“Dimas! Dimas!” Hunter yelled. He walked between two houses looking for signs of his lover. The vibrant green St. Augustine grass that each neighbor treasured and kept uniform in compliance with homeowners’ association rules revealed no footsteps, no trace of Dimas.
Hunter walked a block and a half and then stopped. Ida and Lenny’s house stood at the end of the cul de sac, with a field behind them that stretched almost half of a football field into pine trees in the far distance. The pine trees provided privacy between their gated community and the highway. On the other side, more expensive beach homes fronted the Atlantic.
He doubted that Dimas ran into the house. The last time Hunter saw Dimas he was running behind the homes, including Ida and Lenny’s.