"I hear you haven't been in tip-top shape recently, Sherlock. Are you doing alright?"

By tip-top shape, I knew that he meant prime business efficiency. Damn Anderson must have snitched on me for not keeping my clients occupied for as long as usual.

"I've been feeling a bit under the weather. It'll pass soon."

"You're sure? I could schedule a doctor appointment. Find out what's wrong."

"A simple virus. It'll pass."

"As long as you're sure it will. I couldn't have you feeling rotten for long, dear."

I nodded, forced a smile, and left the office. Miss Ginny meant well, but I could never fully shake the impulse to puke after witnessing his grotesquely artificial smile. He was getting too old to maintain the act. He could run the club ingeniously, and that was part of his charm, but his days of eponymous sexual glory were long past and he hadn't seemed to have accepted it yet.

It had been a week since I met John. I was still recovering. Recovering from what, exactly? It was not so much the man himself but the questions he posed. My encounter with John had incited in me a continual thought process that found moments to distract me in even the most intimate situations. While exploring a new path I had come across a roadblock, and now that I had been forced to move on I would never have the chance to investigate again.

Ordinarily I would not need to investigate to find the solution; with all the facts laid out, I could build the scenario in my head and solve it from there. This case was more complicated because it involved emotions I did not understand. I understood lust perfectly. I understood the nature of desire perfectly. I did not understand whatever I had seen in John's eyes that night, and I did not understand my reaction to it.

I closed myself in my room and paced, sorting through each moment for the hundredth time. The moment when I was undressing him, looking up at him – everything had seemed so logical at the time. He was used to being treated as insignificant, even inferior, in bed and otherwise. When I considered him the way I did, with appreciation, accentuated by my physical position below him, he had been fascinated. But fascinated didn't seem the right word. I say fascinated because it was a new experience to him, but that's not all it was. Was it my own appreciation reflected back at me? Usually I could detect such things with ease, so that didn't seem plausible. If I knew the answer I would feel it, I would know. God damn it.

And when he said I should go, it wasn't with conviction. He was obviously troubled; he had never had an affair with another man and had never imagined he would. In addition, I was a prostitute. I would predict a sensible man like him to be angry with himself and likely not even pay me. He would be in denial. John did not display the slightest indications of anger or denial. He told me to go with a tone of personal regret, but not remorse. He waited to say it, as if he was unsure whether he really wanted me to go or not.

I needed more information to solve the mystery. The information I needed was hidden past the roadblock that would never cross my path again.

There was a rap on the door, and through the crack beneath it came Anderson's repulsive voice. "Wake up, dickhead. Your boyfriend's here to see you."

"Which one?"

"The straight one. I thought I'd tell you for his sake. The poor bloke's had to ward off at least four flirtatious tosspots since he sat down at the bar."

His footsteps fell away from the door. I was alert again in an instant. The straight one?

Conveniently, the trouble of taking off my uniform hadn't crossed my mind earlier. I threw the door open and looked toward the bar. In the center, wedged between a muscular fellow and a pseudo-fashionable transvestite, was the ordinary man named John, who was scanning the club with a determined look on his face and at the same time appeared to be deflecting another advance. Funny how the real ostentatious ones always flocked to his type.

More importantly, he was back, and the puzzling roadblock came along with him.

He turned back toward the bar when inquired to by one of the bartenders, politely refusing a drink, and at that moment I took action. I moved forward, brushing the side of his leg with my fingertips as I passed by. When I arrived at an unoccupied alcove I turned around to see him following me. He did not enter the alcove when I gestured. He stopped beside me and said, "Could I take you to dinner?"

"Dinner?"

"Yes. There's a nice cafe on the other side of the street." After giving me a chance to respond which passed straight over me due to incredulity, he stuffed twenty pounds in my vest pocket. "And I'll treat you to anything you want."

For a moment I was too perplexed to think of anything to say, so I gave the typical, all-purpose, "Of course." Again we traveled out the back way and began our walk.

Damn this man. This man kept doing illogical things and I could not tell whether I considered a good thing - a continual challenge - or an absurd nuisance.

I deduced what I could. He suggested the cafe because he disliked the club and knew I wouldn't make advances on him in a public eatery. But why would he come back in the first place? For the boyfriend experience? No. He had something to talk to me about; something to ask that was completely unrelated to my usual services.

Nothing about his manner gave me any further clues. He was aloof, but that could be easily attributed to his discomfort toward me. We entered the cafe and sat on either side of a booth in the corner.

"Something on your mind?"

"Yes. There was nothing on the news about the fire at the Guardian; they covered it up. How did you know?"

I was thoroughly surprised. It took either a remarkably astute person or a stalker to have bothered noticing something like that, and then to have followed up on it. I ventured to assume that John was not the latter.

The approach of the waiter saved me from having to produce a quick answer. "Drinks?"

"Tea," John answered simply, and gestured to me.

"I'll have the same."

When we were left alone, he looked at me expectantly.

"Lucky guess," I said confidently. The consequent expression on his face was comical. It was clear that he did not want to be treated like he was stupid, because he wasn't.

"I get that you knew I was a writer because I mentioned an article, but there are any number of newspaper and magazine companies in London. You 'guessed' the Guardian with complete confidence."

"Only three in this general vicinity."

"What if you'd said the wrong one?"

"Then you would have corrected me."

"I know which three you're talking about, and they're not exactly in friendly competition. You're obviously skilled at your craft; would you really risk angering me?"

I smiled, taking his offhand remark as a compliment. "You're not the type to get angry."

"What makes you say that?"

I realized that he wasn't going to let up until I gave him a legitimate answer. I had two choices: keep my methods concealed and risk losing him again to irritation, or reveal them and risk losing him for good to animosity. The second choice had a bigger risk but a minutely higher probability of success. I'm not sure which I gave in to: the statistics, or the underlying hope for acceptance.

"Your shoes: sturdy, designed for walking, and covered in scuff marks that are too ingrained to have resulted from a single trip, so I knew you walked to and from work the moment you came in the door. Your fingertips are worn down but not calloused like a guitarist's would be, there's an indelible black blotch on the side of your right hand where it hits the ink on your paper; you're a writer, likely for a well-off company based on the clean and professional attire you had been wearing that day. There are three companies fitting of that description in this area. One is a women's magazine with no male authors; although I suppose some of them could be using pseudonyms, I didn't think you would be one of them. One is overtly religious, and I knew you wouldn't fit in there because you had no problem walking into a strip club, either gay or straight. The last is the Guardian."

I took a calm breath, waiting for him to call me a lunatic and walk out. People never understood these analyses of mine; they would be momentarily astounded, come to their own conclusions based on personal experience and level of paranoia, and then become unconsciously fearful that I would discover every secret they had ever had. They assumed I was a stalker and a terrorist. Some even went a step further and impulsively accused me of forming pacts with the Devil.

John simply stared in astonishment, and as he stared the outline of a smile formed on his lips. "That is amazing."

For the second time in what couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes, I was lost for words.

Suddenly he lunged forward in his seat, grey eyes alight with youthful curiosity. "Can you do that with anybody? It's like you knew my whole life story in a single glance, the way you describe it."

"I have yet to come across a person I couldn't."

"That's fantastic. Explain it to me. Have you taken a course on human psychology or something?"

"Nothing of the sort; those courses are painfully basic. I simply observe."

He glanced over my shoulder, seeming excitedly apprehensive. "Observe the waiter, then," he suggested, and when the waiter came with a tray of tea and sugar in hand, I conducted a full-body visual examination for anything I hadn't detected the first time around.

"Are you ready to order?"

There was a pause as neither of us answered. I was engrossed in my task and John didn't seem to want anything. Only when the waiter repeated himself did I realize they were both looking at me, but it didn't concern me. The whole ordeal hadn't taken more than a few seconds.

"Sorry, no thank you," I responded with a polite smile. Something was mentioned about a check.

Neither of us touched the drinks immediately. When the young man was out of earshot I appraised him in a low voice free of partiality. "He's a painter. It's obvious by his hands and even the remainder of a blue fleck on the front of his neck. Like most artists slash food service workers he doesn't have much money; if his showerhead was intelligently placed that blue fleck would have washed off this morning. Any well-to-do household would have had that fixed a long time ago. Based on his unusual skin tone and the remnants of sand in his hair he's taken a trip to the beach recently, which explains the blue paint. He was painting the ocean, and I'd readily bet that this painting could be found displayed at the London Art Fair next week, in the Business Design Center of Islington, which happens to be located only a few streets away from your flat."

"He lives upstairs to me," John replied after a pause, his voice quietly overflowing with admiration.

"I figured as much."

"That's all correct. I heard him talking to a lady about the art fair a few days ago."

"About ten years older, short hair, professional look?"

His gape suggested that I was correct.

"She works at the Business Design Center. I know her. They're having an affair, which is why I'm so sure his art will be displayed. The haircut was recent; she's left behind short strands of hair on the shoulders of his jacket, too light to be his. He's also bearing the traces of her perfume, either purposeful or lingering I'm not sure."

He shook his head, mouth still hanging open. "That's unbelievable. I've never witnessed anything like it."

For the first time in years, I found myself wondering about things that didn't matter. I wondered if he knew that I was just as surprised as he was, but suppressing it. I wondered if he could tell that I was fumbling to respond to things that had never been said to me before, except in sexual context, in which case they generally didn't require an answer.

"So in your profession, you observe people like that and that's how you know what they like?"

"It all boils down into quite a simple formula."

He started drinking, watching me all the while. I didn't say anything more. He had fallen into a reverie which caused him to forget his usual diplomacy. It gave me a chance to absorb all that had just occurred, and the more I absorbed the happier I felt, because no one had ever responded like John had to the trait which made everyone else think I was a freak.

Then I remembered that happiness never lasted when it originated from people. That was the single most important thing I had learned throughout my life, and the fact had gone completely ignored for almost an entire dinner because of a compliment.

This meeting was business. Nothing more.

"If you don't mind me asking, why are you wasting a talent like that on sex?" he asked, and finally I could see the train of thoughts trailing behind it. Imagine what it could do in another field. You're much too intelligent to be a prostitute. Why, again, are you a prostitute?My mind was working again.

"I have my own reasons for that," I said, and only afterward did I realize that the coldness I was trying to keep in my heart had bled into my voice and broken the thread of enchantment running through the course of our conversation up until then.

He started filling out the check when it was brought to us. I recognized our impending separation as a threat. Since John was one of the few customers I could bear, it was important that I kept him a customer. A customer and nothing more.

"That can't be all you came to ask me."

"It is," he responded coolly. "I believe I got my money's worth."

"I believe I owe you more."

"Well it's my money, so shouldn't I be the judge of that?"

He smiled cheerily as he stood up. I searched for a quick solution, an excuse, an alibi with a sliver of truth behind it so that it was believable.

"The problem is," I began, feigning a hint of distress. "My supervisor hasn't been particularly pleased with me lately, and if I leave with someone and come back in any less than two hours I'm going to receive an earful for it."

"You could wait here."

"I can't be found alone."

He stared at me for a moment before leaning down on the table to get closer. His voice was quiet and firm. "Let me make something very clear to you. I'm not interested in any sexual comfort."

"Understood."

"Last time, you made me a promise and did not keep it."

"My promise was that I wouldn't come on to you if you didn't want me to. Your dick suggested that you did."

He opened his mouth to retort but couldn't seem to come up with anything except capitulation. "You will stay on one side of the room with the telly and I will be on the other side doing job research, which, might I add, requires a bit of peace and quiet."

"That rule wouldn't be necessary if you felt no sexual attraction toward me. You would fend me off as easily as you did those fellows at the bar."

He rose to his full height and walked away without saying anything, probably because there was no way to retaliate to an undeniably true statement, and dropped the check by the front counter on his way out. I followed several paces behind.

When we arrived he turned on the television, shoved the remote into my hands, and then retreated to his side of the room and pulled open the classified section of the latest issue of the Guardian, which I found humorously ironic. The place was messier than it had been the last time, by nuances. He hadn't been in high spirits lately.

For half an hour I watched the news. When the channel lapsed into its nonsensical portion about celebrities and entertainment I switched to a horrible sitcom centered on a group of sexually active doctors, which was entertaining in how false it was. A good example of what not to do when people are dying.

At about half past eleven he shut off his laptop and lay down, hands folded on his stomach, blankets discarded. He was stressed and I knew that he wouldn't sleep for several more hours, so I saw this as my opportunity. Not an opportunity for sex, but an opportunity to leave a memorable impression. I couldn't bother him now when he was trying so hard to achieve peace.

Instead I leaned down beside him and kissed him goodnight, and he pretended he wasn't awake, just as I knew he would.

While I was walking back I found myself wondering again. I wondered what he was thinking. I wondered if his mind had wandered to another topic by now or if the kiss was still foremost. I wondered what it would be like to spend the night in his arms, wanted not for sex or for comfort but for love. It was a perfectly plausible thing to wonder, I told myself, because if I could invoke a feeling in him similar to what he felt for his past girlfriends, I would have a steadily returning customer.

I forced myself to stop making excuses and stop wondering. It was dangerous. John was dangerous. Ifhe became a steadily returning customer and I didn't control myself, he could destroy everything I worked for and everything I had done to protect myself up until then.

Focus, objectivity, apathy. I was already losing it.

Thank you to anyone reading this. c: I would love to have some feedback.