Down Memory Lane

Chapter 1 Vincent O’Keefe hadn’t stepped foot into a bookshop for years. Despite being an avid reader, it was cheaper to buy e-books, and while he missed the luxuriously comforting smell of a new hardcover, the price and convenience of downloading books meant he had no need to visit a shop. It was only because of the sudden heavy downpour that he entered Holbrook’s Bookshop and Café. The large umbrella he carried would have been next to useless in such horrendously inclement conditions, and besides, the way the weather had been, the rain would soon pass. He began to wander the aisles and realised he was smiling. It gave him pause for thought that an impromptu visit to a bookshop should produce in him such feelings of happiness and well-being. “Good morning, sir,” said a fresh-faced girl, carrying an armful of books. “May I help you with something, or are you just sheltering from the rain?” Vincent couldn’t help being slightly taken aback by the girl’s forthrightness. She laughed. “It’s okay, sir. You’re welcome to browse. It’s really coming down out there, isn’t it?” The girl’s friendly manner put Vincent at ease. “It sure is.” He lifted his umbrella to draw attention to it. “And I don’t think this would do me much good.” “I shouldn’t think so. Anyway, I’ll let you get on with it. Just call out if you need any assistance.” Vincent watched the girl continue down the aisle, putting a book on one of the shelves. In one corner of Holbrook’s, he discovered an LGBT section, and near the bottom of the shelves, a selection of photographic books. He picked one at random and began flicking through pages upon pages of naked and semi-naked men, each one square-jawed and impossibly gorgeous, their bodies so ripped he doubted there was enough fat on any of them to fry a chicken wing. It got boring very quickly. He was about to close the book when he glimpsed a photograph that caught his attention. Initially, he couldn’t understand why that particular picture, out of the myriad bland glamour shots, should leap out at him. As he examined the model, his strong jaw and sexy, self-confident half-smile, he wondered why the man’s face seemed vaguely familiar. He knew he’d never met the man. Not for a moment did he think he had. Nevertheless, he couldn’t shake the sense of connection he felt with the man staring out at him from the glossy page. A name began to form on the tip of his tongue. D…De…Da…David? Darren? Daryl? Daniel? Daniel! Yes, Daniel. Then he remembered. Daniel McClary. He’d dated Daniel McClary over twenty years ago. The most handsome partner he’d ever had, and was ever likely to. In all honesty, Mr. McClary wouldn’t have looked out of place on any of the pages in this publication. He closed the book, temporarily lost in a dream of days gone by. Of days spent with the divine Daniel McClary. He smiled as he recalled mornings when he used to be the first of them to wake up. He’d spend the first few minutes of his day watching Daniel sleeping. He’d lean across and kiss him on the lips, sometimes stirring him enough to draw him from his dreams, and sometimes not. And then, when Daniel finally did wake, they’d kiss. His smile broadened as he remembered those gentle, tender kisses, so delicate and loving. Daniel would take Vincent in his arms and their naked bodies would press together, their arms lovingly pulling each closer to the other. Sometimes they’d make slow, unhurried love, completely opposite to the wild, unbridled s*x they’d had the previous evening. Then his smile faded when he remembered the way everything had ended. But he didn’t want to dredge all that up again. Why would he? Having gone through it once had been more than enough. Besides, he wanted to remember the happy times he’d spent with Daniel; the bliss they’d experienced the majority of the time. Vincent glanced towards a nearby window and noticed the rain had eased. He replaced the book on its shelf and exited the bookshop. When he arrived home, he logged onto the Internet. He opened his f*******: page and typed Daniel McClary into the search box. There were twelve Daniel McClarys, but the one he wanted was in the top position. He clicked on the name. The page came up, and suddenly Vincent’s eyes were everywhere at once. Photographs showed that Daniel had gone grey and his hairline had receded, but he was still devastatingly attractive. As far as Vincent was concerned, the grey hair made him even more appealing. There were a lot of pictures of him with someone whom Vincent assumed was his partner. And children. Further examination revealed they were his children. The ones he’d had with his partner. And he was living in England. Vincent felt a twinge of guilt as he examined Daniel’s page, perhaps only slightly less guilty than if he’d been reading the man’s diary. It was difficult to describe what else he experienced as he looked through Daniel’s photo album. He felt joy that Daniel was happy and a family man, but also a sense of loss. Had circumstances been different, it might have been him in the photos with Daniel. And he also felt desire. The man was still so handsome, so heart-achingly handsome, but he’d never been arrogant. Many men Vincent had met over the years, men who weren’t as drop-dead gorgeous as Daniel, had had tickets on themselves. They’d strutted about as if they owned the place, as if their good looks meant the masses owed them adoration. But not Daniel. He’d always been down-to-earth and quietly confident. He’d been caring and gentle. He’d been friendly, talking to anyone who wanted to talk to him. People of both sexes had flocked to his side, drawn in by his looks and mesmerised by his charisma. Vincent sighed and returned to Daniel’s main page. He wondered whether to say “hello.” Or perhaps a “poke” might be wiser. But Daniel had disabled the “poke” option. What about a message then? What would he say? Remember me? And the point? Daniel had a husband and children. He lived in another country, halfway around the world. They might “friend” each other and exchange a few messages, a few reminiscences. Or Daniel might want to leave the past in the past. Vincent logged out of f*******:. He closed his laptop, but remained seated, his hands resting on the top of his computer and his eyes staring into space. He half-regretted ever looking in that damned photographic book. Images of Daniel swam about in his mind’s eye. Memories came flooding back. And with them, a tsunami of feelings and emotions.