The Pitcher

I snooped around. I found a balcony. It was mid-September, and the weather was starting toward Fall. I walked onto the balcony, looked over the edge, and collapsed onto the chaise lounge. I star gazed and waited for Cal. At some point, I dozed off. I awoke to Cal shaking my shoulder. He was in black jeans and a white v-necked t-shirt. He was barefooted. His hair was longer than it had been the month before, when he was in Chicago. He looked like Jim Morrison.

“Come inside,” he said. “My neighbors can see this balcony.”

I hadn’t even thought of that. I grabbed my glass and followed him in.

“We have to be smart, Matty Joe. My neighbors can’t know you’re here. It makes no sense for me to have a man as an overnight guest. I have a one-bedroom apartment, and I have enough money to stash a guest in a nearby hotel.”

“I’m sorry, Cal. I didn’t even think about it. I saw the balcony, the night was beautiful, and I decided to enjoy it.”