it?
Still, there was that grief from Tricia to consider . . .
“I’m Noah,” he said abruptly, making direct eye contact with the
man.
“I’m, uh . . . I’m Bart.” He glanced around uncomfortably. “And
it’s nice to finally meet you.”
“So, Bart . . . what do you do?”
For a moment, Bart’s face registered panic. Did everyone think he was a hooker? It was only when he realized that Noah was asking
about how he earned his living that he allowed himself to relax.
“Personal assistant. To an older couple.”
“Oh. Great.”
They sipped their drinks awkwardly, until Bart recognized that
politeness dictated he ask Noah the same question.
“And what do you do?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Oh.” Bart nodded. He had heard that line before; everyone in
New York who owned a computer called himself a writer, whether
or not they had actually written anything worth publishing. “Writer”
sounded vaguely professional, and interesting enough to supplant
the real wage-slave jobs they always held. In fact, hadn’t his onetime stalker claimed to be a writer? He thought so.
Another stretch of awkward silence followed, filled by the not-
too-loud music coming from speakers at the rear of the bar. They
each knew that they should fill the void, but neither one could
think of an appropriate topic. The coincidence of their repeated
encounters could only be discussed for so long.
It was Bart, finally, who not only broke the ice, he shattered it.
“Listen, Noah, I’m not a superstitious man, but . . . well, we keep running into each other, and . . . well, I’m running out of vacation days, so I apologize if this comes off as too forward, but I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner. Maybe tomorrow? Because I
have to leave on Sunday.”
There. That did it. Noah felt his heart race with the knowledge
that, through no direct fault of his own, he had put himself in a
place where—if he followed through—he wouldn’t be able to de-
W H E N T H E S T A R S C O M E O U T
77
liver. Nothing could possibly come of it if he went on a date with this guy, no matter how much he might want it to work. They would
just get started, and then Noah would have to leave town and re-
turn to his real life.
Bart saw the concern in Noah’s face and realized he had gone
too far. His dinner invitation was premature, but it really didn’t warrant the look on Noah’s face. He tried to joke his way out of it. “Is that a no? Because if it is, I’ll accept it before you scream for the cops.”
Embarrassed, Noah tried to shake off his apprehension.
“Do you always come on so strong?”
“You want to know the truth?”
Noah put a hand on his arm to stop him. “Listen, I’m sure
you’re a nice guy. It’s just that I’m not really in a place where I can date.”
“Well . . . I mean, okay, I can understand that. But I was just talking about dinner. One dinner.”
“No, it’s just . . .”
“Coffee? Would a coffee date be better? Less, um, commitment,
or whatever?”
Noah shook his head. “Bart, you seem like a really nice guy. If I
could, I’d like to get to know you better. But I’m only in the city for a few days, and it doesn’t make sense to go on a date when I don’t even know how long I’ll be here, or when I’ll have to return home.”
Bart laughed to himself. Given his own situation, Noah’s atti-
tude was certainly ironic.
“So, no offense, but . . .”
“None taken.”
“So you understand.”
“I didn’t say that . . .” Bart smiled. “Okay, yes, I understand.”
With that, he retreated to the back of the bar, alone again with his Corona, and Noah walked out to the hazy porch to retrieve Tricia.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“We’re more similar than I would have believed.”
“That’s good!”
“Uh . . . no. One big similarity is that we’re both just passing through town. He leaves the day after tomorrow, and so it really doesn’t make sense to
Still, there was that grief from Tricia to consider . . .
“I’m Noah,” he said abruptly, making direct eye contact with the
man.
“I’m, uh . . . I’m Bart.” He glanced around uncomfortably. “And
it’s nice to finally meet you.”
“So, Bart . . . what do you do?”
For a moment, Bart’s face registered panic. Did everyone think he was a hooker? It was only when he realized that Noah was asking
about how he earned his living that he allowed himself to relax.
“Personal assistant. To an older couple.”
“Oh. Great.”
They sipped their drinks awkwardly, until Bart recognized that
politeness dictated he ask Noah the same question.
“And what do you do?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Oh.” Bart nodded. He had heard that line before; everyone in
New York who owned a computer called himself a writer, whether
or not they had actually written anything worth publishing. “Writer”
sounded vaguely professional, and interesting enough to supplant
the real wage-slave jobs they always held. In fact, hadn’t his onetime stalker claimed to be a writer? He thought so.
Another stretch of awkward silence followed, filled by the not-
too-loud music coming from speakers at the rear of the bar. They
each knew that they should fill the void, but neither one could
think of an appropriate topic. The coincidence of their repeated
encounters could only be discussed for so long.
It was Bart, finally, who not only broke the ice, he shattered it.
“Listen, Noah, I’m not a superstitious man, but . . . well, we keep running into each other, and . . . well, I’m running out of vacation days, so I apologize if this comes off as too forward, but I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner. Maybe tomorrow? Because I
have to leave on Sunday.”
There. That did it. Noah felt his heart race with the knowledge
that, through no direct fault of his own, he had put himself in a
place where—if he followed through—he wouldn’t be able to de-
W H E N T H E S T A R S C O M E O U T
77
liver. Nothing could possibly come of it if he went on a date with this guy, no matter how much he might want it to work. They would
just get started, and then Noah would have to leave town and re-
turn to his real life.
Bart saw the concern in Noah’s face and realized he had gone
too far. His dinner invitation was premature, but it really didn’t warrant the look on Noah’s face. He tried to joke his way out of it. “Is that a no? Because if it is, I’ll accept it before you scream for the cops.”
Embarrassed, Noah tried to shake off his apprehension.
“Do you always come on so strong?”
“You want to know the truth?”
Noah put a hand on his arm to stop him. “Listen, I’m sure
you’re a nice guy. It’s just that I’m not really in a place where I can date.”
“Well . . . I mean, okay, I can understand that. But I was just talking about dinner. One dinner.”
“No, it’s just . . .”
“Coffee? Would a coffee date be better? Less, um, commitment,
or whatever?”
Noah shook his head. “Bart, you seem like a really nice guy. If I
could, I’d like to get to know you better. But I’m only in the city for a few days, and it doesn’t make sense to go on a date when I don’t even know how long I’ll be here, or when I’ll have to return home.”
Bart laughed to himself. Given his own situation, Noah’s atti-
tude was certainly ironic.
“So, no offense, but . . .”
“None taken.”
“So you understand.”
“I didn’t say that . . .” Bart smiled. “Okay, yes, I understand.”
With that, he retreated to the back of the bar, alone again with his Corona, and Noah walked out to the hazy porch to retrieve Tricia.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“We’re more similar than I would have believed.”
“That’s good!”
“Uh . . . no. One big similarity is that we’re both just passing through town. He leaves the day after tomorrow, and so it really doesn’t make sense to
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