What was it about the shine of the table in the counter that drew out his eyes? George could eat a pastrami sandwich in just a few mouthfuls, but the reflection drew out the eyes of Kramer that made George pause. Each slow bite, the meat dissolved in his mouth, the rich flavour burrowing into his taste buds.
"So I've got this plan George, you're going to love it. I'm going to start selling sled dog rides around Central Park."
George paused, swallowed, and considered. "You're going to wait until the winter to start doing this, right?"
"No, that's what makes this so great! I'm going to get a shopping cart and dogs from the shelter. I don't have to pay a dime to start this, I'm making 30 bucks an hour for every German tourist who wants a quick ride around the park."
George had to hand it to Kramer, his schemes were unorthodox, but always had a hint of crazy genius. And his eyes, well...
"So what do you say George, mind helping bring the dogs to my apartment?"
George couldn't believe how desperate the shelters were to get the dogs off their hands, and here they were, lifting a shopping cart of dogs up the stairs to Kramer's apartment. George normally stayed away from overly physical work such as this, but needed to come upstairs to see Jerry anyhow. They lifted up to the first landing, when Kramer said "I need to take off this jacket, I'd hate to rip it."
He pulled off the jacket, revealing a muscular, trim build. George had seen Kramer wearing short-sleeve shirts many times, but it looked like he was now lifting weights. George felt a stirring below that he'd been able to hide many times before around Kramer, and he shifted from side to side awkwardly, his corduroy pants making slight whooshing noises.
"Let's get this cart to your place before the dogs make a mess."
Each step up the stairs, Kramer arms flexed, a light sweat glistening at the top of his chest, wetting his shirt. George licked his lips, in the back of his throat still the flavour of pastrami.
"Well, where are you putting the dogs, Cosmo?"
"I... jeez, that's a good question," said Kramer. He ran his hands through his hair.
"Do you at least have some dog food?"
The pekingese in the shopping cart looked up at Kramer, it's face a mask of confusion.
Kramer ran his hands down George's bare back, the small curly hairs passing through his fingers.
"Is that lavender oil?" George asked. Face down on Kramer's bed, his back wrecked from bringing the shopping cart of dogs back down the stairs.
"It's no problem, buddy, only the best for your help," Kramer said.
"I'm just wondering where you got it, you didn't strike me as the type."
"Oh, it's from when I tried starting a massage business a week ago. No one took me up, so I've got his jug of massage oil."
"Well, I do like it. Would you ever do... a full service?"
"You mean like foot massages as well?"
George knew he had to be bold. He rolled onto his back, and his eyes met Cosmo's. Those eyes.
"I think you know what sort of massage I mean." He pulled down the zipper of his corduroys, his hands diving deep into his pants. "Get more oil," he said, smiling.
Kramer looked down at his hands. One of his schemes finally turned a profit. And yet, as he looked at the fifty dollars in loose bills at the nightstand, he could only think that he'd gotten a client, but lost a friend.
As he stared out his apartment window, cigar lit, a solitary tear ran down his right cheek. He felt cheap, used.
In the corner of his eye, he saw a movement he couldn't quite register. And then, there it was.
8 leashed dogs, lead by a pekingese, pulling a homeless man in a shopping cart.