"Sorry. I hope you didn't wait too long." Alexander is back, bringing me out of my swirling thoughts of if he's been here on a date before and with whom, and if he really still wants to be here with me. "No. You weren't gone long," I reply with a smile and see him relax noticeably. His right hand grips my left and it feels like we've never done anything else. Familiar, safe, secure.
"Will you tell me about yourself?" he asks and before I can match my questions with appropriate answers, he just keeps talking.
"Or should I start? I haven't done this in ages." That answers one of the many questions. At least partially.

"Magnus, are you okay? Are you not feeling well?", Alexander inquires worriedly. Out of sheer surprise at so much caring, I forgot what I wanted to say.
"You are feeling unwell. Am I right? Do you want to leave?" Hastily, I shake my head. No, I don't want to leave. I just wonder why this slimy waiter is so obviously flirting with Alexander and he doesn't say anything about it. Or how he knows his food preferences. And why I can't get my fucking nervousness and insecurity under control.
"Will you let me share your thoughts?" he asks gently, stroking the back of my hand reassuringly. It works, my jumbled thoughts come to a halt and in a firm voice I ask the pressing question.
"You seem to know the waiter well. Did you date him too?"
"What, yes. No. I come here often because 'Temple' simply has the best steaks in all of New York. What am I talking about? In the whole country. I've also met Sebastian a few times at Pandemonium. A gay club," he justifies himself, his eyes shining with enthusiasm. If I ate meat, this would certainly be the dream of my sleepless nights. The guests around us all look very pleased.

"Sorry. But I don't like him," I reply honestly. "He doesn't act very professional. His attempts at flirting are hard to miss. Mentally, he already has you in his bed. Or in the staff toilet," I just babble on. I feel uncomfortable. Not only because of the waiter, but also because of the looks of the other guests. This restaurant is too posh for my plain wardrobe. Even Alexander is better dressed than me. I haven't felt so underdressed and out of place in a long time. Even the fact that two men are sitting holding hands in a restaurant among dozens of straight couples makes me sweat slightly. 'It's okay. No one despises you' whispers the voice in my head. I know it's not illegal in America to love a man in public. But for me, it's still not fully tangible. Not to be afraid, not to have shadows of passion tearing at the soul with their sharp claws. It's no use brooding over it. I'm here, in a city where most people don't care who I love.

"What do you want to know?", I ask, and Alexander wears that stunning crooked smile again. It's just mega hot.
"Are you jealous?" he asks with a smirk and I snort, rolling my eyes.
"You're jealous." An observation, not a question. He's right. I am jealous. Of the waiter.
"I'm not jealous. You can date whoever you want. So. What do you want to hear? The sordid details of my past? Or the boring flow of my morning routine?", I reply casually.
"Whatever. Whatever you want. The main thing is that I can listen to your voice." I clear my throat and just start talking wildly. It distracts me from thinking that he doesn't care what I say as long as I say something. This makes my heart beat a few beats faster, the marathon never ending.
"Well, there's not that much to tell. You already know my name. I'm 22 and I'm studying photography. But that's only possible because I have a scholarship. My parents live in Indonesia. Jakarta, that's where I was born and grew up. They are very proud of their son who is studying in America. Well, I do my best to keep them proud of me."
Alexander's gaze is on me the whole time, not once does he break eye contact. Not even when the waiter comes back to our table and provides delicious smelling bread with various dips. And again there are those lustful glances and a random roaming of his fingers over foreign skin. The signals couldn't be clearer and I have to force myself to breathe calmly.

Alexander is absolutely cold to all this, his hand holds mine and I would like to stab the waiter. But then this evening would be over sooner than I would like. I would be rotting in an American state prison, waiting to be deported, while Alexander eats steaks and drinks wine with another guy. His beautiful deep voice brings me out of my swirling thoughts and the imaginary knife in my hand slides back into its sheath.
"Will you exchange the bacon and onion bread for another one, please?", Alexander politely asks the waiter and he is visibly irritated.
"Why? You like to eat it so much. Raphael has it baked especially for you when you come," I hear the greaser say. I can't help but stare at him in bewilderment. Even though Alexander is often a guest in this house and his brother-in-law apparently works here, he is just this. A guest. A paying guest. And isn't the guest king? He is very rude to his guests. I am not used to such behaviour. In Indonesia, we treat all people with the respect they deserve.

"Yes that is also true. But Magnus is a vegetarian. And I would hate for him to have to do without the various dips. The portion of white bread is not enough to try everything," he replies and the greasy waiter's facial features say more than a thousand words. He hates me. But nothing could be more indifferent to me right now. I am far too caught up in Alexander's answers. He forgoes his favourite bread for my sake.
"It's okay. You don't have to..."
"Yes, I do. Sebastian will swap the bread. Or do I have to ask Raphael for it first?" he says insistently, the pitch of his voice not allowing for any backtalk. Fuck does this turn me on. His authoritarian manner, the tense posture, the flash of his blue irises. I go for the dominant type of man. Before I got the scholarship, I often lay in my room listening to the sounds of the city. Our neighbours have a fulfilling sex life and more than once I caught myself boiling over with jealousy of my neighbour's wife. I always knew what the man of my dreams was supposed to be like. Tall, muscular, dark hair and beautiful eyes. Lips to kiss and strong hands to hold me securely. A man with both feet in the middle of life. Who leads and guides me, fucks my brains out and loves me with all his senses.

I can't explain where this thought comes from, but I am sure that I have found this man in Alexander. Sometimes a look or a word is enough and the heart knows where it is at home.
"No need. I'll bring you some new bread," says the greasy waiter and quickly leaves our table. Various images are still running amok in my head, but I push them back into the furthest corner of my mind. Not now. Not here.
"Do you miss home?" asks Alexander. I nod, inevitably thinking of my parents, who are no longer the youngest and even though my mother regularly affirms how happy they are for me, I can clearly hear the missing undertone.
"I haven't seen my parents for two years. I miss them and the always warm weather. Winter in America is not one of my favourite seasons. I think autumn is great. When the leaves turn all different shades of red and a light wind blows through my hair. I like that," I reply dreamily.

"Damp wetness, drizzle and fog?" he asks incredulously. I nod. I like that too.
"Yes, in a way. I was looking forward to winter. Snow at last. But then I found out it wasn't really my thing. It was way too cold and I constantly had soaked shoes and frozen stiff fingers. Have you ever tried taking pictures like that?" Alexander laughs wholeheartedly at the sight of my bent fingers and I can't deny that I like it downright. I join in his laughter too and as we calm down, he suddenly turns serious again.
"I love the winter. My sister and I used to go skating on the lake behind our house. That was great. Even though Dad always nearly had a heart attack when he saw us out on the ice alone and without adult supervision. We used to call that time Winter Wonderland and we were so happy. I'm not from New York. We lived in Alicante. A small sleepy nest with a church, a high school and the cinema was the meeting place for the kids of my time. The diner on the outskirts of town belonged to my uncle and after he died Dad inherited it. He sold it and with the money he paid my medical bills."

Suddenly he is silent. A shadow of sadness flits across his face, hardening the soft features. Alexander releases our intertwined hand and nervously runs it through his hair. Without comment, the waiter places more bread on the table and I thank him quietly. Alexander is quiet and still silent. He seems to be thinking about something.
"Alexander? Is everything okay?", I ask timidly.
"I like it when you say my name," he replies and his sadness gives way to another sly smile.
"Why wouldn't you? It's your name." I'm a little irritated and don't understand what excites him about it. At the same time we reach for the bread and as our fingertips touch, an electrifying jolt runs through me. He seems to feel it too, his eyes carry that excited sparkle I've already admired in Central Park.

"Hardly anyone calls me Alexander. Everyone says Alec. It's always been that way."
"Why?", I ask with interest, spreading a delicious looking mint green cream on the delicious smelling bread.
"My sister had her problems with all the letters. So she just shortened Alexander to Alex and it became Alec." Understanding, I nod and bite into the bread to immediately moan with pleasure. The dip tastes divine, with my eyes closed I taste the different phases of the taste experience. Creamy yoghurt mixed with fresh basil, full-bodied tangy taste and the fresh note of a squeeze of lime juice completes the perfect picture. When I open my eyes, I look into the heated face of Alexander. His cheeks shimmer pale pink, his eyes are darkened, he licks his lips and reaches for the water glass far too hastily. A little nudge is enough to make the glass sway dangerously. Just enough to prevent the jerky movement from spilling a gush of water onto the spotlessly clean tablecloth. I exhale with relief and thank him inwardly that it wasn't the blood-red expensive wine.

"This tastes great," I say, pointing to the small bowl directly in front of us.
"Mmmm," Alexander mumbles into his water glass and I feel like I've missed something crucial.
"Try this one," he says, his voice trembling slightly.
"Tomato with pine nuts. A dream."
If we keep this up, I'll be full before the main course is served. The fruity acidity of the tomato harmonises beautifully with the pure and light aroma of the pine nuts. Almondy sweetness with a hint of spicy cayenne pepper and definitely garlic.
"Who do I have to thank for this explosion of flavour?", I ask, visibly excited, and see Alexander smile in a relaxed manner.
"To my brother-in-law Raphael. It's a family recipe and at first he didn't want to share it with the world. But my sister can be very persuasive," Alexander replies, winking at me conspiratorially.

The waiter is back, arranging glasses, cutlery and napkins, changing the empty bottle of water for a new one. Meanwhile we remain silent. It's not that we have nothing to say to each other. However, there is a silent agreement that the contents of our conversations are not meant for the waiter's ears. After the waiter has finished his lousy activity, it is Alexander who speaks first. I look after the waiter with flashing angry eyes.
"I'm glad you're here. With me," Alexander says and reaches for the long stem of the wine glass. I do the same, the bright clink of clashing glasses resounds, the deep dark red liquid billows around in the bulbous vessel. Like gentle waves from an ocean of full-bodied grapes. Fruity acidity caresses my palate, pleasantly soft and not bitter. I don't often drink alcohol, the veil of oblivion and momentary elation is more of an unpleasant memory. I want to experience this evening to the full. With all my senses and in my right mind.

"I'm also glad your sister practically pushed me into your arms," I say, giggling.
"Yes. That's Izzy's speciality. I like to call her Dr Love, too. Even though I'm the one of the two of us with the PhD. My little sister has been the impetus for one or two happy relationships. Marriage not excluded. And without Izzy and her sensitive love antennae, Charlie wouldn't have been born."
"I hardly dare ask. But is she your child? Did you ever have a thing with her mum?" This question has been bothering me for a while. And even though my heart beats unnaturally fast with excitement at the answer, I have to know. Early on, I decided for myself that I didn't want children. At least none with a woman and in poor circumstances in my parents' house.

"What? No. Oh God Magnus what makes you think that? I'm gay. Always have been. I've never been with women. Charlie is my goddaughter. I love her like my own child. But I don't want to replace her father. I couldn't," he justifies himself.
"Well, apparently she likes you better than him. I've seen you by her side every time. The father makes himself pretty scarce, it seems." Alexander's expression changes. Dark shadows darken his face, his eyes dull and soulless. The colour of his skin is the same as the snow, which trickles to earth in thick flakes outside the restaurant window.
"Jace. His name was Jace and he was my best friend. He died in combat two years ago."

Shit.