Breaking In The Straight - Part 12 (Patreon)

It Could Be Worse

---------Alex’s POV----------

Everyone in this story is 18+

I showed up at my new date five minutes early. My date, Peter was already at the table, waving with both hands like a kid spotting a parent at a school play. It was a little much, but he seemed excited. Honestly, I kind of admired it.

“Alex, hey!” he said, standing up and coming in for a hug before I could react. His hoodie was damp, clinging to him in a way that suggested he had jogged here. “Sorry, I get sweaty when I’m nervous. And also when I’m not nervous.”

“Right. Well, nice to see you again,” I offered, brushing my hands off on my jeans as we sat.

Peter grinned as he flopped back into his seat. His cheeks were flushed, and not in a flattering way, but there was something earnest in his energy. He seemed like he actually wanted this to go well. That was rare. That deserved a chance.

“Hope this place is okay,” I said, unfolding my napkin. “They have a good veggie menu.”

“Oh yeah, totally. I don’t really eat carbs on Tuesdays, but I’ll just drink wine instead.”

He flagged the waiter down and ordered a bottle of red with a kind of breathless confidence, then turned back to me. “So, you’re studying… what again? Psych?”

“Uh, no. Literature. I focus mostly on queer narrative theory…”

“Right! Right. Queer theory. Awesome.” He nodded, clearly not knowing what that meant, but trying not to look confused. “I’m mostly off campus now. Took a year to ‘figure myself out,’ but my mom got laid off so now I’m kind of back. You know how it is.”

“Sure,” I said carefully. “She’s in the area?”

He shrugged. “Sort of. She actually stays with me. I mean, in my place. It’s technically a one-bedroom, but she’s got the closet.”

My eyebrows lifted before I could stop them. “The… closet?”

Peter nodded. “It’s bigger than it sounds. She’s got a yoga mat and a hot plate in there. I keep the laundry basket outside now so she has more floor space.”

There was no sarcasm in his voice. No awareness. Just… facts.

I took an increasingly worried slow sip of my water.

“Anyway,” he said, leaning in with a glint in his eye, “you like trains?”

I paused. “They’re alright, yeah.”

His face lit up like he’d found his soulmate. “God, yes. Finally, someone who gets it. You know, I’ve always said trains are the most intimate form of transportation. It’s like… the perfect blend of engineering and emotion.”

Before I could respond, he launched into a speech. I listened, politely at first. He clearly had the whole thing rehearsed, the rise of the railroads, the tragedy of steam’s decline, the “deeply sensual hum of a well-oiled engine.” I nodded along, tried to find space for follow-up questions, but his rhythm was relentless.

Still, I let him go. I wasn’t sure if I was even more worried or slightly impressed. There was something oddly… refreshing about how much he cared.

But then the appetizers arrived, and things started to turn.

He pulled off his hoodie with a loud sigh, revealing a thick beige sweater covered in cartoon guinea pigs. Not subtle, stylized ones. Literal guinea pigs. In hats. Riding a tiny train.

I blinked. He didn’t acknowledge it at all.

“I have six,” he said mid-bite, gesturing to the sweater. “All rescues. They sleep with me most nights. Super sensitive creatures, you know?”

I cleared my throat. “Must be hard to keep clean.”

“Eh. They’re worth it. I mean, we kiss, obviously. Just tongue stuff. Not gross or anything. Like, dog people do it all the time.”

I set my fork down.

He reached across the table and poured himself another glass of wine, still no gesture toward me  and leaned back with a sigh. Then, without warning, a sharp fart escaped from him, loud and  totally unmistakable.

He didn’t miss a beat. Just pointed behind me.

“Christ, that waiter just farted.”

I slowly turned back to my plate, pressing my lips together to keep from laughing or screaming.

Then he just lit a cigarette. Just… pulled it out, lit it, and took a long drag like this was a French noir film.

Peter reached into his hoodie pocket, pulled out a bent cigarette, and lit it right there at the table.

Before I could react, the waiter appeared as if summoned by smoke signals. “Sir,” she said, her tone clipped, “you can’t smoke in here.”

Peter blinked up at her like she’d just told him gravity was a suggestion. “In my favorite restaurant they let you.”

I couldn’t help myself. “And where’s that restaurant located? Back in 1996?”

He looked at me like I’d just asked what the national dish of Peru was and then kicked a model train off a table.

He stood suddenly. “Bathroom,” he slurred, then wandered off toward the back.

I waited. And waited. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.

The waiter came back, holding the checkbook delicately.

“So… the bill?”

I looked at the empty chair, then back at her.

“Yeah. Looks like it’s all on me.”

She smiled sympathetically. “For the record, I didn’t fart.”

“I know.”

“Also, that sweater should be illegal.”

“Agreed.”

She tilted her head. “Please don’t you dare to tip me. You’ve been through enough. And if you take that half-empty wine bottle with you, I won’t say a word.”

“I think I love you,” I chuckled, picking up the bottle.

◆◆◆

The night air had a soft bite to it. I wandered without a plan until I ended up in a small park across from the library, settling onto a weathered bench with the wine bottle still clutched in one hand like a lifeline. The cap had rolled somewhere into my jacket pocket, but I didn’t bother looking for it.

I took a sip, then another. The wine tasted like vinegar with aspirations, but I was weirdly committed to finishing it. I desperately needed it.

Footsteps approached across the gravel path. I didn’t look up until I heard my name.

“Alex?”

Chad stood a few feet away, breathing hard from a jog. His hoodie clung to his chest with sweat, his hair slightly damp. He looked confused, concerned, maybe a little amused.

I held up the bottle in a toast. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

“Really?” He walked over, squinting. “Because it kinda looks like you’re drinking in a park alone like a middle-aged divorcé.”

“Charming. And almost accurate.”

“Do I want to ask?”

“No. This was… Peter, a date. From that party in June. I thought he was kinda hot.”

Chad blinked. “The sweaty dude who was blackout breakdancing in cowboy boots?”

“Apparently, yes.”

He sat next to me with a grunt, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Okay, spill it.”

I looked at him sideways. “You sure? It’s unhinged.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

I took a swig, then began.

“So first off, he was already sweating when I got there. Like, Olympic sweating. He said it’s a ‘nervous system thing’ but also ‘not related to nerves,’ which makes no fucking sense.”

Chad smirked. “Medical mystery. Hot start.”

“Then he told me his mom lives with him. In the closet of his apartment. Like, the literal coat closet.”

Chad tilted his head. “Wait, is that a metaphor or…”

“Nope. She sleeps on a yoga mat and cooks on a hot plate. And he seemed weirdly proud of this setup.”

Chad whistled low. “Okay, that’s wild.”

“Then,” I continued, “he asked if I liked trains. I said, ‘they’re fine.’ That was apparently code for ‘tell me everything about trains you’ve ever thought in your entire life.’ He went on a ten-minute TED Talk about the emotional resonance of train whistles. Train whistles, Chad.”

He was laughing now, shoulders shaking. “That sounds… oddly on brand.”

“And it only got better. He took off his hoodie and revealed a sweater…”

“Oh no.”

“Covered in cartoon guinea pigs. Wearing conductor hats. Because, yes, he also owns six guinea pigs. Named after train stations.”

“No.”

“Yes. And then, I swear I’m not making this up, he told me he tongue kisses them.”

Chad choked. “What?”

“He said it was ‘normal for dog people,’ and that guinea pigs ‘deserve affection too.’ I wanted to die.”

Chad was bent forward now, laughing uncontrollably, one hand covering his face. I could barely keep a straight face myself.

“And then,” I said, wiping a tear from the corner of my eye, “he farted. Loud. Blamed it on the waiter. Like, pointed at her.”

“No way.”

“He said, and I quote, ‘That waiter again?’ like it was a recurring character in his life.”

“Stop. I’m gonna puke.”

“Oh I’m not done. He ordered a full bottle of wine for himself, this bottle and didn’t offer me any, then lit a cigarette at the table. Inside.”

Chad froze. “In a restaurant?”

“And when the waiter told him to put it out, he slurred, ‘In my favorite restaurant they let you.’ I asked where that was. In 1996?”

Chad fell off the bench.

I let him wheeze for a moment before finishing the story.

“He went to the bathroom and never came back. The waiter brought me the bill, said, and I quote, ‘I didn’t fart.’ Then refused my tip, gave me the wine to-go, and told me I’d suffered enough.”

Chad wiped his eyes, still laughing. “Holy shit, I thought I was a mess.”

“You are,” I said, nudging his shoulder. “But you’re not that kind of mess.”

We passed the wine back and forth for a while, legs stretched out under the moonlight, shoulders brushing now and then. There were no expectations. No power plays. Just… this. Something unspoken, but easy.

It was the most relaxed I’d felt in weeks.

Eventually, we stood. I adjusted my jacket and turned to face him.

“Shouldn’t we just try?” I asked. The words surprised even me, but they felt right.

Chad blinked. His expression shifted, not shocked, exactly, but unsure. Thoughtful even.

He didn’t answer right away.

“I need to think about it,” he said eventually, voice quiet.

I nodded slowly. “Okay.”

We parted at the corner, and I didn’t look back.

But what I didn’t say and what he couldn’t see, was the truth sitting behind my eyes.

I wasn’t going to wait forever.