Ryan is beautiful.  He is my next-door neighbor who moved—next door.  I used to hear him come and go, with sounds like the high-pitched squeak made by his door across the hall every time he opened it; I used to hear the way he'd try with care to quietly close that door and gently turn the key inside the lock.  No jangling keys or slamming doors—the gentle sounds of Ryan.  Now, instead of hearing him come and go, now without sound I glimpse him across the driveway through his windows, when he is home and has the shades up.  It's like I have gone from the days of radio, where the only connection I had to him were the sounds, and I had to fill in all the empty visual space in my imagination, to this silent movie, which consists of lots of images, and not a single sound, at all. 

There was a cute boy at the supermarket tonight, he was watching me, and as I unlocked my bike outside the store, he walked across the street to the darkened park.  He kept glancing back at me to see if I was following; he wanted me to follow.  The humors in which I steep today were only mildly stirred by his offer.  There were days when such inviting glances from a young man entering the shadows on a warm, close summer night would have raised this broth to boil and it would have swept me there faster than my quickened pulse, to whatever lewd encounter the darkness could contain.  Once there I would have done anything he asked, and more, and let him do the same. 

Such recounting here, as I sit at my desk, makes these waters churn in ambivalence.  I wonder if he is still there...  But I am sure he has gone.  As I rode past my fortuitous encounter, another man heaved his gelatinous bulk out from behind the wheel of his Cadillac, and started a heavy trek into the darkness, on the route I would have taken through the darkened park.  I'm sure the boy is now completing something of his intent, or has abandoned it altogether.  Either way the opportunity for me is gone, and knowing this I will try to calm the anxious ebb and flow within my lonely soul. 

Besides, even as I was unlocking my bike, before I had taken note of the park-bound boy, I was contemplating my affection for the kindly conversational and dreadlocked boy, my cashier at the checkout, whom I had noticed on my way in to the store.  He was sweet, and chatted with me in a friendly way, and the small talk with him, at which I failed, was, even though unsuccessful, more along the lines of what I wanted than was a dark and nameless intimacy in the park.  From within my isolation I long for companionship now, rather than anonymity, which once was enough. 

And so I am here, at my desk, noticing movement next-door in the silent movie of Ryan, my tall and handsome neighbor.  He wears white tank-tops around the house, they flatter his physique.  He has a man's shoulders, strong across the back, with full lats and an inspired chest.  Despite this physical capacity for assuming a great burden, Ryan has an unassuming way.  His movements are never abrupt or halting, and his stance is always stable and secure.  He stands up straight, and in conversation he does not look away, yet without nervousness he is animated in speaking, talking with his smile and eyes, quick on the uptake and generously engaging. 

He seems to have a date tonight, that is if he is gay.  Another man is there, the same as Ryan's age, mid- to late-twenties.  He is dark-haired, wears thick black-rimmed glasses, and is tall and skinny; I imagine his legs are hardly the equivalent of Ryan's arms.  "You could do better," I announce aloud in my silent theater.  But maybe they are just friends, not seeking romance at all, going to a movie together on a Friday night.  The geeky one pulls down the shades as they prepare to leave.  For all I know, Ryan could be straight, though something tells me otherwise.  It's the same intuition others have of me, others who have no way of knowing I am gay, but know it nonetheless.  I am hoping Ryan is gay, but I fear it just the same. 

Could he and I be lovers?  In the romance novel I will never write, of course.  I have imagined it many times.  But when such tender desperations are at hand, it is only safe to contemplate their fulfillment in outlandish fantasies, and by unlikely means.  My needs have hurt me in the past, and it is dangerous to handle them in tangible ways that are not remote or improbable, as if, for example, I were to acknowledge to Ryan my attraction for him, over coffee, while we waited for our laundry.  Emotional risks of such tangible proximity are much too close for comfort. 

And do I hope he stumbles upon my musings here, and reads this?  Of course I hope he does.  After all, I am not a total coward.