I got that heart-in-my-throat feeling every time a stream of people passed the coffee shop window. I'd been obsessively checking the time on my phone for ten minutes so I knew it would be another five at least, but that didn't stop my excitement from rising when a crowd poured through the station in my direction. I thought the anticipation was going to kill me before Patrick ever arrived.
For the hundredth time that day I brought up the text message he'd sent me and reread it.
I'm coming back early. Can you meet me at the Starbucks in Penn Station at 7:30 tonight? I miss you.
My stomach tightened in excitement and I felt my fondness for Patrick surge again. His use of full sentences, correct punctuation, and capitalization even in text messages was ridiculously endearing, but it was the last sentence that my eyes focused on and held: I miss you.
Patrick and I had been seeing each other for a year: seeing each other and sleeping together nearly every weekend. It was an intense thing when we were together; the rest of the world faded away and we connected on a level that was almost overwhelmingly sensual, but within that intensity were unspoken lines we didn't cross. Those lines were mostly his.
He was a private person, not exactly unfriendly, but he maintained an emotional distance even with good friends. And, though handsome, his face frequently wore an impenetrable expression. He had a typical cop's stony stare, but just beneath that he was soft; compassionate and thoughtful, full of affection. However, despite the closeness we'd developed in the last twelve months, we didn't talk about us or try to give a name to whatever it was we had. I didn't doubt his attraction to me, or his respect, but I did sometimes wonder how deeply his feelings for me went. We'd never verbally agreed not to discuss it, but somehow I knew I couldn't come out and ask him.
There was the age thing too: he was thirty-four years older than me, a few years older than my dad—my dad whom he'd worked with for many years. I knew that bothered him to a degree, both the age difference and the fact that he knew my dad. It certainly bothered him more than it bothered me, and I think some of those unspoken lines were there because of his discomfort. I hadn't told any of my friends about him, so I guess whether I had reservations about the relationship or not, I was at least aware the gap between our ages was not something to take lightly.
I'd thought a lot about it, trying to figure out my attraction to him. I didn't think it was because of age. I didn't particularly find other men his age attractive, or at least no more attractive than men of other ages. There were guys in my classes who were cute and smart, but while I knew they were attractive, I wasn't hot for them. But with Patrick, there was real, intense desire each and every time I saw him.
I wished I could be more open about it. We rarely held hands when we were out, and though we'd kissed long and sensuously once, at the edge of Central Park, with people passing by, the only passionate kisses he gave me when we were out in public were at the street corner by my dorm where we were somewhat sheltered from foot traffic. There were times when my desire was so strong I thought about leaping across a restaurant table, throwing my arms around his neck and kissing him. And there were other times, my heart filled with admiration and love, when I felt like dancing in giddy circles around him. But I didn't want to make him uncomfortable.
I'd been to his office once, a few months after we'd started sleeping together. I hadn't even realized how high in the police ranks he was until I'd gotten to the floor where he worked and was asked by a doubtful, executive-looking woman if I had an appointment with Chief Santorini. I'd stammered stupidly, intimidated, but had given my name and waited while she phoned the office. A few moments after she'd replaced the phone in its cradle Patrick emerged from a side corridor looking a little confused. He hadn't hidden his pleasure at seeing me, but it was at that moment I realized how terrible it would be if he lost his coworkers' respect because they found out about his nineteen year-old lover.
I craned my neck as another surge of people filed past the window. Anticipation welled up inside me as I looked eagerly for even a hint of him amidst the travelers—his grey crew cut or maybe the shape of his broad shoulders in the dark blue overcoat he'd no doubt be wearing. When I finally spotted him, my chest expanded almost painfully with a sudden, giddy inhalation. His eyes zeroed in on my face through the window glass, his mouth stretching in a smile. I scrambled from my seat and out of the coffee shop, meeting him a few steps from the entrance. He immediately took me into his arms for a tight embrace and I happily pressed my face into his neck, breathing in his familiar scent, arousal flooding through me.
"Thanks for meeting me," he said. His voice was low and rumbling. I felt it vibrate through my body. "I hope it wasn't a pain."
He released me and stood back, picking up the bag he'd dropped at his feet in order to hug me. I shook my head, nearly bursting with excitement. "No, no," I said hurriedly. "I'm glad you asked. Why'd you leave the conference early?"
"The second panel I was on got rescheduled and we finished up this morning. So I ducked out." His eyes lifted and he took my arm and guided me gently toward the exit. "It was an exhausting week. I was ready to be done. You know how I hate leaving my routine behind." He looked at me and smiled a small smile.
"I do know," I said emphatically.
Patrick didn't just like his routine; he needed it. Or, at least, that's what he'd told me once. "After my wife left, my routine was the only thing that kept me going," he'd said. "The irony being that my routine, or rather my dedication to it, was a large part of why she left."
He worked and worked out five days a week without fail: arriving at his office by 7:00 A.M. and the gym by 5:00 P.M., getting home somewhere around 7:00 P.M.. Even if I hadn't been busy with evening classes and studio work he wouldn't have had time to see me during the week anyway, so when we got together it was on the weekend: almost always Friday; sometimes Saturday; and lately, the occasional Sunday. The fact that we were together tonight, a Thursday, was very unusual.
"And besides," he added, "I wanted to see you."
My heart skipped a beat and I drew a sharp breath.
We'd left the building and stood on 8th Avenue, both of us buttoning our coats against the cold. We stepped to the side as a crowd passed and I felt his hand touch my arm, just lightly, steering me out of the stream of bodies.
"Have you had dinner?" he asked.
"No, not yet," I said, still delightfully stunned by what he'd said. To be honest I hadn't remembered to eat. I'd been so distracted and excited by Patrick's text. I knew I should be hungry, but for some reason, I just didn't feel it.
