You see him, the guy at the bus station, the guy with the buzzcut and the tattoos talking fast with a crew of other guys dressed just like him: baggy gray sweatpants, white tank tops, snapbacks with the Detroit Tigers "D" stitched bright white on navy blue. You see him, the guy loudly saying fuck this, saying fuck that, you see him laugh at one of the guys who talks back. You see him laugh as you stand there waiting for the bus, and there's a hole where a front tooth should be and you wonder what happened, how long has it been missing and does it bother him, when he smiles in pictures does he keep his lips together, you wonder when he smiles in pictures who's there behind the camera. You see his tattoos are all flowers, they blossom down his bare arms and around his neck, peonies closed tight in buds, peonies fully bloomed and tipping heavy on their stems, peonies like the ones your mother likes, fat and pink, dripping puddles of rain water and tiny black ants on a marble counter, you see they're pink but also red and mauve, purple, you see leaves unfurling and green, you see he's a little soft in the shoulders and chin, but that hole, that square absence is sharp, edged in silver, and another tooth catches the glint of sunlight, and you can't see the pink meat of his tongue, but you want to, so you play the if-then game with yourself. You see an older woman approach the bench where he rests one foot, where the guys with him do the same, no one is sitting, but the whole bench is taken up and you decide that if he offers her the bench, then you will smile at him, and if you smile at him and he smiles back then you'll take whatever bus is his and if you take the same bus then you'll find a way to sit near him. And if you sit near him, then you'll have a conversation in which you'll find him funny, smart, possibly a reader, yes, a reader of mysteries and science fiction, you'll find he is not the type of person to hide his smile just because of a missing tooth, and if he's at all like you imagine him then you'll ask him to coffee or a movie, and if that goes well, you'll take him home with you, to the unmade dark of your bedroom, and in the tangle of sheets you'll poke your tongue through the hole of that tooth, you'll climb through that hole like a window, so you are cushioned by the soft, hot, wet of his mouth, and you'll fall in love with the garden of his body, you'll fall in love fast, both of you, he'll say it's because you were bold enough to smile at him, to believe a guy like him could be queer too, bold enough to sit with him, a stranger at a bus station, and after you fall in love you'll take him to Thanksgiving with your family, you want to believe they will love him, this guy from the bus station who is probably a tattoo artist, or a bouncer, or a line cook, and you imagine that when you take him home for the holidays your mother will say oh my gosh peonies, those are my favorite, and he'll tell your dentist father the story of how he lost his tooth, but never let it hold him back in life, and your dad will be impressed, he'll say son, you know I can fix that tooth for you, but the guy from the bus station will say no thank you, sir, and your family will respect that he won't take a handout, they'll like him so much it will make sense that they never liked any of your other boyfriends, and your mom will even thank you for bringing him home, she'll say he's always welcome and he's family now. You see him, the guy at the bus station, in candid photos on the mantel with you: fingers braided together, the shine of matching rings, your careful and even smile, his proudly missing tooth, you see him unwrapping presents with you, tearing the wrapping paper off each box while you carefully remove and fold each piece, and you see him, the guy at the bus station, he likes this about you in this future where you have fallen in love so quickly, but of course you have imagined him kind, the type of guy to give up a bench for someone, to tell his boys, hey y'all got to move the fuck down, and you see him, this guy at the bus stop, he does exactly that, he steps out of the way and says something like hey, don't fuckin' worry about it when the old woman thanks him, but when you smile at him, staring until he notices, he doesn't smile back, there is no pink and silver opening for you to peep into, and his eyes are nothing like the welcome pools of blue-gray water you imagined, he just nods and his attention moves on from you and when the last bus comes, you find a seat, but he doesn't even board, and it doesn't matter because you're allergic to peonies, your father ripped them out of the garden years ago.



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