I watched as the health inspector pulled a dead rat out from behind the cappuccino machine. I knew this wasn’t a good sign. I called Mike who arrived just as the inspector was signing the report, shutting down Mocha Daze.

“What’s next?” Mike screamed. Like me, Mike was losing it.

The inspector, familiar with similar reactions, smiled politely as he handed me the paper. Without emotion he said, “I’ll be back in a week. If the clean up is not done, I won’t be able to schedule you for another six months.”

“And then we’ll have to stay shut down I suppose?”

“That’s right. If you have any other questions, call the number on the bottom there and talk to Tracy. But be polite, she just had dental surgery and talks very funny.” He left leaving a disparaging CLOSED tag on the door, which I quickly locked behind him.

I asked Mike what he wanted to do. “I want to get drunk and laid. The problem is I probably wouldn’t enjoy any of it because I’m so messed up Greg. I’ve never had so much anger in my life.”

“You’re afraid Steve might come back.”

“I don’t care if he did! I wouldn’t give a damn if Steve broke down that door and blew a bunch of holes in us right now. In fact, I might be relieved instead of hoping that life could get better-- only to be proven that I’m an idealistic asshole over and over again.”

“I don’t know what to tell you except I think it’s time to let go of Mocha Daze. It’s over.”

“You know what Greg, it’s yours to do with what you will. Sell it all. It’s all yours.” He turned away from me. Was he serious? As he left I had this eerie feeling I would never see Mike again. Suddenly I thought of Paul, my heart racing as a wave of anger rose inside me.

I knocked on his door with the determination of a broke heroin addict who just got fifty bucks.

Paul opened the door, wearing shorts and an open dress shirt. Damn, he looked good.

“Got any visitors?” I asked.

“You came here to insult me?”

“I came here to talk to you.” He paused then let me inside. “How much for a quick blow job?” I asked.

“It doesn’t work that way. I give massages, Greg.”

“What, you afraid I’ll call the vice squad?”

“I’m not a prostitute if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

“You accept money from those men.”

“For massages.”

“Never any sexual favors?” I asked, not believing a word.

“If the massage results in something sexual so be it, but it’s the massage they’re paying for.”

“You’re so full of shit. If that’s true, what about your sister?”

I knew that would get him and I was right. He became silent, unsure where to take the conversation next. “Look, just leave her out of this.”

“You know Paul,” I countered. “You’re not the person I thought and hoped you were. You supposedly love your family and you’re all moral and shit, but when it comes right down to it, you’re basically a whore without any concern for anyone else.”

“Like you?”

“Maybe, yeah, but you haven’t even given me a chance. You haven’t given yourself a chance. I think this is the only way you know how to fulfill yourself without admitting you’re gay.”

“You have no right to judge me,” barked Paul.

“You’re avoiding being rejected for who you are, and that shows no concern for other people. That’s selfishness, understandable, but selfish.

“No concern? My family would be devastated if they knew I was gay!”

“So you hide it by jerking guys off on a massage table? Who are you living for, Paul–you or you’re family?”

He remained silent, clearly affected, and unable to look at me.

“Well,” I continued, “I’ve said my peace. Just know that I do have feelings for you.” I left feeling relieved, having done what I needed to do. I could only hope Paul would get out of my heart faster than he arrived.

Later that night, after painting four intricate Paul portraits, the doorbell rang.

To my shock and amazement, it was Paul standing directly in front of me, “I don’t want to talk about anything,” he said. “I just came by to see if you wanted to go to a movie.”

You couldn’t slap the grin from my face. “Sure,” I said, inviting him inside.