You wake up disoriented, fuzzy. Your knees hurt, you do know that. Your phone is in your lap, it is warm from being connected to the charging cable. There is a large polyp you are resting your head on. Wait, no, that’s a neck pillow. Your knees hurt because you are eighteen feet tall (okay, maybe just a smidge over six feet) and you are crammed into a seat on a Frontier airlines jet. It all comes back to you now: you are going to see Denver, and to see Brian.

Just a week or two before, you were at work and getting ready for a couple days off. You and Brian were texting, and on a whim you looked at flights and found a ridiculously cheap one. Well, it was cheap, but at what cost? You’d heard horror stories about bargain airlines, and yes, you were pretty cramped in the seat (when you first got on the plane you rubbed your eyes to make sure it wasn’t an optical illusion: how the hell did they fit so many seats on this plane?), but otherwise it was fine for a cheap ticket. And how the hell privileged would you be, to complain about the opportunity to travel to meet a friend and see their city?

You and Brian met on social media back in early 2017; you don’t remember who made the first move but chances are you probably started flirting first. Over the past two years, the interest and availability waxed and waned. You both staged elaborate, ahem, photo shoots for each other, then he was seeing someone, then you were seeing sweet Chris for a few months, then Brian’s cancer came back. Eventually he beat it, regained his strength and resumed his life. And here you are, as you get your small bag out of the overhead compartment; not enough space for an airplane photo shoot today. “If this is your final destination, welcome to Denver.”

It is early and you are still fighting the Xanax grogginess. You need to take it to fly, but you were careful to take just a sliver for such a short flight from Portland. You literally spin in place once you get to downtown’s Union Station, because it’s early morning and the sun hasn’t risen yet to get your bearings. You pick a direction to wander off towards.

It becomes quickly clear that you are in the Chipotle District. It is filled with businesses that may have just closed a few hours earlier, with names like Four Fingered Freddy’s, Coyote Fugly, and Illegal Pete’s (one of these is not made up). These bars have dark, sticky wood floors and sigh as you pass them. You find a Starbucks and wait for Brian to wake up.

Presently, he’s up! You wander over to the train station again to wait for him. The train station is spotless, it looks like a Z Gallerie fucked a West Elm and the music is modern and angry and determined to keep houseless people out. There are lyrics and I can’t tell if she’s singing “hands creepin up my neck” or “sour cream in my bed”. We hear what we want to hear.

Brian enters the station. Even sleepy, he is dreamy. But you’ve been through this before: sometimes with dizzyingly great results, sometimes crushingly disappointing. Going on a long distance first date is practicing the art of not predicting outcome, and you are a black belt expert at managing your own expectations: every time a throwing star of feelings comes at you, you deflect it like a ninja. Ok, so maybe you’re overextending and mixing the metaphors.

You’ve done this before, lest we forget. Beginning with Michael in Chicago, when you guys courted and then you moved to Chicago for him for a few years, and more recently with the couple you dated last summer and Emmett in Missoula, there’s something about dating guys over distance that doesn’t daunt you. It’s like dating someone who loves closeby but who is very, very busy. It’s periods of missing each other punctuated by intense, sensual whirlwinds of emotional and physical intimacy when you see each other. And besides: you are busy. Between your day job and your artistic life, this gives you permission to focus on your life, and you invite each other in when you can.

It’s not for everyone. You like to get to the “exclusive” part quickly. As much as you celebrate the many permutations of modern dating and coupling (and thripling), in your heart you’re a one-man guy. And as with all things, the more you live in this world, the more refined your tastes get.

You travel to Brian’s place; it’s in the New Condos with Stucco district. His place is cute and you pass out as he heads to work for a couple hours. You sit up probably an hour later. There is a ginger cat there, staring at you. It looks almost exactly like your ex David, but in cat form. It clears its throat, then speaks.

“Hello.”

“Uh. Hello. Um, are you my ex?”

“No, of course not.”

“Well, you say “of course” like I should know that’s impossible. When you’re literally a cat talking to me.”

“Okay.” The two of you stare at each other. The cat has kind eyes, like David. “So, it’s none of my business, but shouldn’t you be getting over him already? It’s been years.”

“I don’t know. Maybe there’s a part of me that admits I don’t want to.” I feel like I can hear my therapist back in Portland start to scream.

“You should work on that. It is probably getting in the way of you connecting with guys you date.”

“Like, how are you even forming words? Cats don’t have lips.”

“Stop deflecting. Also, have you considered that dating long distance is a way to keep from opening up too much? It’s so rare that these guys want to keep dating over distance; its like you’re setting yourself up for failure on purpose.”

Your eyes widen. You lean over the edge of the bed, find one of your socks on the floor, ball it up and throw it at the ginger cat, who looks at it as it falls short in front of it, lazily walks away with its tail in the air. You lie back down.

When you wake up you wander around and explore the city. You find your second home in the Wizard’s Chest, you see an amazing exhibit at the Denver Museum, you deride the city for claiming its territory as Southwest but then proceed to eat some of the best TexMex meals you’ve ever eaten.

You and Brian spend time getting to know each other and he’s a lovely tour guide. Over a meal of 1,000 tacos, you finally bring it up.

“Does that cat, uh, have a name?”

“Oh yeah, that’s Peter, my housemate’s cat.”

“He’s really adorable. Uh do you ever notice him doing anything unusual?’

“No not really, he’s a pretty normal cat.”

That night the two of you go out, take a tour of Denver gay bars and meet really interesting, beautiful people. The last place you end up is Charlie’s, a western themed gay bar with a back patio that somehow reminds you of a cattle chute into a charnel house. You both drink too many whisky gingers and stumble back into Brian’s place, flop down on his bed. You make your move, but Brian’s too sleepy and pushes you gently away. You turn over. Fuck. There’s Peter the cat.

“Feeling rejected?” he asks.

“Fuck off, Peter.”

“I mean it in the kindest way, I promise. But can I say…?” he tapers off, looks thoughtful.

“What?”

“I mean. Dude. You’re 45. Shouldn’t you be impervious to feeling rejection by now? You’re an Elder now, you should be rejecting others. Giving advice on how people can get their shit together.”

“I’m pretty buzzed right now. Can we save this for another time? Also, David never once called me “dude”.”

“I told you, I’m not him. I just look like him.” he pauses, rears his head back, then suddenly and loudly expels a wet hairball on the carpet. He walks away, his point made.

The rest of your time in Denver is exciting, as it is in any new city. You go to Drag Brunch with your friends Scott and Luke, spend time wandering around the Chipotle District more, and float through the aquarium. All in all, it’s a short and sweet weekend.

The plane starts taxiing as you think about the weekend. You don’t know what the future holds for you and Brian, but at the very least you’ve solidified a two year friendship. As you reach for your phone, the text appears from an unknown number: “Hey.”

You cautiously text back: “Hey…?”

“It’s Peter the cat.”

“Oh. How did you get my number?”

“I got it from Brian’s phone. Hey, I’m sorry if I was too hard on you the other night.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that.”

“The truth is, you’re right where you should be. No one has a standard timeline for healing, and at least you’re self aware. Just stop looking for your happiness outside yourself.”

“Wow, that’s great. Can I quote that in Mylar balloons?”

“Ha-ha, smartass. Safe flight.”

The plane takes off, the xanax takes hold, and you tuck your face into your neck pillow, close your eyes. You hope for sleep without dreams of regret, sleep without dreams of second chances. For the first time in awhile, you sleep the whole flight through.