1985
He could not
avoid noticing him, since the café they sat in was so tiny with six small
tables and a lunch counter. He sat with
his breakfast at the next table, gourmandizing on one of the resident creative
variations on eggs benedict. Stephen
knew who he was. There could be no
mistaking. The queenie owner of the establishment
had already lisped out loud in his flawless French-Canadian accent “Hi,
Rafa-EL. I haven’t seen you in ages. It feels almost like years. Where have you been, DARLING!” Yes, he did look like Stephen, almost exactly
like Stephen, but for a difference in age by a decade or so. He couldn’t call him handsome so much as
beguiling. He had noticed him observing him
ever so discreetly, and briefly, through the corner of his eye. He wore black jeans a black pullover and a
dark grey sports jacket. His hair,
tending a bit long and slightly curling over the ears was peppered with a
little early grey, but flawlessly groomed.
His chin was accentuated by a campily sinister vandyke. Someone used to being held in awe, accustomed
to dominating and controlling, and so much like Stephen himself and yet unlike
him, absolutely unlike him. They sat
parellel, each facing the door. Stephen
struggled to think of something, to think of anything he could say. Maurice the proprietor saved the day as he
swished in like a performing drag queen and announced, “So talk to the young
man, already, Rafael, he is cute, after all.”
Rafael glanced
at Stephen and muttered sonorously, “Eres un varón guapísimo.”
“What language
is that?”
“Espanol.”
“Huh?”
“Spanish.”
“Are you Spanish?”
“I am from Argentina.” His English, though flawless, had a beguiling
lilt.
“And what did you just say to me.”
“Sois varon guapísimo.”
“Which means.”
“Sois muy bonito.”
“In English?”
“You are very good looking?”
“Because I look like you?”
“Me piensas que soy narcisista?”
“Huh?”
“Do you think that I’m a
narcissist?”
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