I become hungry on my eight-mile drive home from Mission Snowfall. Snow begins to fall and it’s time to use the wipers. The falling precipitation reminds me of powder sugar on pancakes over at Nell’s Diner on Cockton Road. Toss in two scrambled eggs, two links of sausage, and who doesn’t want brinner for dinner, right? Besides, I love Nell, who used to be Neil until three years ago. She’s hierarchy in the LGBTQIA+ community along the lake. I don’t know many young people and adults she has psychologically, mentally, and emotionally helped through their transgender stages. All I know is that Nell Brookshire does more than flip pancakes at her diner. Hell yeah. Her eatery is like a clinic for every struggling queer, poly, trans, and helpless human in the area. If you a great diner meal out of the deal, and a little chat about your struggle, Nell’s Diner is the place to go. And by the way, her hugs are free.

The diner’s parking has a few trucks in its front. I pull in beside a massive gray Toyota Tundra that looks new. The lot to its left and right resembles a holiday greeting card from around the world: lots of red and green lights, tinsel galore, a car-size inflated menorah, plastic illuminated reindeer arc into the heavens as they take liftoff. I take in a Santa Claus, manger scene, two massive Kwanzaa banners, and three llamas in pajamas and sombreros. Four cars sit in the lot. None of which I’m familiar with. All four are covered in powdered sugar/snow.

Once inside I hear a classic Christmas tune by Bing Cosby. A Betty Boop look-alike, of course it’s Nell, makes eye contact and blows me a kiss. I wave in her direction as she waits on a handsome, early-thirties man in one of the booths to the left. The guest has curly blond hair, trip-over blue eyes, pale skin, and wears a festive red cashmere sweater, jeans, and what look to be Timberland boots. I note that Mr. Handsome takes care of himself and has a trim build, muscles in all the right places, and has an undeniable model complexion that probably barely sees a razor, hair-free.

I walk up the aisle, take my North Face jacket off, place it in a booth on the right, and sit next to the jacket, two seats diagonal from Mr. Handsome, facing him. I scrutinize/note the cup of coffee in front of him: no cream or sugar, just black. No wedding ring on his left “taken” finger. Reading or prescription glasses sit to his right on the table’s surface. Green jacket puffed and rolled in a ball to his left in the booth.

He studies me like a Hanukkah gift. Maybe wants to open me. Left. Right. Up. Down. Smiles at me.

I smile back.

“Almost Christmas. One week away,” he says: an unexpected baritone, and intensely masculine; I rather find it hot.

“Almost my birthday,” I tell him. I don’t know why I share this information, but I do.

He raises a blond eyebrow and inquires, “You were born on Christmas?”

It becomes easy for me to nod and answer, “Thirty-four years ago.”

Mr. Handsome blows my mind. Shocks me. Turns my stomach upside down, and causes me to feel a touch nervous. Which most men have never done in my lifetime. He moves to my both with his Burberry jacket in one hand and coffee cup in the other. “Do you mind?” he simply asks, slipping across from me.

“My pleasure,” I reply. “Glad to have the company.”

He holds out his right hand for a shake, tells me with a glowing and robust smile, “Petey ... Petey Plaeford.”

“French?”

Nods. Spreads his warm smile even more. “What gave it away?”

“Your grip over mine. It’s intense,” I joke.

“Not the name Plaeford?”

I shake my head. “Not in a million years.”

He’s not at all shy after our hands break free. Playful Petey reaches forward and spirals the tip of his index finger around my curly chest hair. “Nice stuff here. I love a bear.”

“I’m not really a bear. It’s just across my pecs.”

“I’ll take what I can get.” He’s more forward than I imagine and unbuttons the top button on my shirt. In doing so, he pulls the green-and-red flannel material apart and takes a quick gander at my chest. “Nice pecs. Hairy. Solid. Pert nipples. I have a thing for a man’s well-built chest. Petey likes what he sees.” He slips one of his palms inside the flannel, cups my right pecs, and provides it with a startling squeeze. “You work out?”

I should probably bop him in the face with a quick punch for crossing an indecent line, but he’s handsome, and fun. Instead, I let him get away with his game. “Three times a week. Nothing more. Don’t have the time?”

“Your nipple is huge.”

“Comes natural. Can’t take credit if its comes from god.”

He squeezes the pec with his palm, and its nipple swells between two extended fingers. “What’s your name, Snowman?”

“Joe ... Joe Nutcracker.”

He squinches his face: eyes begin to fold close, lips turn into the letter O, and his nostrils shut.

“You’re kidding me, right?”

I shake my head. “No way. Wouldn’t do that. I’m an honest man, Petey Plaeford.” I let him toy with my pec and nipple and bit more, become somewhat excited underneath the table, and add, “You’re new around here. Templeton’s a small town. I’ve seen a lot of residents and --”

“I’m passing through,” he cuts me off. His palm and fingers release from the treasure trove of my flannel. “Here for the holidays. Two weeks. No more. No less. Then I head back to Pittsburgh.”

“What do you do in Pittsburgh?”

“Merchandising. Mostly wooden toys and bunkbeds. Some wooden tables for children.”

I can’t help myself and chuckle. “You work with wood for a living?”

He shares a wink with me, somewhat blushes. “Trust me, I get the joke all the time. What do you for a living.”

“I work for a private agency in defense.” It’s a bit of lie, but whatever. He doesn’t need to know that I beat the shit out of bad people. It’s not like we’re going to be boyfriends or get married.

“Like with the government?”

I nod. “Locally. I usually can’t talk about it with strangers.”

“You look the type.”

“The type. What do you mean by that? How so?”

“The type. You know. Tall, good-looking, astute, and attuned to everything around you. You saw me as soon as you walked through the doors. You calculated me and the situation going on in this diner. It was like one of those action movies on Netflix with The Rock or that television series called Tracker. You have those government agency and secret service mojo about you. You have an alertness about you that an FBI guy would have.”

“Is that a compliment or not?”

He nods. “It makes you look epically attractive, and sexy as hell. So I’d say it’s a compliment.”

“If you hadn’t already touched my chest and winked at me, I could say you’re hitting me, but that water under the bridge.”

He grins from ear to ear, pops the end of a fingertip to his nose, and adds, “See, you’re so perceptive.”