He hit the breaks and looked around. I waved my hand so he would notice me.

"Oh! Hi." He recognized me. "What can I help you with?"

I felt this was my cue to get closer, so I did, with caution.

"Hey. My name's Jaime. The food was delicious... Um, I was thinking that maybe... you'd want to go out with me? Loved the yogurt by the way!" My inner self was cringing, yelling and begging for mercy while being crushed by the struggle of asking a total stranger on a date. Then I added, "I mean, only if you want to. I know you just got out of your shift and you must be tired. Please don't think I'm a stalker or something."

He stared for a moment. Speechless? Suspicious perhaps? His eyes were like droplets of honey. I hadn't noticed inside the restaurant and I was grateful that, even though I was at the brink of rejection, I had the chance to notice more things that made him beautiful.

He finally parted his lips, "I am sorry. But I already have a girlfriend."

Fatal blunder.

"Oh... It is me who is sorry. I thought that you... well that you... I'm sorry to have bothered you and even assumed that-I'll leave now."

I turned around, trying to hide my red face. Then his hand landed on my right shoulder. I stopped dry.

"But after this long shift, I definitely am starving."

My heart jolted with relief and renewed excitement. He saved me from that dreadful walk of shame which awaited me. I was back in the game, but then I doubted.

"Please don't do this out of pity," I said.

"It's not pity. I would like to go out with you too. Where were you going to take me?"

We had gone farther than I had foreseen and now my mind was blank. I looked around and saw the big flashing wheel over the ocean.

"How about the Pier?" ​Again with the Pier...

"Too crowded. The lines are super long. There is a Thai food truck really close to here."

"Lead the way."

He parked his bicycle in the back alley of the restaurant-as I figured he usually did-and together we crossed the street. The food truck was closer than I expected. The menu was overwhelmingly excessive, but fortunately in English. Yet at the end, I gave up.

"I'll have whatever you have," I told him.

"Two spicy chicken noodles, please."

"I'll pay," I said, while taking my wallet out.

"Oh, no. Don't worry about it. You and your friends gave me a very nice tip."

"Keep it. The date is on me."

"Thanks," he said. Then he looked away, trying to hide a smile. "Where are your friends anyway?"

"I left them at some bookstore."

"Do they know you're here?"

"Actually, they don't. My phone must be cramped with notifications. But let's not mind them."

We grabbed our spicy noodles and sat by some bench, beside a bronze statue, under the shade of a palm tree. The vast glittery ocean stared back at us, and the mountains of Malibu in the north sank into the water, covered by a dense fog. We ate in silence for a bit, a polite distance between us.

I could still smell the scent of baked lamb and coffee that wafted all around him. Then I ventured, "Benediktos... That's a peculiar name, isn't it?" He was chewing at the moment, so I waited.

"Benediktos Spyridon," he replied. "It is Greek, as I'm sure you guessed. But you can call me Benedict or Ben."

"I like Benedict. It's sweet. Don't take me wrong. Benediktos sounds good, epic even. But it makes me feel like I'm scolding you. So I'll stick to Benedict."

He chuckled.

"So you come from Greece?" I continued.

"I was born here. It was my great grandfather, Basilio Spyridon, who was from Zakynthos. He became a chef in Athens. He brought the business here and now my uncle, his namesake, runs the place."

"That sounds fascinating. I only know one word, Oikos. Do you know what it means?"

"Oikos?" he repeated, clearly amused. "I think it means house, or household. But it's archaic. We don't use it anymore."

"Your Greek sounds great for being a third generation."

"Thanks. My parents are insistent on keeping our culture. They have taught me Greek since I was a baby. It's also the language that we speak at the church."

"How old are you?"

"I'm twenty one. And you?"

"Same," I said right away.

"Lucky coincidence." He stood up, grabbed our empty noodle boxes and threw them in the trash can. We walked onward, with no specific destination.

"So, Jaime," he said. "Tell me a bit about you. I deserve to know something about the guy that takes me out, don't I?"

"Well, for starters," I began, "I'm not from here. I just stopped by with my friends because we are on a road trip. I'm from Northern California. But I don't think my life is as interesting as yours. Your family comes from far away, you speak another language, your food is delicious, you are incredibly handsome..."

As I said the last part, he stared at me immediately. His auburn eyes fixed on mine.

"I'm sorry. Was that too much?" I asked.

"No. Not at all. I'm just not used to guys telling me this stuff."

"I find that hard to believe. Look at yourself!"

"Thanks. I think you are very handsome too. I brought this upon myself, didn't I? It was me who gave you that special treat and winked at you in the first place."

"Trust me. I was already spinning since the moment you asked me what I wanted to order. Were you seriously flirting back then?"

"Of course I was. I thought, 'He's cute. Why not have some fun? I'm just doing my job after all.' No harm done, right?"

"Oh, you player..." I joked.

"Guilty," he said, gesturing with his arms as if caught red-handed.

We had reached Palisades Park by now. It was filled with joggers and tourists. There was a group of friends playing on a slackline by some trees and a guy on rollerblades with loud speakers on his shoulder boomed past us. Somewhere along the way, our hands grazed.

"Is it okay if I do this?" Benedict asked, as he grabbed my hand. His hand was soft, damp and warmer than I expected. I answered by holding it tighter. The sun was already close to the horizon, about to sink into the Pacific, and I refused to look at the time.

"Earlier on, you mentioned a church," I said. He let go of my hand right away, and I wished I hadn't brought it up.

"Yes. My family is Orthodox. The church is not far from here actually. We have a solid community of Orthodox Christians."

"I see. And the girlfriend, is she real?"

"Yes. She's from the church."

Then I looked directly into his eyes, as if daring him to look away. Neither of us blinked.

"Do they know?" I asked.

"They can't know. That'd be a disaster." He broke eye contact. "How about you?"

At first I hesitated, but then the words flooded with ease. There is a specific trust with strangers when you know you won't see each other again, a complicity spurred by an empathy that connects people from all paths and ways of life.

"I was raised by my grandma. At the beginning I was afraid. Afraid that she'd be disappointed. I kept it to myself for many years and it really took me down with it. Until one day, I couldn't hold it anymore. I bought her some flowers and talked to her. She cried, but they weren't tears of sadness. She told me she was glad I was honest with her and trusted her with something as important. She also told me she had noticed I wasn't being myself lately, that she was worried. She was very happy I had chosen to speak about it with her. It felt like a huge weight off my shoulders, like a fog finally dissipated from my mind."

"I wish I was that lucky." He was looking at his shoes.

I placed my hand on his right arm and caressed it with my thumb. "I wish so too."

"My family... They have these high expectations of me. Both inside the church and outside."

"Like what?"

"They want me to be more active in the community. To spend more time with my Greek peers. They also want me to go to college and study some science. You see where I am now, working at my uncle's restaurant, because I didn't make up my mind. Truth is I love poetry. I wish I could have studied literature."

"Why didn't you?"

"They say there's no future in that."

"I hope you can figure all of this out. Soon. I really do."

"Gosh..." He brought a hand to the back of his head and winced awkwardly. "I'm sorry I brought this up."

"It was me who started it. Let's change the subject."

"Yes, please."

I was trying to cheer him up. I knew our time was running out. I led the way to some other bench that looked towards the buildings, because by now the ocean was too bright to look at. This time we sat closer, our knees touching. Again, I refused to look at the time.

"Poetry," I suggested.

"I love poetry," he replied.

"Do you write it or just read it?"

"I just read it. There's a nice poetry place two squares from my house," he said as he pointed in that direction.

"Wanna go there?" I suggested.

"They are closed today."

"Bummer. Which poets do you read, then? I'm no expert, but I know of a few."

"It started in High School when they made us read Poe and Robert Frost. Then I kept looking for myself and started reading Pablo Neruda, Emily Dickinson, among others... The list keeps growing."

"Is there a favorite one?"

"Oh yes. Konstantinos Kavafy. He was Greek and lived in Alexandria. He wasn't very popular during his time, but he was important in reviving Greek poetry. The English translations don't rhyme much, but I love how he portrays ancient Greece through his verses, like glimpses of antiquity. You should read him some time."

"Now I must."

At last, the spell was broken. Benedict reached for his phone and looked at the time. 5:35pm.

"I think we should get going," he said.

My feet refused to move. My arm wanted to hold him there, talking about his love for poetry and himself and his life, until the sun hid behind us, and after that, keep talking, looking at each other, until the sun caught up to us from the east. We would go back to the food truck and order more spicy chicken noodles and come back to this bench and repeat it all over again, but I knew this could not be. We both stood up reluctantly, almost hesitant. I noticed he was feeling the same way.

We walked back to the restaurant, the place where everything began, and walked slower than ever. On the way back, each step I took felt like one moment less with him. We remained silent, as if mourning. He walked his bicycle onto the sidewalk and I followed, but I wasn't ready to let go just yet, not with such downcast spirits.

I noticed the bicycle had some tubes attached to the rear wheel. "Hey. Can I take you to your house?"

"What about the bike?"

"Allow me." I mounted the bicycle and told him to step on the tubes. He understood and did so. Then he grabbed on tight to my shoulders. He didn't smell like baked lamb and coffee anymore. I smelled his scent.

"How are you gonna come back?" he asked.

"I'll just call an Uber. Guide the way."

Ring! Ring!​

I rode down the sidewalk and followed his directions. First down Ocean Avenue, then up Venice Boulevard. We took a turn at Inglewood. Somewhere along the way, his arms crossed over my neck and collarbone. His face was closer to mine and I swear his nose poked on my hair.

"We can stop here," he said.

We were in the corner of two suburban streets, by a tall fence, but we didn't stop at any specific house. "My house is over there," he pointed to a white one, with blue striped curtains and a garden in the front. "I made you stop here because I shouldn't push my luck."

"I understand."

He took a deep breath. "I guess this is it." Then he paused. He grabbed my hand one last time. He was gentle. "Thank you for everything."

The time had come. I wanted to tell him to try, and to try harder. But I knew, even though we had connected beautifully during this short while, that in the bigger picture, we were still strangers. Instead, I watched him as he rode his bike towards the house with blue striped curtains. I looked at Benediktos one last time, with his golden curls, white polo shirt, and lean silhouette. I kept looking until the door closed.

The Uber took me back to the Pier where I finally decided to check my notifications. It had two hundred and twenty-two text messages and thirty-four missed calls. I caught up with my friends, who were hysterical. They kept harassing me with questions.

"I'm fine. I'm fine. I'll tell you when we get to the car."

We were already on the highway heading back home when I felt something odd in my back pocket. I reached for it and produced a folded piece of yellow paper. It was from Benedict's notepad. I opened it immediately.

Myres, Alexandria A.D. 340

(Konstantinos Kavafy)

I googled it instantly and read... I read it twice. It is about a young man who attends his beloved friend's funeral, only to find himself engulfed by the bustle of a religious ritual. As the speaker is surrounded by plaintive prayers and mourning strangers, he can't help but to feel like an outsider and question everything he knew about his late friend.

I remained silent the rest of the trip. By the time I was done, I had a glimpse of the future Benedict and I would have had. Despite such bittersweet vision, what I wished for the most, deep inside, was for him to have given me his phone number.