“I’m scared, that’s all.” I wanted to touch him again, hold him close this time.

“You didn’t say that a few hours ago.”

“I know. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

I held out my hand, reached for him, changed my mind, and searched my pockets instead. I found my watch. It was three forty-five. Damn, I was late for dance class. Today was the day for improvisations, a good chance to make an impression before auditions next month. I couldn’t miss a class. Metro started to say something, but I headed away from the warehouse to catch a crosstown cab. He followed after me, his keys jangling from a leather loop on his belt. “Wait,” he said.

I couldn’t wait. One cab zoomed by on radio call. Another stopped.

“Wait,” said Metro.

“I’m late already, man, what is it?”

“Never mind. I just thought you were angry, that’s all.”

“I’m not angry.” I got in the cab and lowered the window.

Metro had a wild look in his eyes. His chin held hard and straight. His thin lips opened and closed, but he said nothing more. He was taller than I but his shoulders slumped, and he looked weak. He didn’t raise his shoulders.

“I’m glad I came, Metro.”

“You didn’t like it, did you?”

I smiled. And he smiled, hesitantly at first. I knew why I was there.

He stepped back from the cab. I said, “See you later, baby. I love you,” and the cab lurched forward. The driver stared at me through the rearview mirror.

I’d be gone only a few hours. Metro would be home when I got back. Yet I missed him. My stomach fluttered. Maybe it was that empty, searching look in his eyes, or his suddenly pale skin against my oily brown hands. I missed him and searched the rear window. Metro was standing in the middle of West 12th Street, oblivious to the traffic veering around him. He scared me. I wanted the cab to turn around and pick him up, but it was too late. Why was I in such a rush? But I’m always rushing, rushing to dance class, rushing home, rushing to the mailbox, rushing just to be a quick step ahead of myself.