When Cujo stepped outside the restaurant and walked two blocks, he hadn’t expected the full intensity of Times Square to wallop his senses. All the lights were on and the different screens blasted alternating pictures, advertisements, and music. “Wow, this is amazing.”

“I told you I was going to show you something incredible.”

“You delivered, buddy. You delivered all right. This is epic.” Cujo fished out his cell phone, tapped the camera icon, and took pictures. “Hey, Tristan, stand over there, I want to take some pictures of you.”

Tristan moved so that The Lion King JumboTron was immediately behind him as a Coca Cola sign flashed red and white lights nearby.

Tristan posed effortlessly for Cujo’s camera. The way Tristan walked, talked, and acted reminded him of Brett. Sweet, kind, and shy Brett. Cujo stopped taking pictures and scrolled through the photos of his camera. Tristan had inched closer and Cujo smiled.

“How’d they turn out?” Tristan asked.

“Very beautiful, I think.” Cujo showed him a photo of Tristan smiling. “It doesn’t hurt that the model is pretty attractive.”

“Thanks,” Tristan said. Cujo wasn’t sure with the lighting outside, but Tristan probably blushed at the comment.

“You remind me of someone I knew in college. He was a sweet, kind guy. A little soft. Not in a bad way but just someone who probably didn’t have an ounce of anger or hate toward anyone.”

“If that’s a compliment, I’ll take it,” Tristan said.

“It is.” Cujo showed the rest of the pictures to Tristan. “His name was Brett. And he was my first and only experimentation with the wild side.”

“You’re quoting me a phrase from a Lou Reed song?”

“Yes, I am,” Cujo said. “It’s actually one of my favorite songs. Did you know that David Bowie was one of the producers of that song? And he played guitar for it?”

Tristan nodded. “I love that song, too. So forward for the 70s. You know I think it was the first song about transgendered women and gay men to become popular?” Tristan leaned against a metal rail as they both took in the ever-changing spectacle of lights around them while casually crowd-watching the tourists and locals. “Why do you like it?”

“I just like the feeling the lyrics conveyed and the tempo,” Cujo said.

Cujo wanted to admit that he’d first heard it when Brett had played the song for him. Brett had explained the lyrics when they were both high on pot at the frat house. Then Brett leaned over unzipped Cujo’s pants and jacked him off to Lou Reed and later to Billy Squier’s, “The Stroke.”

“I love this place! I love this city,” Tristan said. “I thought I’d miss Florida but I don’t.”

Cujo laughed. “You know, I’m starting to fall in love with it, too.” And maybe it’s because of you. “Hey, if you’re ready to go, let’s grab a taxi. I don’t want to ride the subway back, if it’s okay. I want to see the lights of the city from the cab.”

“Fine by me,” Tristan said.

It didn’t take them long to stop a taxi as several had dropped off tourists in the same area. Once inside, they settled in the back seat. “Let me text you some of the pictures I took.”

Tristan handed Cujo his cell phone so Cujo could punch his number in and Tristan texted him a greeting text. Hey.

Hey back. Cujo typed before he sent a few pictures. “I had a good time tonight.”

“Good. I’m glad.”