Dancing in an Empty Train
The next time I met Rio, he was just another stranger on the train, standing, half-dancing in an empty car. I almost didn’t recognize him; in the café he’d been tiny, almost delicate, but standing, half-dancing to the iPod on his hip, he was taller than I expected, slender and very nearly powerful, with long muscles gently defined just beneath his skin. He recognized me, though, and I couldn’t mistake those eyes anywhere, or the smile that flashed across his face as he caught me watching him again.
“You! You’re the boy from the other night, at Hopper’s!” He walked over, taking out an earbud, letting it hang on his shoulder.
I laughed. “First time there. A friend of mine recommended it. I like it. It’s a good thinking-place.”
“Oh, where do you normally hang out? I used to go a lot back when it was called Phillies, but not so much lately. They started using this Brazilian coffee in the mix, and it’s nice and strong, but a little too harsh for me.” He bit gently at the corner of his lip, sucking on it. “Anyhow, I saw you playing pinball when you came in first. It’s really neat, because you don’t play with just your hands. You play with your hips, too.”
“It’s the only way to bump. You have to shove the frame around, but gently, so the machine won’t catch on and say Tilt.”
