I closed, he stayed

(Creative Nonfiction)

Words by Darryl T. Torino (he/him) 

When you work in hospitality, you learn unspoken rules — the quiet indulgences nobody talks about in the interview or training, but everyone understands. Booze, shift after shift, chasing the high of a good night, or numbing the pain of a bad one. The exhaustion, the raw-nerved tension of a Saturday night rush. Your body hums after 12 hours on your feet, but you get the eight o’clock buzz. Everyone needs a release. 

He was the release. 

You’d expect front staff to be made of gays. But in a sea of straight chaos, it was just us two. We danced the floor service, balancing plates, elongated looks, reading tables, reading each other. The inevitable crept in slowly and soft. Summer in the city stretched out, humid and sweaty. Every night was late, smoking after our shift. He told me he was leaving in February. Three months is a long time, I told myself.  

That night didn’t feel important. I closed, he stayed. Just us and our manager in the quiet afterglow. We sat at the bar, knocking back drinks, words dissolving in the thick Summer air. Then he led me through the kitchen, the smell of Bun-cha permeating my nose. We sat on milk crates, got high, the city pressing in around us. It was an excavation, a relentless digging into each other’s worlds. Then he moved, knees touching mine, the hesitation flickering and burning out. His mouth on mine, my hands in his hair.  

Raw, hungry. Everything I’d been waiting for. 

For a week, we went to work, made out, smoked cigarettes on the curb, drove to lookouts in the dark. We almost fucked right there on a bench. We didn’t. And the week ended.  

An hour before work, he picked me up, drove, and told me we should stop seeing each other. Just like that. 

God, the reasons, stupid, ridiculous, but in-the moment, I said nothing. Didn’t tell him he was grasping at reasons instead of admitting he was scared. I sat there, agreeing like we both believed it. 

For a whole week, nothing. No texts, no calls. Just space, pure, maddening space. 

Days later, we walked to a bar, liquor and cigarette smoke in the dim glow of neon. I sat, bracing for whatever self-inflicted torment he was about to unload. He was so in his head, like I was some theoretical equation instead of a body sitting across from him. Just say yes. Just let it happen.  

He looked me in the eyes and threw words down like a rope bridge between us. Suddenly, I saw him the way he wanted to be seen. The war waging in his mind. The push and pull. The wanting. The fear.  

I told him, “Fine. Think about it. But I’m not waiting two weeks.” 

December slipped through the cracks. We drank, celebrated, drank more. He showed up. Of course he did. This night ended like the black hole of all great nights. Somehow, we made it to mine. We took ketamine, played Cluedo. Just us two, silent, waiting. I expected a polite goodbye. 

Instead, he stood at the foot of my bedroom stairs, met my eyes, and gestured up. 

I followed. I had my answer. 

I waited one whole month. Not out of coyness, but because I had to know. Had to feel it in my gut that this wasn’t just some fevered Summer fuck ready to burn out.  

When it finally happened, it was a glorious collapse of limbs and breath and sweat and skin. After the first time, I didn’t ever want to stop. 

The Summer blurred, tangled sheets and bitten lips, my name on his tongue like a prayer. Stars behind my eyelids, body-wracking, earth-shattering. I passed out once from sheer pleasure. Opened my eyes to him laughing, fingers tracing my hip, whispering, “You good?” 

I was more than good. 

February slammed into us. I blinked and time ran out. No grand monologue, just a shared unspoken ache swelling in our chests. I hugged him, kissed him. The kiss felt hollow. I watched him walk to his car from the balcony. This was not our ending. 

So, I ran. No thoughts. Down the stairs, to his car. The door swung open. We kissed. This time, it was different. Desperate. Like that first night behind the restaurant when everything felt uncontained. We weren’t saying goodbye. We were saying everything never said. 

Then he drove off, leaving me with the taste of him still in my mouth.