Love Is in the Script

Chapter 1

Love Is in the Script

By David O. Sullivan

London biked through the older neighborhood on his way home from work. It could be the set for a movie in a quaint town with mowed lawns and established landscaping, sporting community pride. Bicycling was better than hiding in his lonely apartment, and besides, he enjoyed being out in the summer sun. He loved that he saved gas and didn’t contribute to the Earth’s pollution by driving his car.

His birthday was a week ago. Thirty, gay, and unattached. The stereotype dogged him. And not a card or call from his parents. He replayed snippets of failed relationships, edging him toward sadness. At least he felt like the wounds healed and only the scars remained.

A rumbling growl startled him back to the present. In the middle of the street stood a huge furry creature, eyes set on London, making London’s heart pound. The long full tail, pointed ears, and now barking convinced him it was a dog. London figured he couldn’t outrun it, so he dismounted, keeping his bike between the dog and him as it lurched, backing him up.

He yelled in his baritone voice, “Hello, who owns this dog?” It circled and lunged, forcing London to the sidewalk in front of a house. “Come on, let me go. You’re scaring the s**t out of me.”

Silently, the dog stared at London, blocking any attempt to escape, but he took tiny steps closer. London backed.

He had no idea how to deal with a dog that could pass for a bear with reddish-black hair that blew majestically in the breeze. London weighed 150 pounds. The creature was bigger.

London’s guts churned in fear, and his heart pounded. He heard a whistle, like a cop’s, over the pounding of blood in his head. The dog looked off, and like a sheep dog, he herded London up the walk of the house.

Then a loud and sharp whistle blast.

A weak voice called, “Kuma, come.”

London called. “Hello, is this your dog?”

“Thank God. Help me.”

The dog ran to a fallen woman in the front yard behind a bush.

London set his bike aside. His eyes widened at a small, older woman in an old shirt and jeans.

“Help me inside, please.”

She was sixty-something, lying on her back with vacant eyes. The creature licked her face.

London reached for his cell phone. “I’ll call an ambulance.”

“No! My blood sugar is just low.”

She held a hand out, and London got her on her feet, keeping a wary eye on the circling dog-bear whose tail wagged. His open mouth made it look like he was smiling. The woman’s knees buckled, and London easily cradled her in his arms. He was shorter than average but strong.

London settled the woman on the couch. Kuma jumped next to her, head in her lap.

Worried, London asked, “What can I do?”

In barely a whisper, she said, “Orange juice. ‘frigerator.”

London rushed off, returning with juice in a glass. She drank. Kuma’s head rested in her lap, looking saint-like.

“Ohhh, that helps.” The woman’s voice was stronger. She reached to London. Their hands touched, and she squeezed. “I owe you. I’m Angela.”

“I’m London. Your bear herded me to you.”

She smiled and kissed Kuma’s head. He rolled to his back, taking up the rest of the seven-foot couch. She pointed to the mantle. “Hand me my cell, please.” She texted.

He scanned the tidy, compact living room. There were elegant tieback curtains and flowers in vases around the room with shiny wooden floors. The couch had a warm red rose pattern; a large screen TV hung on the wall. There was a fragrance, comfortable like a home. He checked out built-in bookcases with a clutter of books except for a neat collection that got his attention. London ghosted his hand over it, smiling.

“I texted my son. If I don’t confess what happened and he finds out, I’ll get a lecture. I should have had the phone with me. My bad.”

London smiled at her vernacular and texting skills. Color returned to her face, and a sparkle grew in her eyes.

She made tea, and they chatted with her worming her way into his heart with a hearty laugh and deep, penetrating eyes. She ate a small meal. Her smile lit her face and the room. She easily chatted about her career as a teacher, falling in love with her late husband, childbirth of her only child, and hysterectomy without disdain, unlike his parents, always proper, never showing too much.

Angela talked of her son’s career with the San Jose Police Department, the first openly gay male officer. “Joel’s always been such a good boy.” She proudly showed London the array of family pictures on a hall table with Joel the tallest.

London never felt at ease in other homes, afraid he’d do or say something wrong, but he easily relaxed, feeling the comfort oozing from the walls, and Angela with her soft, loving voice.

She feathered a picture of her son. “He broke so many hearts.”

“I can see why.” London stared at the tanned man, about his age with bedroom eyes, a confident smile, and puffy lips made for kissing. Or sucking c**k. He smiled to himself. He pointed to the bookcase. “You’re a fan of A.C. Malone? I have every book.”

A playful grin grew on her face. “Usually horny women or gay men read that genre.”

London chuckled. “I’m out.”

The Cheshire cat would be jealous of her deepening smile. “I wrote them.” There was pride in her voice.

London’s mouth fell open, but after a moment, he closed it.

“My name is Angela Conchetti and I write under A.C. Malone. Malone is my mother’s maiden name.”

London crowed, “I just got the latest one, In the Hand of Fate.”

“It’s In the Fist of Fate, dear. You know what a fist is for when it’s not punching?” She winked. His face heated.

* * * *

Peddling home, the pictures of handsome Joel filled London’s thoughts. He took a hot shower, a variety of s*x scenes from Angela’s books flashing through his mind.

The next day after work, London changed into dress slacks and a pink shirt and drove to Angela’s for, as she insisted, his thank you dinner. She was on the front porch, reading to the beast. She set her book down, sporting a welcoming smile. Kuma barked, wagging his tail.

Angela chuckled. “Kuma, say hello.”

Kuma trotted forward, plopping both paws on London’s shoulders, looking down at him. He moaned as though trying to talk.

Laughing, London asked, “What breed is he?”

“Long-haired German Shepherd, and Kuma is Japanese for bear. Look up Shilo Shepherd sometime.” Angela snapped her fingers, and Kuma returned to her. “Let’s go inside.”

The scent of baking bread welcomed him.

“Do you know how to make a salad?”

“Yup, love to cook.”

“Good. Will you get the salad stuff from the fridge?” She handed him a pink frilly apron. “We’re having a vegetarian casserole, stir-fried veggies with an Asian sauce, homemade whole grain bread, and a berry cobbler. Hope you don’t mind helping. I love teamwork. Taught my son to cook.” Her pat on his back, so simple, seemed so friendly and loving, a far cry from the way he was raised in a mostly sterile household.

They got to work while she played a CD of Frank Sinatra, her singing along in an obviously experienced voice.

Casually, she asked, “Did you come out on purpose or were you outed?”

“I’d rehearsed, and during an argument with my parents, who were always unhappy with my average grades and other things, I said ‘Here’s something else to hate me for. I’m gay.’” He stopped working on the salad, staring at the wall. In a hollow voice, he said, “They said they didn’t hate me. What they didn’t say hurt worse. After that, it was easy to tell others.”

Angela pulled him into a mother’s hug.

After a minute, he said, “Thank you. I’m okay.”

“I don’t think you’re okay, but we won’t go into it now.”

Yes, he was love-starved in more ways than one.

They chatted like old buds. She asked, “I noticed your uniform yesterday. You’re a bus driver?”

“County transit. Seven years. I was young to be hired with them, but I never had a ticket or accident since I got my license at sixteen.” He adjusted his invisible halo and grinned.

“Seven years. As long as Joel’s been on the PD.”