he just seems like such a good guy. He called today after work, just as I was about to watch an NBC Dateline episode about how everyone has gone carb crazy. We talked for a bit and he asked me if I wanted to meet up for dinner tonight.
I said, “Sure, that sounds like a plan,” tickled by the thought of seeing him again so soon.
After we hop into his Toyota Matrix, we dash off to Bertucci’s, my favorite Italian restaurant. Okay, it’s a chain-restaurant found almost everywhere in New England but Mikey doesn’t seem to mind. He is so easygoing. No fuss about where to go and what to do.
Fifteen minutes later, we walk into the red-bricked one-story restaurant in Harvard Square; the aroma of freshly baked dough fills every inch of this place, which is mostly frequented by families or students from nearby Harvard. It’s not the most romantic place, but hey, the food is good and so far so is tonight’s company.
The hostess escorts us to our table by a window that overlooks the subway stop and the trickle of cars on Massachusetts Avenue. Mikey pulls my seat out for me and I catch a trace of his cologne, a Tommy Hilfiger brand that smells of a clean powdery scent, like a newborn baby.
“You’re such a gentleman!” I compliment him. A brief smile flickers across his face as we both sit down at the wooden table for two.
He orders the pasta with chicken and sun-dried tomatoes and a nice cool Corona. I order the margherita pizza with chicken and Diet Coke, of course.
I ask him about his day and Mikey begins to describe helping a student at his school.
“There’s this one kid, super smaht but he can’t seem to focus. He’s been slipping in his grades. His teachah, Mrs. Berg, sent him to my office to find out what’s going on,” Mikey says in between sips of his cool tall Corona. The indoor lighting illuminates Mikey’s blue eyes more than usual, making them look turquoise, like two slices of a bright blue sky. “You wouldn’t believe what the problem was, Tommy.”
I put down my Coke and ask, “What’s his problem?”
“The kid hasn’t been getting much attention at home because his father has been working a double-shift at the Gillette plant. I figured it out because I had him draw a picture of his family and his dad was standing the farthest from everybody in the group,” Mike says, animated as he talks. His eyes seem to convey what he was thinking and feeling. Right now they show a genuine concern about this boy.
“When I asked him what he wanted most these days, the boy looked at me and said, ‘I miss my daddy.’ It broke my haht, Tommy. It broke my haht.”
“So what did you do?” I ask, just listening to him talk as I rest my chin under my fist like I was hearing an old short story during a reading group in elementary school. I like the richness of Mikey’s voice, the sincerity that comes through when he talks about work. I could listen to him all night. He seems like he truly cares about these students and I find that more compelling than his sweet blue eyes and cute face.
Mikey puts down his beer and continues.
“Well, I told him that if his daddy is working so much, it’s because he loves him and his family so much. He wants to give them everything he can. So I told him not to worry, that I’m sure his father will make it up to him, but in the meantime, he could focus on his schoolwork and bring up his grades and that would make Daddy proud. The kid said he would try harder. I told him I’d speak with his father and mother about what we had discussed in my office.”
“So you deal with that on a daily basis?” I ask Mikey, who orders another beer from our waitress, Candy, a Goth-looking college girl with nails the color of coal.
“Yeah, some days are busier than others with office visits, but other than that, I end up filling out a lot of paperwork and coordinating with the teachers about student files and their progress. Like I said, we sometimes provide the most stability for these kids. We’re their other home,” he says. “Anyways, enough about me, how was your day, cutie?”
I tell him about my interview today with a local Santeria priest who is trying to promote the religion in Boston and bring it out into the mainstream by performing more public ceremonies like on a beach, even during winter.
“This afternoon, the priest had a ceremony in his house to celebrate his twenty-second birthday as a priest. He offered apples, bananas, and other sweets to the orishas, or patron saints. You had all these followers kneeling and praying to the shrines and offering fruits and sweets as gifts inside his living room. It was quite a show but that’s what I love about my job, writing about old things in new ways or discovering new things about old Boston,” I tell Mikey, who again is completely focused on every word coming out of my mouth. I can see why students at his school open up to him. He’s a great listener.
“I knew a little about Santeria while living in Miami and how it has parallels with Catholicism but nothing on this level because it’s always been such a secretive religion. I want people in Boston to feel enlightened about what I write. I want people to feel like they’ve learned something new or feel enriched by reading this story.”
“Well, Tommy, I’d definitely read that story,” he says, mixing up his pasta and chicken and sun-dried tomatoes in his dish.
“Thanks. It runs next Sunday in the City section of the Daily. Um, I can save you a copy if you want? But you don’t have to read it just because I wrote it. I write articles every week. It’s no big deal.”
“Well, I want to see what you do. It’s obviously important to you that you moved up heah to keep writing. That’s wonderful. You’re the first reportah I have evah met and the cutest by fahr. You should be on TV. I’ll definitely buy your article,” he says, gently reaching out to my hand and tapping it. “You seem to like what you do, which is great, Tommy. I like that.”
After we finish up our dinner, we head outside and walk around the outdoor-mall-like Harvard Square and marvel at all the two- and three-story buildings that ribbon the crimson university.
The wind has died down and there’s fresh snow on the ground, making Cambridge look like a winter wonderland.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about you the whole day, cutie,” he says, his icy breath curling from the cold weather. We walk side-by-side on the brick-paved sidewalk by the huge Victorian estates on Brattle Street, just on the outskirts of the square.
“Yeah, me too, Mikey.” I glance at him and then look down at my snow-covered brown J. Crew shoes. Whenever I look up, I see Mikey eyeing me, studying my face. He’s probably never met a Cuban before or someone from Miami. I wonder what progress report he will write on me tonight!
“Cutie, seeing you tonight made my day,” he says as we approach his car.
“Ditto,” I answer back. Butterflies begin bouncing around inside my stomach when I realize he was thinking what I was thinking.
We arrive at his car and stand outside for a moment. I look around before my eyes finally rest at his blue ones, the kind that soothe yet stimulate at the same time. And then we both move in closer to kiss, kiss, and kiss some more.
We fall into a strong embrace, my nose tickled by his straight hair tucked behind his neck. He gently grips the back of my hips with his hands. And we kiss some more like two lips that don’t seem to want to let go. I want to invite him back to my place but I decide to hold off. When guys hook up right away, they lose something, a sense of mystery, a connection with the other person. I don’t want that to happen with Mikey so I’m trying to be patient. So it’s just kissing, well, at least for tonight.
He drives me back to my studio and we hold each other’s hands the whole way. My fingers rub the insides of his palm as it rests on the car’s gear shifter. He plays his Sheryl Crow’s Greatest Hits CD.
I hear her crow, “The first cut is the deepest…” as he tickles the insides of my hand in return and smiles my way.
Mikey parks in an empty space in front of my building and I can’t get enough of his sweet lips. I feel the slight stubble of