Waiting in your raincoat, you check your watch. It’s suitably late. You sit inside the diner, looking out the window at the slick parking lot, and you know he wondered how you could have called. He had almost hung up on you, left you to the endless dial tone, but then suddenly changed his mind. “See you in ten minutes,” he said in that gruff Batman voice that used to be a top-ten turn-on. You agreed to meet at the diner a couple miles north of town. 

The whole way to the Whatley diner you kept rehearsing the conversation, what you would say. You don't even remember exiting I-91, just pulling into the parking lot below the massive red and blue neon sign, reading simply “Diner,” which dwarfed the flat restaurant. A Kullman model, the diner looked like a hood ornament, all chrome and angles.

When he arrives, Darrell parks near the line of big rigs, and you finally see him as he steps out of his BMW. Summer drizzle cascades in tiny sheets from his English raincoat as he walks up the steps and through the entrance. He is so handsome you begin searching the placemat, reading trivia. You pretend to be captivated. 

Lines of green neon behind him hug the sweeping crease in his cheek and makes him look like the Grinch Who Stole Christmas for a moment. He locates you and walks to the booth. “I guess that makes me a Who,” you say, standing up. He ignores the comment, sits down. Darrell puts his raincoat across his lap, drops wetting his trousers. Your coat, a birthday gift Darrell bought on final clearance from Ames, lays stuffed in the corner.

The waitress approaches you for the third time, and you're certain she'll resume glaring where she left off. He orders tea. You ask for espresso, as always. The waitress explains that you're in a diner, they don't have that kind of stuff. “Coffee, then,” you say. “Black. Preferably from a pot that's twenty hours old.” You smile; she rolls her eyes.

Darrell never knows how to begin talking. He looks down at the table for a few moments, and you freeze up, too. After trying a few times, opening your mouth with no words, you finally say, “You are looking well.” You regret it immediately.

“Thanks,” he says. Darrell doesn't press it. The waitress returns with the drinks before you say anything else, and you are thankful for the interruption. She asks if you guys need anything else. You manage to say no as she turns on a heel and heads away.

It's awkward. You wanted to avoid this. Part of you wants to adopt a smoother tone, like a classic film, but instead you reach across the table and hold his hand for a moment. He wants to pull away, but doesn't. “We could always tango,” you say, sweeping with one hand. 

“Sure, truckers love that sort of thing,” he replies, then changes the subject. “I'm not sure why I came.”

“Maybe you were curious,” you say. “Something to do with closure." A couple across the aisle stares at you both, at you touching him, and Darrell finally pulls away. He always hated when you touched him in public.

“Maybe.”

“Well, I met Vernon at a museum.” You’re talking too much, not drinking your coffee, just poking grounds with your water-stained fork. For a moment, you look at him, his wide, full shoulders. His hair's honed style, black walled with gray. He drinks his tea without sugar; you remember that. Long, slow sips.

Vernon was managing the campus bookstore at Smith, and something between you clicked, you say. “I was just so lonely.” You glance away, up to the chrome hanging lights, which look like stacked hubcaps. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it. “You never smoked before.”

“Well, let's assume that some things have changed.” He smokes like Bogart, and you can't stop thinking about movies. Darrell always hated that. 

“You're right.” It's been a year you keep reminding yourself. For the next few moments you feel foolish. You want to leave and abandon this. “I'm sorry it happened,” you say over the din of silverware and chatter. “I mean, I know that won't fix it.”

He lets smoke drift from the side of his mouth. “You mean that you left me?” He asks to himself, then answers. It was always one of your pet peeves. He says your being sorry doesn't fix anything, but it helps – a little. “I'm married,” he adds at the end.

“Your wife answered the phone,” you say. “I wasn't sure that you would take my call.” 

“I thought that I owed you that much. Anyway, she knows about us.” He shrugs and sighs. “That's past though.”

“Do you want to go for a walk, Darrell?”

He pulls money from his wallet and drops it on the table. Then he says no. “You have five minutes. Get it off your chest, and be done with it.”

You had hoped to spend the next few hours together, walking down the street, catching up. You would tell him how although you met other men, it always seemed to end horribly: screaming fights and make-ups; then nights of empty sex; and then the end. It always left you thinking about Darrell. At that point, you would have wanted to ask if he still thought about you or other men, but you probably wouldn't. You're a coward, even in your own fantasies. You would hope he’d have wished you happiness, but he probably wouldn't have. Even in your fantasies, he's aloof.

“I'm so sorry, Darrell,” you say. “I just thought this would go differently.”

“Yeah,” he says. “But this is real, not some film.” Darrell smiles for the first time tonight, looking at you. But then stops, thinking better of it. You both walk to the door, knowing it's over. You had wanted to explain, more for your sake than his. At the end, you try to hug him, but he offers a simple handshake instead. With a firm grasp, your hand meets his. You hold on too long, as always. 

“Let go,” he says, then turns to leave. His walk to the car is controlled, shuffling so little gravel you think he floats. He doesn’t look back once. 

You wave like a circus clown as he drives away and then spend a few more hours wishing and wandering. You think about him until you are tired of it. The streets are quiet, and the traffic lights pointlessly turn green, then yellow, then red. You had hoped to settle so much, but even the rain and all of the cinematic trappings couldn't rescue your attempt at one more night. On the corner, a crosswalk sign flashes “Don't Walk” to no one in particular. A stray cat limps through a parking lot, and you decide to take it home. Some company. But when you try to walk over, it flees, slipping into a storm drain.

Finally, you give up and go home. The living room couch and a late night movie offer little comfort. Pathetically, you jerk off, trying to think about Darrell, but giving up and opting for someone less complicated: the bag boy at the grocery store. 

Then you watch The Planet of the Apes. It always comes on when you stay up late. The film is at the part when Charlton Heston has entered the Forbidden Zone; you know what will happen next. This movie has welcomed you home after too many bad dates, too many nights when you'd rather have slept anywhere else. 

Finally, you turn it off. Again you think about calling Darrell, but at this point it would be a sequel, pandering off the original. No, you're stuck with a one-shot. 

As you drift, you play out that Apes film in your head. Heston was beautiful as he shaved off his beard and mounted the horse to leave. Your end could have been like that too. It was supposed to be a ride-off finale, sun setting, lover close by. But you knew how it really ended: no touches beneath the covers, no kiss in the driving rain, just a desperate moment on your knees.