San Francisco — 1987 Endings

They have reached the door of the Tailgate. It is locked but Aidan does not need a key. It opens at his touch like a lover’s thighs, soundlessly, letting darkness enter.

“I’m Aidan. Won’t you come in?”

Pamela can’t resist. She is lost in the deep indigo of his eyes, drawn by his scent, so different than Neil’s. Aidan smells of the unknown and unknowable, of deep places and of danger.

Held in the elevator’s embrace, they rise through the silent building. Aidan wants to talk to her; for the first time, he longs for more than conquest and ashes, but he has no words. He is unschooled in the poetry of language, ignorant of the vocabulary of emotion.

They enter his room, feet not even touching the floor. He holds her, cool as a river, cool as she. Turning toward the night dark window, she sees the reflection of an empty room over neon sky. Yet, in spite of the emptiness, she knows he is not one of her kind, knows she is not safe.