I lean to and kiss him again, his hand sliding off my arm as I pull away. I grab my clothes and drape them over me, his eyes following me, his hand reaching for his growing cock.
Smiling, I pull my zipper up.
“Next time, Abel... Next time.”
* * *
The evening sets in quickly.
Cars zoom in and out, but only a few people walk into the bar.
The temperature is pleasant, and the air is a bit crisp, reminding me of the real fall and my childhood home up north.
“It’s a quiet Friday,” I say, my fingers brushing the cold glass.
“It must be the weather,” Scottie says, running his hand over the table, brushing off invisible crumbs.
I glance at the window.
Drops of rain stain the glass like silent tears.
“Food?”
“Yes.”
“Same?”
“Uh-huh. Add a side of fries and pickles.”
“So you’re back for good,” he says, his lips arching into a smile.
“What do you mean?”
He lowers his eyes.
Of all the people working here, he knows me best.
“Uh... You mean... I'm a regular again,” I say, smiling.
He nods.
“It’s because I like the food...” I say.
He lifts an eyebrow, staring at me incredulously.
“No, no. It’s really good,” I argue.
“I wasn’t talking about the food.”
Hmm.
I guess it wasn’t that hard to figure out my new obsession.
As of late, I have come to Jill’s religiously every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Nine o’clock sharp.
I always occupy the same little booth by the window and spend most of my time staring at the mysterious man who also happens to show up regularly but never walks inside.
Very few people have tried to approach him, and they have seldom been regulars.