The Lost Language of Cranes Read Online Free PDF

opportunity should present itself now when he wanted more than anything else to be alone in his wretchedness and indulge it. Was there time? Was he too exhausted? Would he be able to muster an erection? Old questions woke in him. He had not done anything like this for months. And he was so tired.
    He sighed loudly. As if absently, he put his hand on the man's thigh. His eyes on the screen, he felt his way up the denim to the warm knot of the crotch and labored there.
    The man's breath was deep and erratic. His hand was on Owen's leg. And now Owen slowly pulled the zipper down, felt the thing spring with a flash of heat, lunge against the thin, warm cotton fabric of the man's underwear. He watched as the boy on the screen, though protesting, was once again taken by the cop, once again loved it. The man was breathing fire on Owen's shoulder. Cautiously Owen bent toward him, and an arm barred him from leaning over the armrest. Owen looked into the man's face for direction. It was a kind face, unblemished, worried. "Please," the man whispered. "I can't do it here. Please. Can't we go somewhere else?"
    Owen's hand lifted spasmodically. He looked at the screen, as if for guidance. On the screen, the cop said, "Yeah, shit, yeah."
    The man wanted to go somewhere else. He sat hunched in his chair, his fly open, an erection tenting his underwear. He looked at Owen. "I have a place nearby; we could go there," he said, and Owen opened his mouth and looked the other way. He imagined saying yes, imagined how they would have to walk out of the theatre, exchange names, perhaps shake hands; how they would have to talk about their jobs and lives on the way to wherever they were going (what could he say?); worst of all, how they would have to admit to each other in the broad light of day that they had come, each alone, to that dark room on Third Avenue, that heart of shame and lonely self-indulgence, and thereby acknowledge each other as human beings and not just shadows that float in a theatre and mimic, moment by moment, the flickering gestures of giants on a screen. Owen knew how to touch; with his hands he could be gentle, fierce, seductive. But in fifteen years of coming to this theatre he had never uttered a word to one of his partners; he hardly knew where to begin.
    He shook his head. The man rustled nervously; Owen wouldn't meet his gaze. "Thanks," he said. "Maybe some other time." In an instant he was gone. Owen thought suddenly of getting up and following him, but he seemed to be frozen to his seat. He fell back, deflating. In a few hours his desire to make love to that man, to hold that man, would become so acute that it would be practically unbearable. He would lie in bed and remember every tiny touch, and finally he would have to get up, turn on the shower, lean back against the wall and feel the warm water moisten his skin. The next day only enough hope would live in him to allow him to feel regret. By evening, it would be dead; starved.
    He pulled his coat tight around his waist and stood up. At home, he knew, there was cake; there was always cake. There were books, too. It was cold outside, so it would be warm inside. Home would sustain him for a single night, and by the time the panic set in the next morning, he'd be on his way to work. Survival was possible.
    He noticed a small flash of white on the seat next to his. It was a piece of paper. He looked at it for a few seconds before picking it up and unfolding it. On the piece of paper was written, in a small, blue hand, "Alex Melchor." Then two phone numbers, one followed by a "W." the other by an "H." Underneath, underlined twice, "Please give me a call."
    Owen read the note over again. He looked around himself, at the shadows in the theatre. He looked at his hands, at the empty seat, at the screen.
    Then he folded the piece of paper up, stuck it in his pocket, and headed out the exit door.
    Outside, the wind was heavy and snow was falling in the darkness. Owen walked