Damaged Hearts. Jan St. Marcus

they have little darker spots in them, so it looks like they’re glowing. I think I might be hypnotized or something. I’ve never seen eyes like that. And I think he is Black or Latino or mixed or something. And I’m still trying to figure it out when he asks me again:

      “Are you okay?”

      “I heard you. But why are you asking me if I’m all right? I’m not the guy whose arm you just broke. I mean, seriously? Am I all right? Are you all right?”

      He smiles and looks me right in the eyes. “I’m fine. Sorry you had to see that.”

      “He deserved it,” I say. “He so deserved it.”

      “No. I don’t think so,” he says softly. The stranger guy looks genuinely sad. Is he sad? What does he have to be sad about? The guy totally deserved it. If there was a dictionary definition of a guy who deserved to get his fucking arm broken, that fat-assed, douchebag, frat boy’s picture would be right there.

      “Yeah? Well maybe we’ll just have to agree to disagree on that, okay?” I tell him. The stranger guy looks me in the eyes again and smiles a little bit.

      “Can I ask you a favor?”

      “I guess.”

      “Can you stick around and talk to the cops? Tell them what happened?”

      “Yeah. Of course. You were kind of sticking up for me, right? It’s the least I can do.”

      “Thanks.” And then he walks back towards the fat-assed guy who is still rolling around on the ground. Now his screams are mixed with these disgusting sobbing and sniveling sounds. His friends stopped running at the end of the block. I see them standing there arguing. Probably arguing about whether or not to help their friend. The stranger guy was right. He takes a few steps towards them and then waves at them.

      “Come on back here and be with your friend. He needs you.”

      Wait! What? This is some seriously surreal shit. He breaks the guy’s arm, asks for my help, and then tells them to come back and help their friend. I mean, what? I’m thinking about it all again as the sirens get louder. He’s walking back towards me, and I just stand there, not knowing what to think or say or do. He must see my state of confusion or whatever, and he smiles a little bit again. “I’ll get you something to eat when we’re done here.”

      “Okay,” I say, and I stand there waiting for whatever else is going to happen tonight.

      ***

      When the cops arrive, the stranger guy shows them something on his phone. I wasn’t close enough to see it, but I could tell it was a video. I guess the stranger guy recorded the whole thing on his phone. He’s still speaking in that soft, calm voice. And when the cop reaches for his phone, he’s very polite when he tells the officer “no.” The cop acts like he can’t believe the guy is refusing his request.

      “I’m happy to email you the video, but you’d never get a warrant to take my phone. So let’s skip the unnecessary drama—give me your email and I’ll send it to you.”

      The cop talks to his partner, and then he gives the guy his email address. Then they talk to the fat-assed guy’s friends, and they basically back up the stranger guy’s story. Then it’s my turn and, of course, I tell them the same thing. It takes about a half an hour for the cops to finish up their reports and for the paramedics to load the fat-assed guy into the back of the ambulance, and that was it. The stranger guy walks over and waves for me to follow him. He pulls up his hoodie because it’s still raining a little bit, and we walk down the boardwalk. He puts his hands into his pockets and lowers his head.

      “I’m Michelangelo, by the way.”

      “So is it Mr. Angelo or Mr. By The Way?” I crack. Did I mention I’m a bit of a smartass?

      “It’s Michelangelo.”

      “I’m Bran.”

      “Bran? Like Raisin Bran, or like from ‘Game of Thrones’?”

      “More like Bran, as in short for Brandon, ’cause I know a lot of people too lazy to say a two-syllable word all the time.”

      He chuckles a little. “Nice to meet you, Bran as in short for Brandon.”

      “Nice to meet you, too. I guess.” We are now past the end of the boardwalk, and I have no idea where he’s taking me. “Where are we going?”

      “My place is right here. Nothing’s open so I thought I’d cook you up some eggs or something.”

      “The eggs sound good,” I say. “I’ve never had ‘or somethings’ before, but I’ll eat almost anything.” Then under my breath, I mutter, “You probably guessed that.”

      “Eggs it is, then,” he says, smiling. He gestures to his left and points, “This is us.” After opening the gate to a small, modern beach-house, he walks up the two steps to the front door, waves his keys in front of the lock, and the door clicks open. Pretty cool high-tech lock thing, I guess. “Wait here a sec,” he says.

      I hear the pattering and clicking of feet running towards us, and I take a step back. As he enters the house, he kind of blocks the door with his leg as a big, rambunctious golden retriever clatters and licks his greeting. “Sit!” Michelangelo says, and the clattering stops. He looks out at me. “Come on in. He’s friendly.” He catches the dog’s eyes and says, “Greet.” Then something amazing happens—the dog gets up, walks a few steps towards me, and then sits down again. I put the back of my hand out a little bit, and the dog stands, walks another step closer, and sits down again, his eyes never leaving me.

      “What’s his name?” I ask Michelangelo.

      “Sparky.” The dog switches his gaze from me to Michelangelo and back to me.

      “Hi, Sparky. I’m Bran,” I say to the dog. Sparky reaches my hand and sniffs all around it and looks back at me as he slips closer. He’s kind of scooting his rear end, sliding on the floor until he is next to my legs. And then, on cue, as soon as I lift my hand to pet him, he stands up and rubs his body against my legs, like he’s petting me as I’m petting him. His tail’s wagging and he’s panting like he can’t get enough of touching me. Like this dog genuinely likes me and wants to be around me. It’s a sensation that I don’t remember ever having before. Has anyone else in my life ever felt that way about me? I am completely taken in by this stupid dog, and I kneel down to pet him some more. I drop my bag on the floor, and I don’t even notice that Michelangelo has walked into the kitchen. Sparky reaches up with his snout and begins licking my face. Okay, that’s definitely not happened to me before. Nobody has ever licked my face before. I laugh.

      “He likes you,” comes the voice from the kitchen. “He doesn’t do that to everybody.”

      “Yeah, sure. I bet you’re just saying that to make me feel good.”

      “Am I?”

      “Aren’t you?” I look towards the kitchen, and Michelangelo is smiling at me. I stand and walk towards the kitchen. Under the lights, his face is illuminated by these really cool spotlights and I realize that this is the first time I am really seeing him. I mean, except for noticing his eyes. Those magical, hypnotizing gray eyes. I mean, I saw him, but I never really saw him, you know? I am now painfully aware that I’m staring at him. He’s gorgeous. Well, maybe that’s an overstatement. He’s definitely handsome though. He’s kind of Black, but not really. His skin is the color of a Caramel Macchiato, like the kind you get at Starbucks. Light brown or dark tan and smooth as silk. His teeth are bright white and perfect. His lips are full, and his cheekbones high and well-defined. He has taken off his hoodie, and I can see his muscles rippling beneath his Gold’s Gym T-shirt. His biceps flex just beneath the sleeves, and his powerful forearms are flexing and shimmering in the lights.

      “Wanna take a picture?” he asks.

      “Huh?