There was something distinctive about the way he inhaled his cigarette in the thick, humid night air.
It wasn’t like he was James Dean or anything, but the ember on the tip of his cigarette glowed with the same kind of confidence that was reflected in his eyes as we stood outside this hole-in-wall gay bar. I wasn’t immediately attracted to him, though. He was from Orlando and was so Central-Florida it hurt. Highlighted hair tips. Orange skin. Assorted tribal and Chinese-symbol tattoos, 14 of them I would learn. And an obvious plastic surgery enthusiast. But like I said, there was something irresistible in the way his eyes narrowed at me through the smoke produced by our Marlboro Lights.