Free Nightswimmer by Joseph Olshan

different television monitors all over the bar, there you stood. You were dressed in a loose white T-shirt and the cut-off army fatigues I’d noticed the other night when I was riding in the taxi, when I was unsure whether or not I’d spotted you. So you had been in the city all along, you just hadn’t called me !
    As you scoured the far corners of Splash with the most dismal of expressions on your face, the moment you noticed me, the silly grin appeared. Without even considering whether or not it would be a romantically politic move, I began walking toward you, and as soon as I arrived you gave my shoulder a playful squeeze.
    “Hey, I just left you a message.”
    And I actually tried to sound calm and detached when I answered, “Hey, I’m not home.”
    “What are you doing here ?”
    Looking for you is what I should have said. “I’m hanging out with Peter. You remember Peter Rocca,” I joked as we strolled over to where he was standing.
    “Hey, Sean,” Peter said, clearly uncomfortable.
    Your eyes bored into me. “So what’s the story, Will? Your phone isn’t listed anymore. I’ve tried to get ahold of you.”
    “Didn’t you know, he’s too important now to appear in the White Pages,” Peter said.
    “Now, wait a minute,” I objected. “I’m supposed to be in the latest phone book.”
    But I explained how there had been an error; when the last telephone book had been printed the number was mistakenly listed only under Greg’s name. “I called to have it changed.”
    “Well, it never got changed,” you said. “I finally had to go to the library to look it up in an old phone book.”
    “To think that you of all people aren’t listed,” Peter murmured. “It’s kind of amazing. Considering that you’d shrivel up and die without a telephone.”
    “Do you have to broadcast every one of my weaknesses?”
    Peter looked annoyed. “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure you out. Anyway, I think I’m going to move on. This is getting a little cozy. And”—he pointed across the crowded bar—“I see someone over there that I’d like to get to know. Catch you guys later.” He strolled away toward the muscle sea that eventually parted and took him into its steroid depths.
    “What’s with him, suddenly?” you said.
    “He spied us leaving his place together the other night. He got bent out of shape.”
    “Doesn’t he see somebody?”
    “You mean, is the shrink in therapy?”
    “No, I’m saying doesn’t he have a boyfriend?”
    “As if that means anything.” I sounded a little more cynical than I’d intended.
    “Well, there are all kinds of relationships,” you said and then winked at me. “So how are you doing?”—resting your hand on my shoulder.
    I wanted to tell you how difficult the last few days had been, but felt foolish—yet again—for collaborating on my own misery. “God, I wish I’d known my phone wasn’t listed,” I said. “I actually tried calling you a couple times myself.”
    “Look, don’t sweat it. I don’t give a shit about the telephone, as you probably can tell.”
    This sobered me. Did you know how many times I’d tried to call, had you been hiding out in your apartment, listening to it ring and not answering it, mocking my persistence?
    Wanting to move on to another subject, I pointed to the cavorting bodies on the video screen. “Hey, I just saw you.”
    “Saw me on the hit parade, huh?”
    “You were dancing with a beautiful black man.”
    “Oh yeah?” you said shyly.
    “I mistook him for God.”
    You laughed and the hand on my shoulder slipped around until your forearm was resting on my neck. “Let’s get out of here, Will.”
    A perfect night for strolling, dry, with river wind slapping us as we headed down Seventh Avenue. We moved together gracefully, as though accustomed to walking in each other’s company. The peacefulness I felt suddenly made up for the last few days of fretting. Why had I tortured myself so?
    “Been away,