Free Blink by Rick R. Reed Page B

minute, boy. Just let me check this one thing.”
    He gives out a sharp meow, which is almost a bark, and which I interpret as “Okay, but just one .”
    Finally my home screen comes up, and I bypass checking my e-mail, even though I know Facebook would have forwarded any messages there as well, and go directly to the social media presence of the twenty-first century.
    My heart skips a beat when I see the little red box next to the message icon at the top of the Facebook page, indicating I do have a message. Really? That fast? I tell myself to be calm. The message could be from Jules, or Tate, or one of the guys I met at the Printers Row book fair last summer whom I promised to meet for coffee but never have, even though we always comment on each other’s postings.
    Hand almost trembling, I move the mouse to click on the red box.
    I close my eyes. I am not sure whether to smile and jump up and dance.
    The message is from Carlos.
    I open it and read:
    Hey. Thanks for your message. Would you be able to meet up with me for coffee after work tonight at Jumpy on Lincoln Avenue, near the Jewel? Say five-ish?
    There’s nothing else. I was expecting at least an “I remember you.” But if he didn’t remember me, why would he want to meet? Of course I’ll meet him. I type in a quick reply.
    “I’ll be there.” I’m tempted to add something silly along the lines of “I’ll be the one with a gardenia behind my ear and smoking a cigar” but opt to leave it as is. The hardest thing for me to accept is that I’m still not sure this is my Carlos.
    I wonder how I’ll make it through the day. You know, being the impatient sort….

C HAPTER 9: C ARLOS
     
     
    “H EY , C ARLOS , can you help me with something?” my assistant, Joel, calls from outside my office. Joel has worked with me at Angels, an AIDS charity, for the past ten years, and is, by necessity, a jack-of-all-trades. It’s how it works for most everyone on staff here. Joel, for example, proofreads the newsletter on HIV awareness I put together every month. He bags meals for the folks we deliver them to. And he answers the phone, directing our clients to the pair of caseworkers we have on staff.
    I get up from my cluttered desk and look at Joel, standing near the back door. He’s such a handsome guy, all of thirty, with dark brown hair he wears buzzed close to his skull, a thick beard, and tattoos just about everywhere I can see. Sigh . If I were only a few years younger, I would break the rules about fraternizing with employees, but I know better.
    “What is it?” I ask, knowing it could be anything. There’s someone in the lobby who refuses to speak to anyone but the person in charge. Or maybe there’s a donor who has a bagful of cash he’s itching to give to us to keep us afloat in this age when people have pretty much forgotten about AIDS, unless directly affected. Perhaps it’s yet another employee ready to give notice because he or she has found higher-paying work elsewhere.
    Like McDonald’s.
    “Some guy dropped by with books for the library. There’s, like, fourteen boxes. Do you think you could help me carry them in? I can take care of sorting and shelving at some point.”
    We have a small library, which started out as being resources on AIDS and HIV and has grown now into two rooms that encompass all things gay-related, including romances and mysteries.
    I take off the plaid short-sleeve shirt I wore and meet Joel by the back door, where he’s already stacked the boxes. Our donor has taken off.
    “Look at you in your tight white T!” Joel grins, squatting to hoist one of the boxes up to his shoulder. His biceps bulge. “Oh, Papi .” He leers and gives me a wink. “When are you gonna go out with me?”
    I shake my head and laugh. We’ve had this conversation before. He knows I’d never date anyone associated with Angels, client or employee. It happened once, back when I first started—and look how that turned out. My mood darkens for an