My mistake

“I’ll meet you over by the Atlantic House,” Geoffrey told the gang – Paul and Thomas, Frank and Bruce, Michael and Jay. He’d have just enough time to change his t-shirt into the blue skin-tight t-shirt he’d brought to bring in the 2000s at pier’s after-dinner party. And judging from the look he gave himself in the mirror ten minutes later, before going downstairs at the hotel to meet the gang, he wouldn’t spend the night alone.

Duval Street burst at the seems – shirtless twenty-year olds wearing rainbow boas and black leather boots, six-foot-tall drag queens in twelve-inch Elton John pumps and Bozo wigs, the diva parade of Cher, Liza, Barbra, Judy, and Bette – Geoffrey walked by the parade, laughing and smiling. The Atlantic House was straight in front of him. He couldn’t wait to tell the gang. And with the hundreds of men who’d be there for the countdown, surely there’d be a Mr. Right.

He walked into the place and scanned the crowds – just as he’d thought, hundreds of men dancing to Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You.” He spotted a dozen or so Mr. Rights for the night, diagrammed out a path once he got a Corona-with-lime from the bartender. But where were Paul and Thomas, Frank and Bruce, Michael and Jay? Geoffrey looked around the pool, at the dance floor beyond, back to the entrance, over to the bar area ... no gang. He felt his heart press down on his rib cage.

Oh, surely they’d be here. He grabbed his Corona, posed it on his left hip (mostly to throw his bicep and tricep into profile – they were more impressive on the left than right) and made his way around the aforementioned path. But none of the dozen or so Mr. Rights made eye contact by the time Geoffrey had circled around.

“Ten – nine – eight – seven – six – five – four – three – two – one ...”

Geoffrey stood against the pier, his left arm crossed over his body, balancing the empty Corona-with-lime on his right hip this time. That would throw his pectorals into profile, and at least one of the Mr. Rights would pop on by. Odds were, you know. Had to be, Geoffrey thought – men were such sluts, they’d sleep with anyone at least once. And once he’d managed to get a Mr. Right in the bedroom, well ... he’d keep him, wouldn’t he?

“Happy New Year!”

Where was the gang? Geoffrey smiled and laughed, scanned his eyes left to right. All those happy couples were smooching and raising their glasses in toasts to the 2000s. Geoffrey froze his face. He walked straight to the exit – left foot first, right foot following – and straight back to the hotel on Duval Street.

No one, it seemed, inhabited the hotel. It was dead quiet, dark as a moonless night. Geoffrey heard his Prada soles on the staircase as he ascended, opened the door, and walked into the room. There stood the mirror – and Geoffrey staring into it, the blue skin-tight t-shirt. He saw the crows’ feet around his eyes, the sun-damaged skin on his biceps below the t-shirt. His hair seemed awfully dry and thin.

For some reason, Geoffrey remembered that fall day when he was five. Mom, Dad, and his big brothers had left for Grandma and Granddad’s, and they left him behind. But yes, they’d come back to pick him up.