still following me. I walked a little and stopped at another store window. In seconds he was there. He eyed me from top to bottom and when I looked him in the eye he smiled. I knew I was being cruised. He was really making the point obvious. My main concern at the time, was what should I do? Here was a handsome specimen of maleness; he certainly looked gay. But at the same time his actions were those followed by the vice squad. I didn't dare make the first move. I wanted to say something, but I didn't dare make the first move.

Perhaps it was a guilt complex on my part, but I couldn't do it. I imagined myself being handcuffed and taken to jail. Then I would be on trial. I would lose my job, my standing in the neighborhood, and the respect of my friends. I would be exposed. The price wasn't worth it.

I moved on to the next shop window. Before I stopped, I knew that I was still being followed. There wasn't a way to avoid him. I had all degrees of thought running through my mind. First, when approached, I would act rather innocent. I would explain that I was on my way home. I would discourage any attempt to go with him. I would play dumb to any direct question. I would explain that I had a date and was killing time until I had to pick my girl up. I would explain that I had no intention of going anyplace with anyone. In other words I would discourage him from any attempts. I had it all figured out.

I happened to glance at a summer shirt in the window, and upon looking up, I realized that we were both looking at the same shirt. He turned to look at me, and caught my eyes cruising his. He reached his hand into his pocket, and all variety of fears ran through my mind. He fished out a pack of cigarettes. He placed one carefully into his mouth. He reached into his pockets again and

in his search, failed to find a light.

"Do you have a light?" he asked. His eyes seemed to light up and I moved towards him with a lighter. He caught my wrist as I held the light for his cigarette. I found myself wanting to speak. The nights of loneliness were beginning to show on my unsteady hands.

"Thank you," he said. I caught myself studying his actions, and he caught my eyes exploring.

"I'm new in town," he said. "I've only been here a few weeks."

I didn't know what to reply. I just stared at him, wondering what would be my next move. I didn't know how I was going to defend myself, but so far there was nothing to defend. We kept our eyes on each other and I noticed a look of loneliness somewhere in those blue eyes.

"I'm from Atlanta. Right now w I wish I were back."

I had never been to Atlanta, but I didn't know whether to believe him or not. He certainly didn't need to lie about anything. He'd made no wrong move, nor said any questionable phrases. He was lonely, I could see. But I still didn't know what to do.

We stared at each other for a few moments. There was a look of worry in his eyes and there must have been a look of doubt in mine, for he suddenly smiled. It was a pitiful smile, a half attempt. It wasn't much, but my whole heart went out for him. I realized that my whole point of view had changed, and with it went my firm conviction that he was a detective.

He cleared his throat and glanced into the window again. So far I had contributed absolutely nothing to this conversation. I had beeen too busy weighing the odds and fearing exposure. I looked at him for encouragement, but he had his back to me. He was really a splendid example of physical fitness. He was probably 5'10", and he must have been in his middle

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