Today, as any other typical day, I wake up with great difficulty during the early hours of the morning. The summer Georgia sun had yet to rise, and I patiently wait for my eyes to adjust to the light in my room. My weathered, tree-bark brown wristwatch reads 6:30 am- 6:30 am? “ “Sh*t.” 

I scramble to get my business casual khakis, button up shirt, and dress shoes put on. As I rush out the door, I say goodbye to my mother who I was staying with while I finished my internship with The Atlanta Press. Though news articles aren’t my specialty, they certainly will be able to pay the bills. Quickly scampering along the sidewalk, I stop by my local coffee shop. Such is the life of an aspiring author, always late, and always finding time for random endeavors. 

Grant Park Coffee House is the place where I always get coffee. Its consistency, closeness, and quaint attributes make it the perfect place to stop by before work – and possibly during work. My usual order, medium size dark roast coffee with one cream and two sugars gets rung up and I wait rather impatiently as the barista takes her time, delicately pouring the creamer into the mug. I reach out to grab the steaming beverage – bump, swish, SPLASH.

Before I can regain my composure, my arm is sizzling with boiling hot coffee. “Dammit,” I say through gritted teeth.

“I’m so sorry, didn’t see you there.”

I look up to my coffee shop assailant. Woah.

“Can I buy you another drink?”

He’s just so…

“It’s really the least I can do.”

…different.

I stare at him for what feels like an eternity – probably just a couple of awkward moments. The young man looks at me, obviously concerned.

“My name’s Chris. What can I call you?” He said, reaching his hand out in a friendly gesture.

“The names Stullen, Michael Stullen.” I say, stammering like a stupid boy.

“Well, it's nice meeting you, Mr. Michael Stullen. Let me order you a new coffee.”

I might as well take him up on the offer, the boss will already be on my ass for tardiness to the press office. 

A few minutes pass, and I am finally out the door of the Grant Park Coffee House, luke-warm drink in hand. I make my way to the sleek metal doors of the Atlanta Press printing office, and slip into my desk without further complaint from the boss.

#

Nearing the end of the work-day, I stack all my papers and lay them neatly into my miniature, tidy briefcase. My mother had gotten it for me as my eighteenth birthday present; the day I had applied for the internship. As I head for the doors once again, I pick up the empty coffee cup and reach to throw it into a nearby trash can. However, before I can do so, I spot a bit of writing on the side of the cup. It reads: “Mr. Michael Stullen, join me under the stars tonight. Meet at the Piedmont Park – 10 pm, sharp. 

I check my wristwatch. It reads 9:30 pm. I dawn my light coat and make my way to the sleek doors of the office and onto the sidewalk nearby. Even though it’s summer, I still get a slight chill as a breeze whips up my hair. The feeling of the breeze, as well as anticipation for Chris’ meeting nearly sweep me off my feet. My heart pounds in a way that it never has, not even with a woman. The truth of this terrifies me, but my feet continue to pick up speed. It's nearly 9:55 when I make it to the park, and Chris is already waiting for me. I spot him, leaning nonchalantly on a large tree in the middle of the park. The sun has nearly set, but I can still see the whites of his eyes as they flicker over and meet mine. 

“You’re a punctual young man, aren’t you?” Chris says.

“I suppose,” I respond. My face grows warm with anticipation, however I’m positive he cannot see it. 

“Do you know why I asked you to come here?” 

“Not exactly,” I say.

“In the coffee shop, I saw you.”

“I should assume.” I reply in a semi-snarky manner.

“I want you,”Chris says. My breath is caught in his words, and I cannot think of a reasonable reply. Only a small gasp is able to exit my lips, it was barely audible. However, with the change in Chris’s eyes, I am positive that he heard it. 

“Mr. Michael Stullen?” he stammers. The sudden air of nervousness consumes our conversation. I take a quick breath to settle my nerves and calculate a response to Chris’s advance. This is a dangerous time to be with him – for a man to be with a man. Nevertheless, instinct takes over and I give in to my yearning for him. 

“Yes – Chris, I want you as well.” As soon as I utter those words, my breath is stolen by his, and we are united in a kiss. And as we kiss in the park, all sensation is lost on me; except for the feeling of Chris’s lips. What is true love if not for this? In the secrecy and passion of the moment, we are lost to the world around us.

#

It has been two weeks since our first encounter at the Grant Park Coffee House, and our secret meeting at the park. With a short call, I invite Chris to work with me on a personal project; a romance novel composed of letters. In fond memory of our first date, we decide to work at the park. Chris, as I have found over the past weeks, is not fond of writing – nor school in general. This, as expected, would have to change.

“Why am I helping you with this? Aren’t you the writer?” Chris teases.

“You’re my lover, and this is a romance novel. It seems quite obvious,” I reply.

The day goes on, and my eyes rarely lose sight of him. Regardless of the fact Christopher hates writing, he has a natural gift for it. He writes letters for the novel, and I write more in reply. By the end of the day, we have written upwards of twenty letters back and forth – all will be included in the novel. I love watching Chris gain a passion for my work, and my passion for him grows tenfold. 

“When do you suppose our next date should be, Mr. Michael Stullen?” I ask in a sarcastically formal tone. 

“I propose a date in two days time, at my prestigious flat.” Chris says.

“It is decided then.” I say, a slight smile creeping its way across my face.

#

That morning, I awoke extremely ill. Nausea consumed me, and I was struck with a high fever. My mother, Lisa, was sick with worry at the sight of my condition. 

“You really ought to see a doctor, Mikey,” she says while giving me a cool compress. 

“Yes ma’am,” I reply. My mother was a caring woman, however I know that she would vehemently disapprove of Christopher. Going to the doctor as a gay man is a daunting task, though I assume that this is nothing more than the common flu. Although Atlanta is a big city, the people here are not receptive to those with HIV. Only danger and dysfunction would follow if I was diagnosed with the Gay Disease. 

The next day, I drive to the local hospital. A long questionnaire is presented to me, and I force myself to check the ‘homosexual’ box. I understand the dangers of being gay in today’s society, however, the deadliness of this disease takes precedence. Nurses poke and prod at me; they test me for nearly everything, including HIV. 

“It’ll take about two weeks to process and send you the results of your testing, sir”. The nurse says. Two weeks of waiting and hoping that everything will come back negative. I’ll have to tell Christopher, which seems like an even more daunting task. As I drive back home, I wonder how Christopher, and more importantly, my mother would take the news. I realize that these thoughts are trivial concerning the tests that haven't come back yet, and I shake them from my head as I arrive home.

#

I am shaken awake by my angry mother. The force with which she moves me leads me to believe that God has brought an earthquake right to the center of Atlanta. My eyes open and meet hers, blazing with fiery rage. 

          "What the hell is this?" In her hand, the letter I have been waiting for. Its envelope is torn open, and I can partially see its contents. In the top left corner of the exposed letter, three letters in bright red ink confirm my worst fear: "P.O.S."

          "Get your ass out of my house – now.” A long pause stretches for eternity as I wait for my mother's last words to me.

          "If I ever find that boy Chris, he'll be dead – and you'll rot in hell. Just like the rest of the queers."

           There is no love here for us now. The good Love of God has driven us away – far away from sunny Atlanta. There is no more room for us here. Two men are far more dangerous than a man and a woman, or so the pastor says. This city is no more a place for homosexuals than rabbits in a rattlesnake nest. I will die in this snake den – and my wildest dreams of affection will die with it.