In a hundred ways, he’s perfect. Esau’s intelligent. He’s sweet. He has a quick spark in his eye and he’s generous with his big, lopsided smile. He’s energetic, observant, and gentle, comfy and hospitable in what most men would wield as an intimidating body. He makes me laugh, he makes me feel witty and sexy, and he f***s like a champ. If he was fifteen—hell, five—years older, they’d put me in a straitjacket for not falling in love with him. So I buy a bottle of wine and a loaf of bread and pretend not to know that we’re going to have to bolt through dinner so I can be gone before my boyfriend gets in big trouble with his dad.
Esau lives in a rambling brick fortress on a sprawling corner lot west of City Park in a neighborhood that was tree-lined and lush even when it passed for Denver’s
