Liam Dennehy

Nothing is on tonight. You have scrolled until the feed repeats itself, and the apartment is quiet in the way of a Friday that has already ended. You have loved this your whole life: the films where a stranger wakes up in a mirror, the threads at two in the morning, all of it. The page says vessel.cards and has a wheel on it. You pay because you do not believe it, and you spin.

Then you are sitting. A bench is under you, wood worn smooth, and your forearms rest on your knees. Daylight comes through tall windows, which feels wrong for how late it was a second ago. A water bottle sweats on the concrete by your shoe. Your breath is heavy and hot, and you stop pushing it through your teeth. Your heart is loud in a chest that is not yours.

You stand. The body comes up easy and long, and your head sits higher than you expect. Your hands find the bar a little wider than a hand would choose, and the metal is cold and knurled. Something opens.

It is the hoodie, though you are not wearing it. It is a memory of it, the navy one, pulled off the chair this morning in a dark rowhouse room. The marble step outside was worn hollow, and his sneaker found the dip without looking. He felt the cold of the first sun on the block. He felt the sleeve ride up over the ink, and thought nothing of it, because the ink was his and old: swallow, banner, roses, faded color, bold lines. He got it at eighteen and has never explained it to anyone.

The shirt against your back is damp. It gives you a laptop open on a lawn, grass cold through his jeans, and a paper due that he is behind on. He has money for rent and not much past it. A drink or two most evenings, and he likes the quiet that comes after. He is lonely in a plain way, and he has no ex to blame.

You lower the bar slowly. Your shoulders burn and your thighs shake, and his hands know the grip better than you do. The rep grinds up, and his face does nothing. You feel the strength in him, and the ache that tells you he has done this a hundred times.

Last, the sneakers. The canvas is soft, the sole worn thin at the heel. He tied them without thinking this morning, left over right, humming something with no tune.

You rack the bar and look at your hands. The tattooed forearm turns over in the light, and the swallow turns with it. You look up, and your voice comes out low and not yours.

"Okay. Hi."

You do not know how long he is yours. You do not know when the wanting starts again.