[
Note: this is an entry in an "
exactly 750-words
" writing exercise.
]
"Well, Shit."
The man at the end of the bar, dressed in a Delta airline pilot's uniform, looked sharply at the guy in baggy shorts and a T-shirt at the other end of the bar. The younger man was well-muscled, but trim and deeply tanned. This was Los Angeles—they were in a bar inside an LAX terminal—and the young man was movie star handsome, fitting in this movie town. The man wasn't bad looking either. He was late forties, handsome of face and tall and slim of hard body. He was graying at the temples but he had a fine head of hair and a great smile, which he'd been turning on the younger man ever since the guy came into the bar and plunked a duffel bag down at the foot of the bar stool he slid onto.
"Troubles?" the man asked, watching the cellphone being lowered.
"I should've called her before leaving Costa Rica. Her agent says she's out of the country. Shit. I have a couple of weeks before I have to appear in Nepal. It was time to catch up with her life."
"Your girlfriend?" the man asked.
"I'm not the girlfriend type. No, my mother." The "no girlfriend" wasn't lost on the pilot. He'd thought maybe the guy was gay. He was hoping the guy was gay. The signs had been there, including glances of interest.
"Coming from Costa Rica and going to Nepal?" he asked.
"Yeah. Peace Corps. My name's Ryan," the young guy said, giving the man a smile. They'd been assessing each other since Ryan entered the bar.
"So, no one's picking you up? My name's Kirk. You don't have anyplace to be in the next couple of hours? No one to be with?"
"Nope, no place to be."
"Do you want to be picked up, Ryan?" Kirk asked as he moved down the bar. "Can I buy you a drink?"
"Sure."
* * * *