Two Ships

March 30th, 1997 (6.18 a.m.)

Booker sat on the edge of the rumpled bed, his shoulders slumped, his mind numb. Tom’s bandanna dangled from between his thumb and forefinger, a tangible reminder of all he had lost. On the nightstand, a message printed in his lover’s messy hand expressed a final goodbye, the heartfelt words forever seared in his heart.

I wish we could have stayed like this forever.

It was a testament of love from a man who, in a matter of hours, had shown him what it was like to feel real love. A chance meeting had brought them together before Tom had vanished from his life like the figments of a dream, leaving no address, no phone number, no trace of his existence except a handwritten note and a worn piece of material. Booker’s loss was palpable, and balling the bandanna in his hand, he stared at the empty bottle of scotch sitting on the bar. He would never have believed a one-night stand could hurt so much. But it did. It burned, and knowing he had no control over the outcome, made the hurt that much more difficult to bear. His lover was gone, and he only had himself to blame.

If only he’d done things differently.

Finis