Pretty Man

When Roland Marcus decided to return New York for the first time in more than a year, he had no idea his entire life would change in less than one week.

He’d just turned 45: ancient in his eyes. Though his short, wavy hair was still dark brown and his waist size remained 32, his right shoulder ached after working out and his feet bothered him if he jogged more than five miles. When Roland looked in the mirror late at night, he noticed the right side of his face seemed to be aging faster than the left. There were a few faint laugh lines at the corner of his left eye, while the corner of his right remained smooth and tight. From a distance he could still pass for 30; but up close in broad daylight, you could tell he was closer to his true age.

Roland wasn’t obsessed with his looks, even as most gay men his age underwent Botox injections and eye tucks. “We’re going to fight getting old all the way,” they would say as they ran to their plastic surgeons. He knew one man who mortgaged his home so his ass could look 10 years younger. Roland could have easily afforded the most expensive plastic surgeon in the world without a second thought; but thanks to all those years of jogging and dieting, his ass was still as round and firm as it had been when he was 25.

On the night everything began to change, Roland walked down Bleecker Street in Manhattan’s West Village near Magnolia Bakery. It was a warm, humid Friday in early August, and he’d just arrived in town to attend a few fundraisers for his favorite charity, the Ashley Foundation for Men and Women with HIV/AIDS.

The Village was so crowded that night, it looked like there was a street festival going on somewhere. Groups of college kids from New Jersey stippled the sidewalks; young girls wearing tube tops and low rise jeans giggled and chirped about offensive prices as they passed trendy little boutiques; and young couples walking hand in hand searched for outdoor cafes in which to sit and talk. The locals, dressed mostly in black, weaved in and out of the crowd as they crossed from one side of the street to the other. Their eyebrows were lowered and they turned their shoulders quickly so they wouldn’t have to make physical contact with the tourists.

A tall guy with salt and pepper hair walked two enormous Afghan hounds near a shop with an obnoxious zebra chair in the front window. The man’s snakeskin boots were outrageously long, and so pointy the toes curled up. He wore tight, low-rise jeans with a wide leather belt, and a tight black shirt that floated an inch above his thin waist.

Roland wore tan slacks, a white polo shirt and brown loafers. He walked slowly, his hands tucked so far into his pockets his Rolex was hidden. This was the first time he’d actually walked through his own neighborhood in years, and he felt like a tourist. Though he’d owned his brownstone on West 11th Street for almost 25 years, it hadn’t occurred to him how much things had changed while he was off building the family skincare business. Grim-faced artists with wild hair two decades earlier carried frayed portfolios down the street, while rough-looking men with exaggerated mustaches and black leather chaps cruised for sex.
Roland stopped in front of a used bookstore and tightened his fists. Across the street in the cupcake shop, he saw his ex-lover Kenneth Rhodes on line. Worse, Kenneth had already spotted Roland. There was no place to run. Kenneth smiled and waved his arms back and forth as the man he was with—Roland recognized him as Kenneth’s new lover—leaned forward to see who Kenneth waved to.
Roland smiled and waved back. The men hadn’t seen each other since Roland left New York to live on his yacht off the coast of Florida. Kenneth motioned for Roland to cross the street. Roland lifted one arm and raised his index finger before ducking into the used bookstore. He took a deep breath and wrinkled his forehead at the distinct smell of rich, smooth chocolate. He looked to his right, beyond shelves and tables stacked with books, and saw a glass counter filled with delicate, handmade chocolates. Above the counter was a long, narrow sign: “Vous avez le chocolat sûr votre dent.” The background of the sign was off-white, and the words were written in dark brown, with thin, delicate wisps and curls. Roland laughed. He knew enough French well enough to roughly translate the sign: “You have chocolate on your tooth.”
On any other day, Roland wouldn’t have been able to resist the aroma; but chocolate was the last thing on his mind. His heart raced and his mouth felt dry. He knew he’d have to see Kenneth at the charity events that week, but he hadn’t expected to run into him elsewhere. Kenneth now lived full time in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, where he owned and operated a trendy floral shop in a town called New Hope. He called the shop Apro-Posie. After their 23-year relationship ended (because Kenneth fell in love with a 25-year-old), Kenneth got the house in Bucks County and opened the flower shop. Roland had always been the primary bread-winner, and could have kicked him out on the street. But he hadn’t.