Column VIII: The Benefits of a Friend

I had just left my DL trade. 

In a week, I’d managed to fall for the chaos of Niko’s shattered text messages, his mood swings, and those midnight bored cravings.

Today, though, Niko craved me at noon. Right there in the harsh daylight of my bedroom, we did what we always did, many rounds stacked into a few fleeting hours. I was caught off guard seeing him under the sun; I was accustomed to our hidden, overnight affairs, fed by the constant hum of his horny texts at all hours. By the next day, his line went completely dark. But I barely cared, because someone else was already on his way.

Micky was my favorite contradiction, hot and cold, shooting through my life like an arrow. We were close friends who were completely indifferent about the benefits we craved, trapped in a fresh intimacy that reminded us both of a feeling we’d been desperately missing.

I took the L to the Q down in my favorite black boots to meet him. 3pm came way too quickly, which meant I was already my usual 30 minutes late for our 2:30pm agreed meeting at Penn Station.

I was an anxious bubble of eagerness and sudden shyness. Every dirty, reflective surface in those subway tunnels caught my eye. I completely ignored the boys winking at my ass and the girls staring at my soft arms. Between every reflection, I made slight adjustments: combing my hair a different way, loosening my denim skirt, unbuttoning another button on my white tank top. On that power walk, I felt a surge of pride in my own skin and my blossoming feminine features. I caught one last reflection, winked at myself, and the….

“Oh my god!”

I slammed headfirst into a towering frame and a massive piece of luggage. And I got furious.

“Watch where you’re go-”

“Micky!”

Before he could finish, I threw myself onto his six-foot-two dark-skinned frame. I slid my arms across his broad shoulder blades, hooking my thigh right into the small gap between his legs. His dark, narrow eyes jumped at my subtle move, his brow bone tensing up, even as his hand slowly found its way to the small part of my back, rubbing me lightly.

“That’s a big ass bag for two days,” I teased, tugging playfully at the suitcase.

“I got it,” he grunted, snatching the bag from my grip and hoisting it effortlessly with both arms. I bit my lip, watching his biceps strain.

“Lead the way, Ms. New York.”

Up and down, all through the MTA, Micky trailed behind me. He watched my quick movements as I navigated the tunnels with ease. He tried to act as if the bag wasn't heavy and putting strain on his back, but I knew the sign immediately: a man trying to impress a woman by performing manhood. I was no stranger to walking with my head held high in any situation, especially when someone I was violently attracted to was close behind. Micky kept his eyes wide on my gentle softness and the bounce of my curls.

During the entire ride, we acted like an old married couple: barely speaking a word. The quiet, unsaid charge between us was contained tightly on the train. Without putting it into words, we both hoped those feelings might just fade away if we ignored them long enough. We had missed each other terribly and couldn't quite comprehend why, so instead of being real about how we felt, we kept silent on the Q and the L. Under the desert-like afternoon sun, we maintained our dry spell all the way back to my apartment.

Three heavy flights of stairs up, I studied Micky’s laboring legs and heavy luggage. I could tell his body was fighting him; his physical fatigue was running parallel to his mental fatigue, turning him into a salt shaker. I’ve never liked salty things, but mhm, the sweat glistening on his arms made my dry lips water and my own sweat evaporate. Lost in my daydreams and examining him in all the right spots, we reached the top landing.

Micky suddenly lost his grip. His bags hit the concrete step right in front of me, leaning back dangerously against the platform edge. In a flash of pure instinct, Micky grabbed me by the front of my shirt—and the luggage went tumbling down the stairs.

“Micky!” I gasped.

My favorite yellow shirt with the white floral print had ripped right down the front.

“You should’ve just let me fall!” I cried, clutching the ruined fabric. “I can recover, but my shirt never will!”

Micky just stood there, looking back and forth between his scattered bags down the stairwell and his baguette bag obsessed friend, clearly wondering if he'd made the right save.

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