skipped breakfast because of the hectic mornings he had long since grown accustomed to, an unstable cigarette hung between the fingers gripping the gears of his motorcycle, and he took a deep drag at every red light. At the fourth stoplight, he paused, once again tormenting his lungs with the bitter taste of tobacco. He glanced ahead of him quickly, the green light signaling permission to continue on his way. This time, lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t look to either side.
He had only moved forward for a few seconds when he heard tires screeching against the pavement, desperately trying to brake.
Without thinking twice, he slammed on the brakes, trying to steady himself by dropping one foot to the ground, oddly relieved to notice his cigarette had survived the process. He looked to his side to find the source of the sound, his heartbeat still pounding loudly in his ears as he struggled to calm himself.
A man was sprawled across the ground beside a bicycle. He quickly sat up in embarrassment, lifting his gaze until it met Whizzer’s eyes. The photographer had never felt so much fear in his life—nor such immediate interest in someone at the same time. He shoved his motorcycle aside and rushed toward him, regret written all over his face, silently praying to anything that the man wasn’t dead.
“Are you okay?” He extended a hand to help him up once he was standing in front of him.
“Do you have some kind of mental deficiency? You almost killed me,” the stranger snapped from the ground, his trembling voice doing nothing to hide his anger. But the moment he looked at the man’s face, his heart instinctively began pounding wildly in his chest. It was rare for a man to strike him as that cute, especially when he didn’t even fit his usual type. He looked over the stranger’s messy appearance: a pink helmet he was struggling to pull off his head, pretty wavy hair, and a deeply furrowed brow. Of course, Whizzer would’ve preferred if that expression looked different.
“I’m sorry.” It was all he managed to say while a smile slipped onto his lips. Men didn’t usually speak to him that way. He knew the stranger, like many others before him, found him attractive; he could tell from the flushed cheeks and the stammering.
“Oh, you’re sorry? You forgot the traffic laws,” the man shot back loudly, his sarcasm sharp as he pointed at the motorcyclist while glaring up at him, rubbing at his knee. “Do you think this is more important?”
The stranger snatched the cigarette from Whizzer’s hand, tossed it to the ground, and crushed it beneath his shoe with resentment. Whizzer watched it die slowly on the pavement with visible sadness.
“Okay, that was rude,” the photographer replied.
“Reminder. You almost killed me.” His hair finally came free from the helmet, the waves only emphasizing his miserable luck.
“I wasn’t actually going to kill you. At worst, it would’ve just been a couple broken bones from the fall,” he joked, searching for even the slightest hint of amusement from the stranger. The plan failed completely. If anything, the man looked ready to leap on top of Whizzer and strangle him.
“Actually, I had the right of way,” Whizzer defended himself after his charm failed him, gesturing toward the traffic light that was still green while stubbornly maintaining his smile for the other man. He really did think he was cute, but if the guy was going to be that unkind, Whizzer at least had to preserve some dignity.
“You could’ve checked if someone was crossing. This was my lane—you’re in the bike lane,” the stranger argued, gesturing animatedly toward the entire section of the street designated for bicycles. Ignoring Whizzer’s offered hand, he pushed himself up alone and dusted off his clothes.
“Yeah, I’m really sorry. I didn’t notice,” Whizzer apologized again, making an effort not to laugh at how irritated the man looked or how disheveled he was.
The cyclist was about to answer, but Whizzer interrupted him. “Still, it wasn’t your turn to cross either, so it’s not entirely my fault.”
“I could’ve crossed just fine if a motorcycle had been driving at a reasonable speed, but you came barreling through like this was a highway. Do you even realize how many traffic laws you broke? I could call the police.” He stepped closer to the photographer, cheeks burning as he pressed a finger against Whizzer’s chest. Despite having to tilt his head up to meet his eyes, he seemed surprisingly confident.
“I think we’re getting a little more worked up than we should be.” He gave the other man a chance to introduce himself, but all he got in return was a resentful stare.
“Why don’t we just calm down, take a deep breath, and talk this through peacefully?” He searched for the easiest way to soothe him when, in reality, he only wanted to calm him down long enough to get his number. He had to take advantage of the situation somehow.
The cyclist opened his mouth with an incredulous expression, clearly ready to fire back, but his ringtone interrupted him first. He held up his index finger to signal he’d be gone for a moment. Whizzer immediately took the opportunity to study him carefully, already planning the fastest way to get him between his sheets. He listened as the man muttered apologies into the phone, checking his watch over and over again. Once the call ended, he walked back over.
“Be more responsible when you drive. Next time you could cause a real problem, and your pretty face won’t save you,” he scolded, putting his helmet back on before glancing anxiously at his watch again.
“You think I’m pretty?” Whizzer asked, searching for any excuse to prolong his stay.
“You’re lucky I have to go. I’m going to be late because of you.”
“If you’re in a hurry, I can take you wherever you need to go—as an apology. I promise I’ll follow every traffic law this time,” he added, trying to squeeze a few more minutes out of meeting him. He flashed his best smile while running a hand through his hair, deliberately showing off his beauty.
The other man glanced sideways at him while adjusting his glasses. He climbed onto the bicycle that was still lying abandoned on the ground and, with a look of complete disgust, answered:
“No.”
He pedaled a few times before settling into a steady pace, only to make it a few yards before crashing directly into the sidewalk planters again. Whizzer hurried over, covering his mouth with one hand to suppress his laughter as he tried to help him, but the cyclist shot him an irritated look that clearly warned him not to get too close.
“Don’t be childish. Let me take you—I’ll be quick,” Whizzer offered again, having completely forgotten about the job he was supposed to be doing.
The other man thought once more about every possible consequence of getting onto a stranger’s motorcycle and, with immense reluctance, nodded.
Besides, being kidnapped by a man that angelic probably wouldn’t be so bad anyway.
“Okay, I can do this.” He tried to encourage himself by bouncing lightly on his feet as if he were stepping into a boxing ring. Beside him, Whizzer sat elegantly on his motorcycle, patiently waiting while smoking a fresh Marlboro. He didn’t mind spending a little more time with the man.
The curly-haired stranger climbed onto the back of the motorcycle, squeezing his eyes shut with shaky courage. Whizzer positioned himself to drive, pressed the gears, and only seconds before taking off, he felt his passenger climb right back off.
“I can’t,” he muttered in terror, burying his hands into his own hair in despair.
“Take your time.” Whizzer laughed softly, smoke slipping through his teeth.
“I don’t have time,” the other man snapped, shooting him an irritated grimace that Whizzer answered only by raising his hands as if he were being arrested. “Do you think I’m overreacting?” the man finally asked before sitting down on the curb nearby.
“No, not at all. The first time can be terrifying,” Whizzer tried reassuring him from above. “But I’ll go slow and careful.” The second the words left his mouth, he burst into laughter.
“I don’t understand,” the other replied in frustration, his raised eyebrows making his misery painfully obvious.
“Sorry. Look, just take a deep breath and don’t overthink it.” Whizzer hopped off the bike, offered the man a hand, and helped him back onto the seat.
He started the motorcycle and, without warning, accelerated much faster than anyone riding one for the first time could reasonably handle. He heard the man behind him cursing in terror.
“I’m going to throw up,” he muttered with his eyes squeezed shut, his stomach twisting violently. He prayed he wouldn’t end up vomiting all over the man while simultaneously trying not to cling too closely to the driver, though his fear forced him to wrap his arms tightly around him anyway. He swallowed back screams every time they rounded a corner and grew more irritated whenever he heard the photographer laughing mockingly.
“You promised you’d go slow,” he shot back, his voice shaky as he tried to catch the breath he’d lost from screaming.
“I thought you said you didn’t have time.” Whizzer laughed as he felt the other man’s hands gripping his waist tightly.
“I hate you.” The man, throwing a tantrum, smacked weakly at him, though the blows disappeared uselessly against his clothes.
They sped through the avenues of the Upper West Side, weaving between elegant cars and the classic yellow taxis that streaked past them. Tree leaves cast shifting shadows over their heads beneath the midday sun while the wind played recklessly with their hair escaping their helmets.
After following the directions the stranger shouted between stoplights, Whizzer parked outside a small daycare decorated from the entrance with summer-themed ornaments, leaving behind the crowded streets for the calm of the neighborhoods. The stranger hurried ahead with awkward, nervous steps, then stopped and turned back toward Whizzer reluctantly.
“I shouldn’t thank you because technically it was your obligation to help me after what you did. Still, it was a nice gesture, so thanks.” Standing in front of him, he held Whizzer’s gaze and gave him a huge but awkward smile, all teeth on display. Whizzer laughed.
“Actually, all of this was entirely self-serving.” He smiled while pulling a pen and paper from his shirt pocket. He genuinely believed getting what he wanted would be easy, just like every other time some stranger willingly handed over their contact information.
“What?” the shorter man exclaimed, horrified by the sheer audacity. He knew exactly what Whizzer meant. Just because he was absurdly handsome didn’t mean he was allowed to be an idiot. He glanced anxiously toward the entrance of the school, realizing his friend was waiting there, visibly confused to see him arriving with a stranger. He grimaced at the entire situation.
Part of him screamed to do it—to run away right then and there with the motorcyclist. It would be incredibly stupid to reject a man that perfect, even if the man only wanted him for a little while.
“I’d like to get your number.” Whizzer flashed his bright smile again. Of course, he had no intention of giving out his own number. That would mean risking endless calls begging for his company.
“I don’t give my number to pretentious strangers. Sorry.” That was all that came out of his mouth, even though deep down he already regretted it a little. Still, he loved the expression on the other man’s face. Now it was his turn to laugh; Whizzer honestly thought it was a joke.
“What, do you have a boyfriend?”
“I don’t have time for boyfriends. And especially not for manipulative men who probably don’t even have jobs and spend every night out searching for some idiot willing to believe their lies.” The words spilled out with complete authority before he could even process what he had just said.
Whizzer nearly choked on the smoke from his cigarette, coughing in shock as he prepared to answer.
“I think the real reason is your bitter personality, your old-man style, and your Leia complex,” he shot back smugly while climbing off his motorcycle and walking slowly toward him until they stood face to face. Whizzer had to lower his gaze to meet his eyes.
“My what?” the man continued the argument, cheeks burning so intensely he couldn’t tell whether it was anger or infatuation. His hands had turned sweaty, and his entire body tingled from having the photographer standing so close. He half believed someone was secretly filming them and that he’d end up on the cover of some magazine as the gossip story of the week.
“Leia complex,” Whizzer repeated without breaking eye contact.
“That’s not a thing,” he whispered, feeling the man’s breath against him and his own heart hammering uncontrollably in his chest. To him, it was absurd that someone would use a stupid movie like Star Wars as an example.
“Yes, it is. And you have it.” He laughed arrogantly before turning away from him. He was annoyed. Whizzer had gone out of his way to drive him there, and the man had still acted ungrateful. Now he didn’t even have money left for breakfast because it would all go toward buying more gas. He watched the other walk away with tense shoulders and loud footsteps, only for him to suddenly turn around and plant himself in front of Whizzer again.
“Still, it was a pleasure.” He left a pause, clearly waiting to hear the other man’s name.
“Whizzer Brown,” he answered reluctantly. The man offered his hand, and Whizzer accepted the gesture.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Brown. I sincerely hope we never run into each other again.” He pulled his hand away quickly, hiding the fact that merely touching Whizzer had made him nervous. Before Whizzer could even attempt to respond, he turned around and headed toward the entrance of the daycare.
“We will!” Whizzer shouted after him.
Whizzer couldn’t have been more bewildered. That was the first man who had ever rejected him.
Maybe the guy was just like all the people Whizzer watched spilling out of those massive office buildings every day.
Boring.
It didn’t matter. There was no point wasting any more thought on it.
___________________
“Who was that?” the woman waiting for him at the entrance asked desperately, dying to know what had happened. Standing on her tiptoes, she tried to get a better look at the man on the motorcycle.
“No one, Delia,” he scolded, grabbing her arm to pull her inside. Unwilling to move, the woman stiffened her body and planted her feet firmly against the ground, still trying to watch Whizzer as he casually slipped his helmet back on.
“Oh my God, he’s gorgeous.” Cordelia bounced excitedly, trying to fully take in the mysterious man who had brought her friend there on a motorcycle—the most attractive man Marvin would probably ever speak to.
“Don’t look at him.” He shoved her inside the school.
“Who was he?”
“An idiot who almost killed me,” he muttered in a borderline psychotic tone as they walked toward the small theater inside the daycare. It was a tiny place where only a handful of children were admitted each year, completely covered in cheerful colors and miniature versions of everyday objects.
They reached the darkness of the small theater and realized the performance had already started. Marvin gestured for his friend to stay quiet while fixing his crooked tie. The curly-haired woman guided him down the stairs, still trying to squeeze every last detail out of him.
Marvin was part of that percentage of people who lived similar routines.
But having a nine-to-five job didn’t automatically mean living a completely identical or meaningless life. His life revolved around managing the family business he had inherited after his father’s death. For Marvin, it had been frustrating. He hadn’t been prepared to say goodbye to his father, nor to take charge of something he had always kept his distance from. Everything had happened too suddenly.
In his late twenties, he had just gotten married to his best friend, Trina, after an unexpected pregnancy. They spent months dealing with morning sickness and searching for the perfect paint color for the baby’s room, assembling cribs, and reading parenting magazines. Yet after one sleepless night spent talking about everything and nothing at once, sitting together in their improvised apartment overlooking the vastness of New York City while eating ridiculously cheap pizza, they realized the whole thing had been a mistake. So, a few months after their son was born, they divorced by mutual agreement, celebrating with a bottle of champagne the moment they walked out after signing the papers.
They were a family, yes—but a family in their own way, and nothing would ever change that.
As a result, four years later, Marvin had become something like a single father with two lesbians as his son’s godmothers and an ex-wife married to her former psychiatrist. Fate worked in ridiculous ways. Stupid fate.
“What?” his companion asked, shaking her head in confusion.
“I’m serious. He’s some idiot biker who was driving in the bike lane and almost ran me over.”
“Why were you riding a bicycle?” She tried not to laugh at the impossibility of imagining her friend exercising.
“Long story.” He kept his eyes on the floor so he wouldn’t trip over his own feet while climbing the stairs, hearing several people shushing them during the performance.
“There has to be more to it than that. Come on, tell me.”
“It’s not important.”
“It is if he made you this late.”
“It’s stupid.”
“You’ll have to explain that to Jason,” the woman snickered. Some of the parents glanced at them irritably while others openly cursed them as they squeezed past the rows to reach their seats. One parent shamelessly hissed a loud *shhh* at them. Marvin looked straight at him and, without an ounce of shame, mimicked the sound back at twice the volume. It left the man horrified.
“I’ve been really busy lately, remember? Today’s the big day,” Marvin tried to excuse himself as he settled into his seat, though Cordelia merely listened while shaking her head.
Jason’s other parents, Trina and Mendel, were busy that day and couldn’t attend the daycare recital celebrating the start of vacation, so even though Marvin had plenty of things to do, he had still found a way to make it there.
With a sigh, he sat back in his chair, and as if under a spell, he forgot everything that had happened. He forgot the stupid motorcyclists, the lack of time, and the business that never stopped stressing him out. His eyes swept across the stage crowded with children, each one dressed as either an animal or a flower, searching for one small boy dressed as a lion.
Finally, he found him hidden behind a giraffe and an elephant.
Unlike the children dancing excitedly to celebrate the arrival of spring, his little boy stood completely frozen onstage. Marvin did everything he could to make Jason notice him. He raised his hand and waved, feeling a sharp ache in his chest when he realized his baby was seconds away from crying.
The child’s eyes widened the moment he spotted his father, overflowing with excitement. His trembling pout and watery eyes melted into a small smile that lit up his entire face. Shyly, he began dancing among the cardboard trees and dim stage lights. Marvin watched him lovingly, pride filling his tearful eyes. Beside him, Cordelia recorded everything with her old camera, dented around the edges, smiling so softly that faint wrinkles formed around her eyes. She never missed a special moment. She always said it was important to preserve memories, even if her recordings came out crooked or her camera got lost almost every single time.
“You did so well, Jase.” Marvin opened his arms to catch his son as he ran toward him. He lifted him up and covered his face with little kisses, feeling his soft wavy hair—identical to his own—while Jason laughed and clung tightly to his father. The man knew the child had barely danced and that none of the steps he attempted matched the actual choreography. He knew he had spent more than a hundred dollars on a little costume his son would probably only wear once. Still, Jason was shy and rarely spoke or made friends, which was why Marvin had never imagined he would willingly perform in front of an audience.
“I was scared,” he whispered into his father’s ear like a secret, resting his head against the fine fabric on Marvin’s shoulder.
“I know. I’m here now. There’s nothing to be afraid of anymore. You were very brave, you know that?” He gently stroked the boy’s head, comforting him the same way he did whenever Jason was afraid of the monsters living in his closet or whenever he spotted an insect.
“Love you,” the child replied with a small laugh.
When Jason was born, Marvin couldn’t even begin to describe the terror he had felt. His relationship with fatherhood had always been complicated. He had never learned how to be a son, and because of that, he was certain he would fail as a father. Yet the very first time he held Jason, he felt the tiny heartbeat pounding against his chest, the warmth of the baby’s breathing on his shoulder, and those miniature fingers clutching at his shirt.
In that moment, he understood that no matter what the world had planned for them, he would protect and love his son no matter what songs he sang or what path he chose to walk. Jason would always be his greatest reason to stay alive.
He remembered staring at his tiny features at dawn after a sleepless night, recognizing parts of himself in him and feeling utterly amazed by someone so small.
They decided to celebrate with ice cream. Frozen yogurt, specifically, because whenever Jason ate regular ice cream, he became impossibly hyper and ran everywhere trying to burn off the energy. They walked peacefully through a few streets, chatting about the stories Jason watched in cartoons or Cordelia’s new recipes. They took short steps to stay beside the little boy, who was still dressed as a lion because he had refused to change clothes. Marvin knew convincing him would take forever, so he chose to indulge him instead, only gently scolding him whenever he stopped to growl at strangers.
They passed the old café decorated with colorful plants where Marvin had first met his best friends, then Jason’s favorite park, where they went every Saturday to practice baseball, and finally his favorite breakfast restaurant for the mornings he didn’t feel like cooking. On several walls, bright red posters were scattered throughout the streets, all advertising the same thing: Bookstore Opening Soon, accompanied by playful illustrations and reading-related slogans.
“The Earth weighs 5.972 trillion tons,” Jason rambled enthusiastically, stumbling over a few words while repeating facts he had learned from the television programs his father liked to watch. Marvin listened attentively just before turning the corner and finally seeing enormous red letters announcing the name of the bookstore.
His life.
The very thing he had spent the last three years working tirelessly toward. In only a few hours, it would open for the very first time.
He looked at the line of people waiting for the doors to open with happiness swelling inside him. At the entrance, he had personally arranged book garlands that spread across the building like vines, and covering the large windows was a curtain made of pages filled with writing. That specific decoration had attracted countless curious customers and plenty of publicity.
They entered through the back door to check the final details: the authors’ arrivals, the photographers and journalists, book-signing schedules, how many discount coupons would be handed out, whether everything in the café was functioning properly, and the final electrical adjustments.
He liked his life, even if to some people it might seem boring compared to all the possibilities in the universe.
He wouldn’t trade away anything he had built. He wouldn’t trade his family or the small relationships he had nurtured, even if they carried fractures and imperfections. They were his, and he knew they were flawed, but he didn’t care. That was what love was about—loving despite the imperfections.
And perhaps his life had always been destined for quietness. Nothing truly shook his world. No one and nothing cared enough about him to try to change it. Like a sea filled with waves that came and went joyfully while, deep beneath the surface, endless loneliness remained.
As he cut the ribbon during the grand opening, surrounded by the people he loved, smiling toward Cordelia’s camera while Jason hugged him tightly, he ignored the crowds entering through the doors and the reporters surrounding him.
In those few moments of pure happiness, only one thought crossed his mind.
Nothing was ever going to change his world.
__________________________
Whizzer needed a cigarette.
From the very moment he arrived at the bookstore, they buried him in work—especially considering he had shown up late because of his stupid attempt to flirt with a single father, while some of his assistants had already started taking photographs. Everything from capturing the store from different angles to documenting the attendance of countless authors. Even the constant clicking of cameras was stressing him out at that point.
“Take care of this,” he muttered to his coworker, gesturing toward the cameras with his finger. He slipped his hand into the inner pocket of his blazer in search of his cigarettes, but a small tap on his shoulder interrupted him. It was his coworker, pointing toward the signs forbidding exactly what Whizzer was about to do. The photographer let out a frustrated growl and started searching for somewhere he could go unnoticed without actually leaving the store. At the end of the hallway stood a door labeled Authorized Personnel Only. After checking to make sure no one was around to ruin his plan, he slipped into the storage room.
He lit his cigarette quickly, surprising himself with how impatient he was feeling. He ignored it, unwilling to overthink things, and took a long drag, savoring the relief of the nicotine.
“Meow.”
He heard the tiny sound behind him and immediately wondered how a cat had managed to get inside the place. Slowly, he turned his head without exhaling the smoke from his mouth.
To his surprise, it wasn’t an animal at all, but a child sitting atop a large box while eating ice cream, despite it clearly being forbidden inside the establishment. He was dressed in a lion costume, and Whizzer assumed that explained the performance. He stared at him for a second, barely holding back a laugh, though not before stepping a few feet away to blow out the smoke and put out what little remained of the cigarette. He might break some of the store’s rules, but he wasn’t irresponsible enough to smoke near a child.
“Shouldn’t you sound more like a lion? Like this.” The adult imitated a lion’s roar with ridiculous seriousness, immediately embarrassing himself in the process.
The child repeated stubbornly the same sound.
“Well. You’re right. You’re a cub, so your version actually makes more sense. Forgive my ignorance.” He laughed at how stubborn the little boy was, which somehow made him a hundred times cuter.
“So. Isn’t it dangerous for you to be back here?” He assumed the child had wandered away from his parents and that chaos was probably unfolding outside because of it. Not wanting to scare him, he tried to be subtle about getting him out.
“Did you know the Earth weighs 5.972 trillion tons?” the child replied with a huge smile. This time Whizzer let out an open laugh.
“No, I didn’t know that.” He figured the kid had heard it somewhere and memorized it, but it was adorable all the same. “It’s really fun out there. Don’t you want to go take a look?”
The child shook his head and held out his dessert toward Whizzer as an offering.
“No, thanks.” He smiled brightly. Then he reconsidered. It looked way too good, and besides, he hadn’t eaten a single thing all day. He glanced at the cigarette lying on the floor and remembered how empty his pockets were. “Well…” He stepped closer to take the dessert, immediately regretting it the moment he processed that he was about to steal food from a child.
“Actually, never mind.” He awkwardly backed away.
They stood facing each other in silence, their eyes locked. Seconds passed with nothing but uncomfortable blinking filling the room. Finally, Whizzer broke the silence.
“So, do you work here? I mean, this is an Authorized Personnel Only area.” He made air quotes with his fingers, and the little boy shook his head.
“Are you the owner?” He laughed at his own joke.
Whizzer pushed himself away from the boxes he had been leaning against, searching for some idea that might convince the child to leave without forcing him. He had always been good with kids. Surely it wouldn’t be impossible.
He sat down beside him with a big smile, and the child copied him. Curious about the camera hanging from the man’s neck, the boy pointed at it.
“You like it?” Whizzer laughed, slipping it off and placing the strap around the child’s neck. The camera was clearly too heavy for him, but he accepted it triumphantly anyway. “If you press this button, you can take a picture.”
The child followed the instructions exactly as he was told. He aimed the camera at Whizzer with determination, struggling not to drop the thing. The photographer pulled an exaggerated funny face, and a second later the flash exploded across his features. Whizzer then showed the child step by step how to look at the photo he had taken, and the little boy let out an adorable “Wow.”
The picture was awful. Completely blurry, and Whizzer—despite being naturally gifted in the looks department—resembled some kind of Chernobyl disaster experiment. Whizzer burst into genuine laughter.
“You might just be the next Mapplethorpe.”
Side by side, they shared a small laugh together. Suddenly, the door burst open. Both of them jumped at the loud noise.
“I only let go of him for one second, Trina, I swear, and he vanished.”
The source of the commotion finally appeared.
The same man Whizzer had almost run over walked into the room with a phone in his hands.
Marvin found himself face-to-face with Whizzer, who, in a panic, pointed at the child while snatching his camera back. Still visibly confused, Marvin turned toward where he was pointing.
“Jason.” He let out a relieved sigh as he scooped the boy into his arms. “I found him, Trina. I’ll call you back later.”
Whizzer didn’t know what to do. The smartest thing would’ve been to leave the room and go back to work, but instead he stayed there, staring at the man.
He didn’t believe in fate or coincidences. To him, they were cheap little concepts people used to romanticize the disasters in their lives or make their boring existence sound meaningful. But finding this man again—the very same day, in a city as massive as New York City, among millions of people—made something in his perspective shift. Just a little.
“Don’t ever do that again. It’s dangerous. Someone could kidnap you, or you could get hurt, Jason.” He hugged his son tightly against his chest in search of comfort, his voice cracking inside the embrace. “You scared me so much.”
“It’s okay. It doesn’t matter anymore. Remember the breathing exercise Dr. Weisenbachfeld taught us?” he said nervously, holding Jason by the shoulders. Jason nodded.
Marvin began inhaling and exhaling three times, trying to calm Jason—or rather, himself. Whizzer watched the entire scene with amused fascination. Finally snapping out of his trance, he quietly started walking toward the door before Marvin noticed him again, but Marvin turned first.
“You again? Is this some kind of joke?” he let out a sarcastic laugh, hands planted on his hips in protest. “Were you trying to kidnap my baby?”
“I was going to bring him back. And besides, you know, a lot of people would be thrilled to get the chance to run into me,” Whizzer replied, crossing his arms while keeping his flirtatious tone, stepping closer to Marvin in a display of confidence.
“The last thing I wanted was to ever see you again.” Marvin stepped back, cheeks burning red as he grabbed Jason’s hand to leave. It was a lie. Ever since the moment he first saw Whizzer, he had fallen for him completely—though Whizzer’s personality had certainly forced him to reconsider that feeling.
“How rude.” Whizzer blocked his path, leaning casually against the door with a mischievous smile.
“Well, in my defense, my first impression of you wasn’t exactly great,” Marvin muttered under his breath.
“I apologized to you,” Whizzer insisted.
“You made fun of me,” Marvin shot back with a scoff.
“Would you like dinner as an apology?” he asked shamelessly, grinning as Marvin turned bright red and widened his eyes in shock.
“What are you even doing here?” Marvin abruptly changed the subject while lifting Jason into his arms. The child watched them both in total confusion.
“I work here. I’m a professional photographer,” Whizzer answered proudly.
“You’re the photographer?” Marvin asked, genuinely intrigued. Whizzer nodded with pride. “We urgently need you outside. Your team’s been looking for you for a while now.”
“We? need me?”
“You know what I mean.” His irritation became more obvious with every passing second.
“So you want to see me.” Whizzer raised an eyebrow.
“No. We needed to take some photographs. So the best thing you can do is get back to work.” Marvin gently shoved him aside so he could open the door behind him.
“And why exactly should I listen to you?” Whizzer continued provoking him.
“Because I’m your boss.”
“No, you’re not,” Whizzer scoffed.
“I’m the owner of this place.” He searched through his old-fashioned suit and pulled out a business card as proof, holding it up to confirm his statement.
“Oh.” Whizzer gave him a small smile and finally stepped aside to open the door.
_______________________________
Throughout the entire afternoon, Whizzer made it his mission to get Marvin’s attention no matter where they were, even from across the room. He greeted him with effortless charm and kept throwing him provocative glances that only irritated Marvin more. He constantly tried to strike up conversations with him, complimenting him with playful teasing.
Before long, he had met the chef from the little café in the center of the bookstore. She mentioned she was Marvin’s best friend, and their personalities clicked almost instantly, leading to entertaining conversations and free desserts. Whizzer no longer wanted to leave the place. Besides, Jason had been following him around all day, and spending time with him was surprisingly fun. The kid was a little strange, but somehow he and Whizzer connected.
Night eventually fell, and the store announced its closing time. Whizzer was still chatting with Cordelia, while a sleepy Jason had joined them, making the conversation even more entertaining. They sat together beneath the soft yellow glow of the lights, surrounded by the smell of cinnamon and the gentle music still drifting from the radio.
His team had already packed up the cameras and left some time ago. Whizzer, meanwhile, wandered through the bookshelves searching for Marvin.
“No. Forget it, don’t tell me what happens—I missed the last episode. When’s the rerun?” Cordelia complained dramatically.
“I think this Friday,” Whizzer answered. They were talking about the latest events in *The Sopranos*, sipping tea, and gossiping about celebrity scandals.
“You’re still here?” he heard from behind him.
Whizzer turned to find Marvin holding a briefcase, no longer wearing his blazer. He looked exhausted, trying to chase away his fatigue with a cup of coffee.
“Only because of you.”
Whizzer had never been the type to beg for attention. Still, something about Marvin intrigued him—or maybe he just desperately wanted to sleep with him.
He finished the lukewarm tea Cordelia had kindly given him as proof that she fully supported the possibility of her friend finally getting into some kind of relationship.
“Is it safe for customers’ well-being to have you working here?” Whizzer joked. Marvin shot him another look, though this time he was clearly fighting back a smile.
“Cordelia told me when your shift ends,” Whizzer added, lounging against the display case with effortless elegance. He pointed toward the woman, who instantly pretended she hadn’t heard a thing. Marvin looked at her with utter betrayal in his eyes.
“You waited for nothing,” Marvin replied irritably, dragging a hand across his face in frustration.
“The store just closed. New York City never sleeps, and I know a really good place for dinner. What do you say?”
“I’m not finished yet,” Marvin informed him, making a huge effort to hide the smile threatening to slip free.
Whizzer refused to give up.
“Really? My watch must be broken.” He held up his wrist for Marvin to see, revealing the lifeless watch strapped around it. Marvin laughed to himself. It was such an expensive watch, yet it didn’t even have batteries.
“You really didn’t have to do all this,” Marvin replied with an amused smile as he took Whizzer’s hand and guided him toward the bookstore’s exit.
“Just say yes to the date, Marvin,” Cordelia pleaded from the kitchen while Jason nodded along despite not fully understanding the situation.
“Goodbye.” Marvin paused to search through the pocket of his pants before pulling out a sheet of paper, pretending he had forgotten the other man’s name. Standing directly in front of him, Whizzer leaned closer to read it. Marvin skimmed through the staff list information. Whizzer silently scolded himself for realizing he had never even properly introduced himself. Finally, Marvin spoke.
“Goodbye, Mr. Brown.” He looked him directly in the eyes as he tilted his face upward.
“Call me Whizzer.” He tried to remain inside the bookstore, but Marvin pushed him completely outside.
“Goodbye, Wilson,” Marvin mocked. Whizzer, however, didn’t care in the slightest.
“Goodbye? But we've only just met.” He stayed standing in the doorway. Marvin smiled and shut the glass door. Cordelia shook her head at him in disapproval, and Jason copied her immediately afterward.
_
Whizzer later informed his boss that he would be taking the bookstore assignment for the rest of the week.