Chapter 2

It’s Sunday, and it’s after five. USA Departures is busy, but not a mob scene. He eats for free at the A&W—something that’s starting to show in the thumpable melon-shaped pot in the middle of his otherwise lanky frame—but the food court is the best vantage point in this part of the airport, so he grabs a coffee from Tim Hortons and sidles up to a seat at the rail. He sets his worn leather backpack, his trusty airport companion, on the table next to him, but he doesn’t dig through it; it’s not a day for doodling in the margins of library travel guides. Passengers rush, employees meander and gossip, police patrol, jade-carved Inuit people pose for pictures with passersby, and Henry leans back in his chair. He frees his hair from the ponytail the health department makes him wear, shakes the day out of it, and sits with his mane in his face, observing precisely nothing. He got up early, he worked a long day, and lord knows he loves Timmy’s coffee. It feels good just to sit for a minute and not have to give a shit.

Only after he makes eye contact with the light-eyed bulldog in the blue suit does he realize the guy must be walking in circles. He’s walked by at least five times and Henry hasn’t been sitting there ten minutes. Henry likes the look of him, and when the guy tosses off a little half smile, he cocks his chin in recognition. If the guy isn’t hoping to see it, he won’t, but if he is looking for Henry’s attention, he’ll know he found it. A couple minutes go by without another walk-around, and Henry figures it must have just been a fly-by flirt. Common enough in the airport, but people have places to be. He shrugs and takes a tug at his coffee just as the guy slides into a seat about three tables away. He’s got a combo plate from the Chinese place on a little plastic tray. He sprung for the egg rolls, Henry notices. Two bucks extra. An appetite on a fella’s always a good sign. The guy digs in with gusto. He’s hungry and he’s loving the orange chicken, quaffs from his Coke like a guy who knows thirsty, but he never looks away. Even as he licks his lips between bites, his eyes are locked on Henry’s, which Henry takes as a definite compliment from a white guy using chopsticks.

From time to time, Henry breaks away, like maybe he’s got more interesting things to be looking at. But people strolling by are blurs. The time doesn’t register any of the hundred times he glances up at the giant Bienvenue au Canadaclock, and every time he looks back at the bulldog, his eyes are waiting. Eventually he finishes his food, then moves his elbows to the table, weaving his fingers into a chin rest from which he continues to drink in Henry with greedier gulps than he ever brought to his Coke. Henry runs his fingers through his hair to brush it back from his face. He’s more “distinctive” than handsome—with his wide-set, narrow eyes and his cartoonishly prominent cheekbones; too round in the front where he used to be flat, too flat in the back where he’d rather be round—but the bulldog likes the look of him, and when he raises an eyebrow, Henry looks away, suddenly self-conscious. The guy could have strolled over and palmed his cock through his jeans and it would have seemed less overt, and according to the red rising to his forehead, less intimate. It should feel invasive, Henry thinks, except for the way that it makes him want to strip naked in the food court. Pretending he’s not wildly aroused seems rude. Certainly pointless, considering the way these jeans fit him and the way he’s got his legs spread, one foot on a rung of the railing, leaving no stone unturned. He’s hard and he wants the bulldog to know it. Not like he’s gonna do anything about it.

Or is he? Shortly, he gets up and walks the short distance from his seat to the trash can just behind Henry. They don’t physically brush shoulders, but his energy slams against Henry’s with an almost audible smack. He smells of vinegary fast food and sandalwood soap, traces of hair product and clean shirt, and Henry leans back in his chair. He hears the bulldog slide his plate into the rubbish bin, the slosh of ice in his cup, the light clack of the orange plastic tray onto a stack of others. These are all-day, every-day sounds to Henry, which adds to the sensation that this barrel-chested stranger has fused his personal space to Henry’s, mitigating any pesky get-to-know-yous. Henry wants to feel violated, encroached upon at least, but when he feels the bulldog start back towards him, it’s all he can do to stay in his chair. The almost of his proximity is more tantalizing than any shoulder brush or handshake—or hell, French kiss—could ever be. He moves past Henry, past the railing and out onto the floor of the terminal. Henry actually leans forward in anticipation, and the bulldog is taking the step that will, once culminated, dispel the illusion of connection when he turns over his shoulder to see if Henry’s still with him. He slides his eyes towards the men’s room, then turns his head and walks on. He doesn’t see Henry scramble from his chair, just assumes Henry is following him, and it is this assumption that pulls Henry across the floor and into the men’s room behind him. The bulldog acts as if he knows what’s going to happen, which, to Henry, makes resistance seem futile.