Live for the Day by Sarah Masters Page B

shops so they’d make it to the movie theater on time. They’d always watched cartoons, then later, when they’d gotten older, action flicks where someone was always in the military. Funny how only Steven had realized their joint dream. Michael, well, he’d never found the courage to join up, not once he knew the dangers involved.
    The bus wobbled a bit—people getting off, Michael assumed—but he couldn’t see who they were as the door was on the other side. A few folks blended into the shopping crowd then disappeared as if they’d never been there at all.
    Bagel finished, Michael sipped his coffee, dreaming that Steven was getting off the bus and that once the Greyhound pulled away, Steven would be on the sidewalk. In his blues or maybe his combats—didn’t matter which, Michael got hard whatever Steven wore. The times—at night or in the early hours of the morning as he was just waking up—that he dared to think of Steven naked got him even harder. Still, no chance of seeing him like that for real, was there? Unless they went swimming or whatever, but he reckoned those days were long gone, belonging to their childhood where creeks had held more appeal than a proper pool.
    He loved those memories. Christ, they’d had some fun, hadn’t they?
    The bus snorted, bringing Michael out of his reverie and into the present. A hiss of air as the machine closed its doors, then the beast was off, peeling away from the town to continue its journey. It left behind a great cloud of dust, thick and opaque, obscuring those on the opposite sidewalk.
    Here was where Michael imagined Steven on the far side of that dust, staring over at the café as though he’d known Michael would be there. Big old smile on his face, hands occupied by duffle bags, head occupied by a cap, the sidewalk occupied by him —all of him, every last beautiful inch. Black hair, blacker stubble, skin tanned, eyes bluer than any others Michael had seen.
    A gust of wind rattled the café window, and Michael fancied it was trying to get his attention, to ensure he kept looking outside. The wind scooped up the dust, dragging it away, down the road toward the hills, leaving behind clear air and…Steven.
    Steven?
    Michael lowered his cup. It clattered onto the table, liquid spilling out to coat his fingers. That didn’t matter—nothing mattered except for the fact that Steven appeared to be out there, gazing across at him just as Michael had imagined.
    Was Michael going mad? It sure felt like it. He shook his head and closed his eyes for a second or two, thinking that when he opened them again someone else would be standing there instead. Just someone who resembled Steven, a guy Michael’s mind had convinced him was his best buddy. Yeah, there’d be disappointment, the gut-wrenching kind that always had him feeling lost and alone, but he’d have to deal with that.
    He opened his eyes.
    Steven wasn’t there—but he was standing directly outside the café window, gazing in at Michael.
    I’ve got to be dreaming, right? No way is he here.
    Michael resisted jumping up and going out there. His heart rate sped up, sending his legs to Jell-O, and his mouth hung open. He was aware of movement to his right—Sandy?—but more aware of the movement going on outside. Steven was smiling, shaking his head, then he walked to the café door.
    “Fucking hell…” Michael breathed.
    “Fucking hell is right,” Sandy whispered, suddenly right beside him again. “He’s back a darn sight earlier than usual, isn’t he?”
    Steven pushed the door open.
    “So you can see him, yeah?” Michael asked her.
    “Yep, I see him, and he’s coming right on in.” She laughed. “Steven, good to have you back. What’s your poison—the usual?”
    “Please, ma’am.” Steven didn’t look at her but at Michael.
    He approached the table, staring all the while, then dropped his bags to the floor. Michael snapped his mouth closed, rising to hold out a hand for Steven to shake.