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Saturday mornings are spent on Eighth Avenue between 42nd and 57th. Sometimes he walks there, if he’s feeling twitchy or morose and needs the 45 minutes to clear his head. He lives in the West Village now, a loft that used to belong to a fashion photographer, so it has good lighting and bright white walls, and it feels infinitely cooler than he will ever be.
He didn’t feel like walking today. He was definitely morose enough, but he wanted to stew in it, so he hopped on the E train at 14th street. When he emerged from underground at 50th street, he could just hear a quiet strain of a saxophone playing a few streets ahead. His feet propelled him toward the song, being played by a middle-aged man in an ugly bowling shirt and Oakley sunglasses on an intersection of the street fair.
He spent every Saturday morning he could at the street fair. New York didn’t feel as big, or anonymous, when he was walking between booths selling cheesy t shirts and hand-carved jewelry, or turkey legs and shaved ice. He never bought much, maybe a coffee or a crepe if he felt like splurging. He could always walk it off on the way home. He just wanted to see people who weren’t in a hurry, who wanted to enjoy the same sounds, sights, smells. He enjoyed the vendors, who didn’t want anything from him except his business. Like any other person.
He stopped at the edge of a semi circle surrounding the saxophone player, who was playing some easy listening pop song which name he’s forgotten. Probably John Mayer. Or John Legend.
“Hey, man.”
He glanced to his left, where a man, almost as tall as he was, was approaching him with a professional camera. Great, a paparazzo. Just super fucking great. Now he’ll have to find a new Saturday activity.
He smiled, hopefully wide enough to satisfy the pap, who would maybe leave him alone then, but the guy kept walking toward him.
“Hey, I’m Brandon, and I photograph people for Humans of New York,” the pap, no, Brandon, said, as he handed over a business card. “ I was hoping to get your permission to take your picture and post it on the site and its social media accounts. What’s your name?”
“Uh, I’m Armie. Do you have to put my name? Is this, like, a fashion thing?” Armie asked. He looked down at his old, gross flip flops and wrinkled gray shorts. He hoped it wasn’t a fashion thing.
“No, no names, unless you want me to tag you in the comments or something. And it’s not a fashion thing, more like a human interest thing.”
“Huh. Well, sure. Why not. No name, though, please. Or my face. Is that okay? I’m, um, kind of well known.”
“Oh, sure, no problem! I have an idea. I want to capture your, well, sorry man, your melancholy.” Brandon directed him into a pose that would hide his face.
Armie blew a puff of air out, not quite a sigh. “Why are you interested in my moping?”
Brandon pulled out a tape recorder, an actual tape recorder, and pressed record. “I was hoping you could tell me why you’re moping.”
////
Armie forgot about the picture and his rambling answer to Brandon’s question. He was researching a potential role, elbow deep in biographies and newspaper clippings about a gay Hollywood icon, and he had put the strange encounter at the street fair out of his mind. It had been a couple weeks, and he woke up early on a Saturday morning, sunlight streaming into his bedroom. He really needed to get some blackout curtains, screw the aesthetic.
Nick had sent him a link with one red heart and he clicked on it, totally unprepared to see the back of his closely-shaven head, his left hand cradling his neck in a way that screamed my thoughts are too heavy for me to carry, followed by a block of text.
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humansofny “I fell in love with this city when I fell in love with this guy. Seeing it through his eyes was like seeing Disney World for the first time, or discovering your favorite movie, and when I got divorced, I immediately knew I wanted to move here. I was in love with him, but I never told him. Didn’t seem fair, since I had just been married. Didn’t want to keep him waiting, he’s younger than me, and so intelligent, and beautiful, he deserves to share that with someone who can share everything they have with him too. I just wanted to be near him. But it fucking sucks. We… we haven’t talked in months. I had hoped he would take me under his wing, show me the ropes here, but I guess we weren’t as close as I thought. I’m so alone here. Everyone is on the go all the time and I feel lost. I come here every Saturday, just to feel close to people. I hate this city, but I can’t leave. I feel him in every street.”
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12 hours ago
////
It was late, late enough that most of the businesses on his street were closed. Only the corner bodega and the hipster bar (it claimed it was a speakeasy, which meant it had velvet-covered booths and overpriced martinis on the menu) were open. He bought a pack of Marlboro Lights from the bodega, both the cashier and the cat perched on the counter staring him down with poorly-concealed judgement. He shouldn’t be smoking, but he lost his fucking vape pen and he’s jet lagged from his flight, so fuck it.
He walked toward Tompkins Square Park, but it’s closed for the night. “Fuck,” he whispered, under his breath. He sat against the locked gate, lit up, and exhaled toward the night sky. He’s so tired, but he can’t sleep. He could probably find a party somewhere, but it’s gotten old. Different party, but same people, same bullshit. It’s not worth the hangover.
He considered calling Armie for a beat, it’s not too late on the west coast. But it’s been too long. They haven’t talked since Armie had told him, shyly, so unlike him, that he was thinking about moving to New York. He had poked holes in the plan like a total asshole. What about the kids, he’d asked, what about your friends, you’re not going to want to hang out with me all the time. What’s a California golden boy supposed to do in New York? He had thought they were valid questions, but Armie had bit out “if you don’t want me there, just say so,” and hung up.
So, no, he can’t call Armie. Footsteps scuffed down the sidewalk toward him, and he looked up, expecting to see a cop telling him to scram, but a guy with a camera sat down near the curb.
“Hi, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I was hoping I could take your picture.” The guy was tall, almost as tall as Armie, he bitterly thought. “My name is Brandon, I’m with Humans of New York.”
“Timmy. I’ve seen your pictures. It’s kinda late for this, isn’t it? The lighting is shit.”
Brandon laughed. “I’m doing a ‘New York at Night’ series. Do you mind posing for me? It would go on the blog and social media.”
Timmy shrugged, and situated himself so his knees were splayed near his chest, with his elbows propped on them. His half-smoked cigarette glowed from between his fingers. “No shots of my face, ‘kay? Instagram would lose its shit.”
Brandon laughed, one sharp crack of a ha! The flash went off a few times. Timmy let his eyes drop to his hands. “Are you going to ask me questions?” he asked.
Brandon capped his camera and pulled out a tape recorder. What a weirdo, who uses a tape recorder anymore. “What are you doing out here at 2 am?”
////
Armie avoided Instagram and all other social media for the next week. The comments on his picture were almost too kind, thousands of strangers saying it’ll get better, try out this club, this activity, why don’t you try talking to your mystery guy. He had closed the link after five minutes and hadn’t responded to Nick. He wasn’t done feeling sorry for himself. He thought about calling Timmy, asking him to go out for coffee, maybe a drink, but Timmy had made it clear that Armie shouldn’t rely on him and he didn’t want to be pushy.
So he went back to his research, back to other people’s stories. Tried to avoid Nick, who had been texting him a variation of “I’m here if you need to talk” every day since he sent the Instagram post. It was Friday afternoon when he heard the buzz of his phone on his desk, and he left it unanswered for an hour, until the prolonged buzzing of a phone call threatened to vibrate the phone right off the desk.
“Yes, Nick?” Armie answered, annoyed.
“Armie, man, did you open that link I sent you?”
Armie pinched the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t see it. I’m trying to stay away from social media this week, I am really not in the mood.”
“Dude, trust me, you want to see this. Fucking open it and then call me.” Nick hung up without a goodbye or a response.
He sighed, and clicked on the link in Nick’s messages thread, and his stomach dropped right out of his fucking body. Those were Timmy’s hands, that small scar on his left ring finger. Armie would recognize those hands for the rest of his life. Timmy was holding a half-smoked cigarette in his right hand, and he was picking at a cuticle with his left. Armie wanted to take those hands in his, kiss his nail beds, thread their fingers together. How touching that we have scars on the same finger? he thought, bitterly. He expanded the caption, sucking in a breath as he read.
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humansofny “I can’t fucking sleep. So I came out here to get fresh air, and I wanted to call my friend, but I think I fucked it up. He’s my best friend, like, best friend in the world, and I just wanna see him or talk to him but I said some shit that hurt his feelings. But I only said those things because I’m love with him. He wanted to move here and I tried to convince him it was a bad idea, but it was for selfish reasons. It’s so fucking hard to see him and not want him, I want more. But he just got divorced, like, six months ago. I thought maybe if he felt the same way about me, he would have said something by now. And he hasn’t, so I guess I need to move on. I’m thinking about moving to Europe. I work a lot over there and New York doesn’t feel like home anymore. There’s nothing keeping me here.”
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4 hours ago
He didn’t know what to do. He wanted to run all the way to Timmy’s apartment in the East Village. He wanted to cry. About their failure to communicate, about Timmy’s obvious guilt at shutting Armie out, about realizing that Timmy was shutting him out for the same reason Armie wanted in. He had slipped on his flip flops and had his hand on the doorknob before he realized he had no idea if Timmy was even there. And even if he was there, would he want to see Armie? Maybe he would be embarrassed if he realized Armie had seen the picture, would think Armie was just humoring his pain.
Armie turned around and slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor, legs stretched out in front of him. He’s not even sure if Timmy knew he was living here. He can’t remember if he ever explicitly told him “hey, I’m moving, let’s hang out.” Their separation was probably just as much his fault as it was Timmy’s. “God fucking dammit,” he cursed, under his breath, as he thudded his head back onto the door.
He jumped like a spooked cat when his phone vibrated in his back pocket. Nick, again, his mind viciously spit. He was going to block Nick’s number, he can’t handle any more pictures. He’s tired of confronting his failures.
Wait. That could work.
////
Timmy stepped out of Mud, tugging his headphones over his ears more securely. He was wearing a hoodie with the hood up and a pair of sunglasses that were probably too big for his face but Pauline had screenshotted his photo on Humans of New York and sent it to him yesterday and he was paranoid that everyone knew it was him. He wasn’t going to let his fear stop him from his Saturday morning coffee, though. He turned down the street to head back to his apartment when his phone buzzed three times. He didn’t stop walking as he fished his phone out of his pocket and held it up to his face to unlock it. Of course FaceID doesn’t recognize him with these absurd glasses covering half his face.
He stopped on the next corner, snatched off his glasses and opened his messages. And then he dropped his coffee.
Armiieeee: [link to Humans of New York]
Armiieeee: [Photo of saxophone player]
Armiieeee: Do you know that street fair in your old ‘hood?
Timmy clicked on the link and had to brace himself on a trash can when he recognizes Armie’s faded tattoo, light scarring replacing most of the “E’s”. He stepped off the curb and waved his hand so frantically at a passing cab he threw his sunglasses into traffic.
////
“Armie?”
Armie turns away from the saxophone player. Timmy is standing three feet away from him, wearing a giant hoodie with the hood up, headphones around his neck, and he’s as pale as a ghost. Armie smiles at him, no teeth, almost a grimace.
“Hey, Tim. You found me.”
Timmy inches closer, pushes his hood down. “Is it true?”
Armie uncrosses his arms, puts his hands in his pockets, takes one out to scratch the back of his neck. “Is what true?”
Timmy steps in so close Armie can feel the fabric of his hoodie brush against his stomach. “All of it.” He hasn’t taken his eyes off of Armie’s. He reaches up, slowly, slowly, to run one finger around the shell of Armie’s ear.
Armie takes a deep breath.
“Yes, he says, roughly, as he finally, fucking finally, curls one hand under Timmy’s jaw and the other under his arm to snake around his back. He strokes Timmy’s cheek with his thumb, stares into Timmy’s eyes, those endless kaleidoscopes, lets his love pour from inside through their gaze.
Timmy shudders out an exhale, his eyelashes fluttering closed. He turns his head to press a kiss into Armie’s palm, one, two, three. When he opens his eyes again they are even more brilliant than before, unshed tears creating more dimension, more light. He pushes himself onto his tiptoes, places one hand on each side of his face, telegraphing his movements to Armie. “I’m gonna kiss you now,” he whispers, directly into Armie’s mouth, a second before he brushes his lips across Armie’s.
Armie’s breath hitches on an inhale, and then Timmy is pressing harder into Armie’s mouth, a chaste kiss until it’s not, one swipe of his tongue opening Armie’s mouth like a secret password. Armie locks his arms around Timmy, lifting him an inch or two off the ground, and takes the kiss like communion. Timmy releases him with a nip to his lip, then a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth.
Armie sets him down, runs a hand through his flattened curls. “I love you, Tim,” he whispers, before engulfing him in a tight hug he has no intentions of stopping.
////
One Year Later
“Alright, guys, how does this one look?” Brandon scoots over to where Armie and Timmy are sitting on a giant rock in Central Park and flips through his pictures.
“Yeah, I like that one,” Timmy says, pointing at the screen. He’s sitting with his back to Armie’s front, Armie’s hands tangled with his against his chest. Their matching rings glint in the autumn sunshine.
Armie hooks his chin over Timmy’s shoulder. “I want a copy. We can frame it and put it on the wall.”
Timmy giggles and turns his head to kiss Armie’s jaw, then he bites it, playfully. “Okay, Brandon, ask your questions.”
Brandon stands up, dusts off the back of his pants, and packs away his camera. “No questions this time, guys. Congratulations. I’m happy for you.”
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humansofny “Just Married. Swipe left to see the first photos I took of these two guys. They found each other again.”
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4 hours ago