I rise early on a winter Saturday,
alone, the Red Line rattles north.
Last Thursday’s storm lingers—
snow clinging to curbs like an old regret,
ice glazing the sidewalks in brittle lace.
Ann Sather’s hums with warmth,
a golden refuge at the edge of Belmont’s frost.
Inside, the air is thick with cinnamon, coffee, voices
folded into each other like secret notes.
I lift a finger—
Gunther, tight white T-shirt, knowing smirk,
“Twenty minutes for a table… or the counter?”
A flicker, a wink—
or just something in his eye.
I shed my coat, scarf, gloves—
tuck them neatly, as my father taught me.
“We can’t afford to keep replacing them,”
he used to say.
And yet, I am always losing things.
I settle onto the stool,
jacket cushioning cold metal.
Across the room, near the window,
an older man—gray-haired, broad-shouldered—
sits alone, eating slowly.
There’s a quiet ease about him,
the kind that comes from knowing himself.
No book, no newspaper, no phone.
Just coffee, eggs, a steady gaze on the street outside.
My father could never have done this.
To sit alone in a café,
to take up space without apology,
to be at home in himself.
And yet—
this man, with no performance, no effort—
exudes a strength I have never known.
I wonder if he has always been this way,
or if, once, he too rehearsed conversations
he was too afraid to have.
When I turn back around, I see him—
a man, too beautiful to be standing in front of me,
black hair sculpted by effort or fate,
a pot of coffee in his hand.
A name tag: Dylan.
“Anything look good to you?”
Coffee spills, dark and steady, steam curling upward.
“It all looks delicious,” I said.
“Not the first time I’ve heard that.”
A wink, deliberate.
I flush. Stammer.
“I’m new… Just moved…”
“Hope we see more of you,”
he says, pivoting away.
My breath catches, a tremor in my chest—
not panic, but something close.
Surely, just kindness for a tip.
Dylan returns.
A Western omelet, one pancake,
juice to chase the coffee.
“Smart choice. Can’t ruin that cute figure.”
I glance sideways—
a couple locked in a battle over Chicago politics,
an old man moaning softly into his waffle.
No one else. Just me.
I pretend to read a left-behind paper,
a story of a South Side food shelf
offering hope beyond hunger.
But my gaze drifts—
to Dylan, to the others,
a silent ballet of white T-shirts,
sinewy arms weaving, hands brushing, laughter rising.
They move like currents, effortless, unthinking,
a language I do not yet know.
I am gay. I know this.
I have not said it.
I fear losing family, friends, home.
I fear it irrationally, but fully.
And yet—
in this restaurant, I feel closer to something.
The omelet arrives,
a bottle of ketchup offered like a secret.
I shake my head, smiling.
“Wow, you do smile.”
He grins.
“You should do that more often.”
Again, the flush.
I eat quickly, aware,
too aware, of being seen.
“Anything else?”
“Just the check. Food was… great.”
A pause.
“Hope we see you again… soon.”
That word, soon,
hanging like a note still trembling in the air.
At the register, Gunther smirks,
“Everything okay, sir?”
“Delicious. Great. Great and delicious.”
The words tumble over themselves.
He holds my card a moment longer than needed.
“Come back. Really.” A wink—real this time.
The check, folded.
A note, tucked beneath.
Dylan. A phone number.
A slip of paper, almost weightless, almost burning.
I glance back—his eyes meet mine,
a flicker of something before he turns away.
Outside, the cold bites,
but I walk lighter,
his name in my pocket,
a quiet ember against my palm.
I will tuck it away, press it between fingers,
rehearse calls I will not make,
sentences I will not say—
not yet.
Riding the train, a public service announcement
above the seat across from me
urges gay men to get tested for HIV.
The man in the photo looks so happy.
I pull out my gloves.
My father’s voice fades, distant now.
The pattern is fraying, stitch by hesitant stitch.
Somewhere in the city’s din,
in the flurry of heartbeats,
I can almost hear my own.
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