John Stewart

From a young age he had wanted to keep things under control, maybe that was why older women, men, aliens had always caught his attention, he was looking for the warmth of a love he once had. Maybe that was why you caught his eye in Nebraska, because Rushville was a small town and John was definitely an outsider, same as Hal, just slightly less insufferable than him.

He saw you that time at the café on the main street, which in Rushville was basically the only café, and this time you were the one who noticed him first, that man who clearly wasn’t from here, you sat at the counter because that was your usual spot and he was two stools down with a coffee he hadn’t touched, looking at something outside the window.

“You’re not from here,” you said, without looking at him, because in Rushville that wasn’t a question, it was an observation.

“No, I’m here for work. Name’s John,” he said, in that voice of his that didn’t give more than what was asked for but didn’t close the conversation either.

“I know,” you said. “Rushville’s been talking about you and the other one for days.”

Something in his face shifted, that minimal adjustment of someone recalibrating. “The other one?”

“The one my age, Hal I think,” you said. “Louder. Less coffee, more showboating.”

“You been here long?” he asked, and it was the first question he had asked, which in John Stewart probably meant something even if you didn’t know exactly what yet.

“Long enough,” you said.

“You like it?” he said, with that direct curiosity of his that had no unnecessary filler.

You actually thought about it before answering, which was the only way certain questions were worth answering. “It’s a place that lets you just be,” you said. “Not many people appreciate that until they need it, you know.”

“Would you let me show you something?” he said after a moment, and it wasn’t what you expected him to say but it didn’t entirely surprise you either.