Page 84 of Isaac

"I know."

We stand shoulder to shoulder for what seems like an eternity, gazing at Las Vegas as it unravels before us, a ribbon spun of neon and sin.

A symphony of car horns and phantom jingle of slot machines plays backup to our silence, filling the hot evening air with an electricity that buzzes against my skin.

With trembling hands, I slide out a pack of cigarettes from my jacket's pocket. The crinkle of the paper in my grip echoes the crunch of gravel beneath our feet. I coax two cigarettes into life. One for him, one for me.

He accepts his without saying a word, our fingers brushing in the process and I’m slammed with a whole array of emotions that's been building up in me all day today. Such a small connection sears through my composure like hot iron through ice. It's unnerving—feeling. I've forgotten how it is and now that it's coming back it scares the shit out of me.

"You hungry?" I ask, trying to sound casual.

"I could eat." He takes a drag and holds the smoke in his lungs for a few heartbeats before letting it slip from his nose and from between his lips.

The scent of burning tobacco intertwines with the dry desert air around us and every inhale tastes like riot—bitter, tangy but undeniably thrilling.

"I know a place," I supply.

"I bet you do."

"What can I say? I like good food."

"Who doesn’t?"

"You should see the junk Hector eats. It's a wonder that his liver hasn't staged a rebellion."

Hawk laughs and his laugh is soft and languid and it gets to me just like it did before. "And I ain't laying blame on Grandma."

"She gotta make a living too, right?"

The 'Grandma' we speak of is the steely-eyed ancient woman vending her questionable cuisine during daylight from a rickety cart across the street from the club. Her culinary offerings are as dubious as they are tantalizing. Especially to unlucky souls like Hector who couldn’t fight off their strange allure if he tried.

"I don’t ever want to know what she puts in those dogs," Hawk comments, looking into the distance. His hair is caught is the hot desert wind again and I look at him, really look at him, really drink him in like he’s water and I’m on my deathbed. My insides curl onto themselves.

I know it’s dangerous—to let someone this close to me. To open myself up for weaknesses. But in all of the years I’ve been living as Isaac Thoreau, I never once allowed myself something for me. I will allow it just this once. I will allow myself wantinghim.

With cigarettes burnt to stubs and jokes transforming into silence, we pull ourselves away from our overlook haven and toward the staircase.

Again, he remains unquestioning, moving on my rhythm while I drive through the glittering streets of Vegas until we're at the city's fringes.

There, we roll up to the rear of a building nestled between anonymity and grandeur. A mosaic of businesses resides within its walls, including an exclusive Thai restaurant nestled discreetly amongst clouds and stars atop its three-story frame.

I found out about it last year. A serendipitous discovery during one of those solitary nights at my place nearby when comfort was sought in take-out food surveyed through Uber EATS.

"You don’t mind Thai food?" I ask as we enter the elevator.

Hawk shakes his head. "Not at all."

"Good."

Once inside the restaurant, we are seated at the table near the glass wall that provides us with a perfect panoramic scene of the night city, light stretching and stretching into the darkness of the mountains.

Hawk seems to be comfortable with the cuisine.

"Best Pad Thai in town," I tell him while he skims the menu.

"I was thinking of getting something else—" he peers at me through his dark lashes from across the table and my insides twist again, "—maybe some Gaeng."

"Knock yourself out… But I’m warning you, they don’t hold the spices in this place."

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