Below the Boarder

Chapter 1 Never underestimate a man’s sexiness; this is what I always say. Whether he is the boy next door, mechanic down the street, or the banker who works in the city, never miscalculate his raw beauty. I meet Dayton O’Hare at Marcello’s Grocerette on Mifflo Street in downtown Templeton, which sits approximately six miles south of Erie, Pennsylvania. Both of us stand in the check-out line with a few groceries. I hold a loaf of twelve-grain bread, half gallon of pulp-free orange juice, and a box of frozen turkey burgers. Dayton holds a two-liter bottle of Sprite, box of Saltines, and two bags of chocolate chips. There is some kind of bizarre, yet familiar, connection between us. Perhaps it is serendipity at work, drawing us together. Whatever it is, neither of us refute it, smile at each other, and nod our heads, offering simple greetings. Dayton takes me in from head to toe and apparently appreciates that my six foot frame is muscled, a sign that I obviously work out. Maybe he likes my walnut-colored eyes, onyx-colored hair, and my Italian dark skin. Perhaps he wants to graze fingers along my clean-shaven cheeks and chin and touch my forty-four year old flesh with desire. What he can’t tell about my looks is elementary. I teach a number of English-related classes at West End College, I’m the youngest of six brothers, and the last “real” relationship I had with a man was over two years ago. It’s my turn to take in the strawberry-blond gem in front of me, who had to be half my age. I scan his structure from head to toe and pile details between my temples: six-two frame, approximately 190 pounds, muscular build that smells of gasoline, grease, and oil, forest green eyes, pencil point-size freckles cover the bridge of his nose, PLAYER written across his tight yellow T-shirt, denim jeans snug against his muscular thighs, work boots on size twelve feet. “I’m Dayton O’Hare,” he says. I believe he will shake my hand, but both of our arms are filled with provisions. I nod my head and reply, “Nino Spiro. Nice to meet you.” I honestly can’t recall exactly how we begin a conversation. I think he mentions the afternoon June weather with its blue skies and light wind. I concur that it is a beautiful day out and at some point I mention my three-bedroom Cape Cod on Cromley Way. He makes a joke about needing a place to live because his current situation with his two sisters and their shared apartment is not working out for his best interest. The next thing I know, he moves into the attic bedroom and agrees to pay me three hundred dollars a month for rent. This is how I become below the boarder. No lies mentioned.