Free Dinner at Fiorello’s by Rick R. Reed Page B

and this erection was more insistent than any thought that could intrude. He spit on his hand and took care of himself quickly, not thinking of anything but delighting in the sensations his own body gave him, that delicious electricity coursing through him, and released into his boxer briefs. He pulled them off, balled them up, and laid them, come side up, gently on the floor.
    He would rinse them out before throwing them in the laundry.
    The respite was brief. Henry turned on his side, and reality intruded, reminding him that today was the day he must give Rosalie Fiorello his answer. He pictured the woman in her office, her stern yet kind expression, waiting. It was as though she had been frozen there since he left her yesterday, even though Henry knew the notion was absurd.
    Somehow, as he slept, the only realistic answer he could give her had come to him. Henry didn’t know if his dreams were filled with images and moments that led him to his decision or if common sense had simply crept in while he slept. Whatever the reason, he was certain about what he must do.
    Come hell or high water.
     
     
    H ENRY RUSHED through his morning routine—shower, bowl of cereal, dressing—feeling slightly nauseated. He knew the butterflies in his stomach and the pounding at his temples were not due to a physical ailment, but he could ascribe them to what he would say to Rosalie Fiorello when he saw her.
    He was afraid he would be closing a door rather than opening one, but Henry knew there was really only one course to take.
    Carefully avoiding Maxine and his parents, Henry slipped outside into the warmth of the day. His parents always kept the house at a cool seventy degrees all summer long, and the humidity hanging in the air outdoors came as a shock to Henry. Although it was still officially spring for a bit, today could have passed for midsummer. The air felt almost solid, mired in close-to-ninety-degree heat and unrelenting humidity. Henry was glad he had decided to wear the avocado and cream linen shirt, but his tan jeans already felt heavy, as if they were made of something more substantial than denim.
    He headed south on Sheridan Road, determined to walk to the restaurant this time. The distance was just under two miles, and it was silly for him to ride the ‘L’ there, not when he was a fit eighteen-year-old with, really, nothing but time on his hands.
    Even as Henry walked right alongside the lake, it was still hot and sticky, the water a slate blue and flat, like a mirror, unmoving. There was no breeze.
    It took Henry a little more than twenty minutes to arrive at the front of Fiorello’s, and he despaired, because the restaurant had yet to open. He pulled his iPhone from the front pocket of his jeans and pressed the Home button. He had to laugh. It was only a little before ten in the morning. He glanced at the sign on the door where the hours were posted and saw that the restaurant wouldn’t open until eleven thirty.
    In his haste to get down here and speak with Rosalie, he hadn’t paid even one whit of attention to what time it was. He had to remind himself that Rosalie, and the world in general, were not waiting with bated breath for his response.
    He looked around the street for something to occupy a little more than an hour. He could go get coffee, but that would only make him more jumpy than he already was. But what other options were there? Across the street was a convenience store and strip mall containing a Laundromat, the alderman’s office for that ward, and a wash-your-own-dog pet care place. None of these offered much distraction.
    Henry decided his best course of action was simply to walk back down to the lakefront. He could take off his shirt and shoes, roll up his jeans, and sit in the sand. If he wanted even more distraction than surf and sand, perhaps a hunky lifeguard would appear. Henry could always fantasize.
    Henry started walking east, not too fast because he didn’t want to be a sweaty mess. As