Basilio's Mediterranean Cuisine, read the menu, and that was the only thing I understood. The dishes in the pictures looked delicious, although the descriptions were all in Greek. I had to page around the whole booklet like five times and I still felt no wiser.

I thought that maybe because we were in downtown Santa Monica they would have an English menu, but these people really took Mediterranean to heart. I gave it one last try. I might take that rice-looking pasta with what appears to be chicken on the side, or is it pork? Or maybe those meat skewers, or are they made of eggplant? I couldn't decide.

"Good day to all of you, I will be your waiter today. May I take your order?"

"Hi. I will take the um...baked lamb with... Is that potato? Yes. I'll take that," said Claire.

"And I think I'll take the fish over here." Alex pointed at one of the pictures.

"Excellent choices. How about you?"

I looked up from the menu, and it was like looking at the sunrise. The first thing I noticed were his golden, soft curls stretched back by a hair band, revealing his wide forehead and bright eyebrows. Underneath them, a pair of long, winsome auburn eyes. He was wearing a white polo shirt, neatly tucked in and wrapped by a black belt around his slender waist. His skin was pale and soft and the hairs on his arms were almost white. His face was shaved and smooth, safe for a bit of his mustache, which was already showing.

How can someone be so nonchalantly beautiful? I thought.

"Hey! It's your turn to order," Claire yanked me from my reverie.

The handsome waiter was holding a small yellow notepad with his right hand, the other holding a pen. He was staring back at me, waiting for my response.

"I- I'm here. I'm here," I stuttered. "Sorry."

I looked at him again and fought hard not to drift away for a second time. "It seems my friends have come to this place before, and have their favorite dishes already. This is my first time, you see... and the menu is in Greek. I have no clue."

"Don't worry about it." He tilted his head. "I'll help you pick. Do you eat meat or are you vegetarian? Or would you like something cold? Have you ever tried a gyro?" He proceeded to explain the whole menu for me and I wished it would turn into a whole anthology of menus.

"Would you please pick something already?" Alex has never been the patient one.

"I am famished," Claire added.

The waiter looked at me. Don't mind them, his twinkling eyes seemed to say.

"I think I will choose the gyro," I finally said.

"You sure?"

"I am sure. And a chicken skewer, please."

He picked up the menus and read his notepad one last time, "Okay! I have baked lamb with potatoes, a bourdeto, a gyro and a chicken souvlaki coming right up."

A voice from the kitchen caught his attention. He replied in Greek. Then another voice from the counter asked something in English to which he replied, "My shift is until 2 o'clock." I couldn't help but to swoon at the sound of his voice. To me, it was as if Music and Virility had had a lovechild.

A few minutes later, he returned with our plates and pita bread. He settled them down with our drinks — which I had just learned were called a soumada — and asked if we needed anything else. We were doing fine and thanked him. As we ate, the girls couldn't help but comment on how handsome he was. I agreed with them, but kept my fascination to myself because I felt as if I had been struck by lightning. Besides, I didn't want them to mock my naïve infatuation. It was simply that, and I was aware.

We called the waiter back, and asked for a refill and for the check. He brought the drinks and another treat. It was a bowl of yogurt with honey on top. He held it towards me. I instinctively grabbed it — our fingers grazed — and as he leaned forward I noticed his nametag: Benediktos.

"On the house. For the newcomer," he said as he winked. Benediktos winked.

"Thanks!" I replied. But indeed, I was spiraling skyward, like fireworks in the New Year.

On the counter, we left him a good tip. I couldn't help but stick my head beyond, towards the tables, to see if I caught his eyes again. He was already serving new customers, scribbling on his notepad as a pair of old ladies dictated their order.

The door closed behind us and the warm summer air engulfed us once more. A lazy breeze would caress our cheeks every time a car zoomed down the avenue. Facing the street, with the flat Pacific in front of us, we discussed where to go next.

"Is there a music shop nearby?" Alex asked.

"I think there is a spiritual library down the corner," said Claire as she scrolled on her phone. "Here it is. Fulminata Book Store, spiritual and mystic library. It's on Santa Monica Boulevard, near 5th Street. They also sell stones, and — Hey! They have a huge statue."

"It's decided. Let's go there."

"How about the Pier?" I suggested as I savored Benediktos's gift, the cool yogurt soothing my palate. "They have Pacific Park. We just need to cross the bridge past the street."

"It's always so crowded..." Claire replied.

I looked at the clock. It was 12:37pm. There was plenty of time left. "Okay. Lead the way."

We made it to the library and the first thing I noticed was the huge statue. A crossed-legged Buddha with garlands hanging from its head. I walked around it several times, admiring it. It was beautiful indeed. Behind it, there were shelves with drawers over drawers full of a myriad of stones. They were categorized by color and functionality. Some helped with courage, others attracted good vibes, others repelled the bad ones, and some even claimed to help with your professional endeavors.

The books were on the section to the right, all the way to the second floor. They were classified by topics and geographical locations. Alex and Claire were already ogling on them and casually tossing them around when they lost interest. Normally, I would have been the first one to lose myself under a stack of books, but my mind was somewhere else. And there was nothing else I wanted to do more. I checked my phone again. 1:03pm. I still had time, but I had to leave soon. I checked on the girls again. They didn't notice when I walked out.

I put my phone on airplane mode and hid it in my pocket. As I made my way back to Basilio's I couldn't stop asking myself again and again, What am I thinking? What am I thinking? Keep walking. Don't stop. Don't stop, like a dagger constantly poking on my head. Back in the library, the idea hadn't seemed as crazy as it did now that I had decided to pull it off. What if I'm really being stupid? What if he thinks I'm a weirdo? A creep? Then the other voice in my head would soothe my angst by reminding me that I wouldn't know if I didn't try. Plus, it's not like you are gonna see each other again... You are only here for a day.

As I turned the last corner, the Pacific greeted me with its blue immensity. Ocean Avenue was bursting with traffic, lifting the dusty warm air onto the sidewalks full of pedestrians. I reached the restaurant and looked at the time again. 1:45pm. Just fifteen minutes left. I looked through the window but didn't see him, so I squatted by the corner of the store and waited. I started rehearsing what I was going to say when a pack of loud seagulls flew by, and I had the impression they were laughing at me. I stopped immediately, embarrassed. My hands were shaking and sweaty.

I was just about to command my legs to stand up and walk away when — Ring! Ring! — I looked to my right. From the side alley, a pair of bicycle wheels rolled past me and riding them was Benediktos, with his golden curls and white polo. It was now or never. At that moment, Never wasn't an option. I stood up.

"Hey! Benediktos!"

He hit the breaks and looked around. I waved my hand so he would notice me.

"Oh! Hi." He recognized me. "What can I help you with?"

I felt this was my cue to get closer, so I did, with caution.

"Hey. My name's Jaime. The food was delicious… Um, I was thinking that maybe... you'd want to go out with me? Loved the yogurt by the way!" My inner self was cringing, yelling and begging for mercy while being crushed by the struggle of asking a total stranger on a date. Then I added, "I mean, only if you want to. I know you just got out of your shift and you must be tired. Please don't think I'm a stalker or something."

He stared for a moment. Speechless? Suspicious perhaps? His eyes were like droplets of honey. I hadn't noticed inside the restaurant and I was grateful that, even though I was at the brink of rejection, I had the chance to notice more things that made him beautiful.

He finally parted his lips, "I am sorry. But I already have a girlfriend."

Fatal blunder.

"Oh... It is me who is sorry. I thought that you... well that you... I am sorry to have bothered you and even assumed that — I'll leave now." I turned around, trying to hide my red face. Then his hand landed on my right shoulder. I stopped dry.

"But after this long shift, I definitely am starving."

My heart jolted with relief and renewed excitement. He saved me from that dreadful walk of shame which awaited me. I was back in the game, but then I doubted.

"Please don't do this out of pity," I said.

"It's not pity. I would like to go out with you too. Where were you going to take me?"

We had gone farther than I had foreseen and now my mind was blank. I looked around and saw the big flashing wheel over the ocean.

"How about the Pier?" Again with the Pier...

"Too crowded. The lines are super long. There is a Thai food truck really close to here."

"Lead the way."

He parked his bicycle in the back alley of the restaurant — as I figured he usually did — and together we crossed the street. The food truck was closer than I expected. The menu was overwhelmingly excessive, but fortunately in English. Yet at the end, I gave up.

"I'll have whatever you have," I told him.

"Two spicy chicken noodles, please."

"I'll pay," I said, while taking my wallet out.

"Oh, no. Don't worry about it. You and your friends gave me a very nice tip."

"Keep it. The date is on me."

"Thanks," he said. Then he looked away, trying to hide a smile. "Where are your friends anyway?"

"I left them at some bookstore."

"Do they know you're here?"

"Actually, they don't. My phone must be cramped with notifications. But let's not mind them."

We grabbed our spicy noodles and sat by some bench, beside a bronze statue, under the shade of a palm tree. The vast glittery ocean stared back at us, and the mountains of Malibu in the north sank into the water, covered by a dense fog. We ate in silence for a bit, a polite distance between us.

I could still smell the scent of baked lamb and coffee that wafted all around him. Then I ventured, "Benediktos... That's a peculiar name, isn't it?" He was chewing at the moment, so I waited.

"Benediktos Spyridon," he replied. "It is Greek, as I'm sure you guessed. But you can call me Benedict or Ben."

"I like Benedict. It's sweet. Don't take me wrong. Benediktos sounds good, epic even. But it makes me feel like I'm scolding you. So I'll stick to Benedict."

He chuckled.

"So you come from Greece?" I continued.

"I was born here. It was my great grandfather, Basilio Spyridon, who was from Zakynthos. He became a chef in Athens. He brought the business here and now my uncle, his namesake, runs the place."

"That sounds fascinating. I only know one word, Oikos. Do you know what it means?"

"Oikos?" he repeated, clearly amused. "I think it means house, or household. But it's archaic. We don't use it anymore."

"Your Greek sounds great for being a third generation."

"Thanks. My parents are insistent on keeping our culture. They have taught me Greek since I was a baby. It's also the language that we speak at the church."

"How old are you?"

"I'm twenty one. And you?"

"Same," I said right away.

"Lucky coincidence." He stood up, grabbed our empty noodle boxes and threw them in the trash can. We walked onward, with no specific destination.

"So, Jaime," he said. "Tell me a bit about you. I deserve to know something about the guy that takes me out, don't I?"

"Well, for starters," I began, "I'm not from here. I just stopped by with my friends because we are on a road trip. I'm from Northern California. But I don't think my life is as interesting as yours. Your family comes from far away, you speak another language, your food is delicious, you are incredibly handsome..."

As I said the last part, he stared at me immediately. His auburn eyes fixed on mine.

"I'm sorry. Was that too much?" I asked.

"No. Not at all. I'm just not used to guys telling me this stuff."

"I find that hard to believe. Look at yourself!"

"Thanks. I think you are very handsome too. I brought this upon myself, didn't I? It was me who gave you that special treat and winked at you in the first place."

"Trust me. I was already spinning since the moment you asked me what I wanted to order. Were you seriously flirting back then?"

"Of course I was. I thought, 'He's cute. Why not have some fun? I'm just doing my job after all.' No harm done, right?"

"Oh, you player..." I joked.

"Guilty," he said, gesturing with his arms as if caught red-handed.

We had reached Palisades Park by now. It was filled with joggers and tourists. There was a group of friends playing on a slackline by some trees and a guy on rollerblades with loud speakers on his shoulder boomed past us. Somewhere along the way, our hands grazed.

"Is it okay if I do this?" Benedict asked, as he grabbed my hand. His hand was soft, damp and warmer than I expected. I answered by holding it tighter. The sun was already close to the horizon, about to sink into the Pacific, and I refused to look at the time.

"Earlier on, you mentioned a church," I said. He let go of my hand right away, and I wished I hadn't brought it up.

"Yes. My family is Orthodox. The church is not far from here actually. We have a solid community of Orthodox Christians."

"I see. And the girlfriend, is she real?"

"Yes. She's from the church."

Then I looked directly into his eyes, as if daring him to look away. Neither of us blinked.

"Do they know?" I asked.

"They can't know. That'd be a disaster." He broke eye contact. "How about you?"

At first I hesitated, but then the words flooded with ease. There is a specific trust with strangers when you know you won't see each other again, a complicity spurred by an empathy that connects people from all paths and ways of life.

"I was raised by my grandma. At the beginning I was afraid. Afraid that she'd be disappointed. I kept it to myself for many years and it really took me down with it. Until one day, I couldn't hold it anymore. I bought her some flowers and talked to her. She cried, but they weren't tears of sadness. She told me she was glad I was honest with her and trusted her with something as important. She also told me she had noticed I wasn't being myself lately, that she was worried. She was very happy I had chosen to speak about it with her. It felt like a huge weight off my shoulders, like a fog finally dissipated from my mind."

"I wish I was that lucky." He was looking at his shoes.

I placed my hand on his right arm and caressed it with my thumb. "I wish so too."

"My family... They have these high expectations of me. Both inside the church and outside."

"Like what?"

"They want me to be more active in the community. To spend more time with my Greek peers. They also want me to go to college and study some science. You see where I am now, working at my uncle's restaurant, because I didn't make up my mind. Truth is I love poetry. I wish I could have studied literature."

"Why didn't you?"

"They say there's no future in that."

"I hope you can figure all of this out. Soon. I really do."

"Gosh…" He brought a hand to the back of his head and winced awkwardly. "I'm sorry I brought this up."

"It was me who started it. Let's change the subject."

"Yes, please."

I was trying to cheer him up. I knew our time was running out. I led the way to some other bench that looked towards the buildings, because by now the ocean was too bright to look at. This time we sat closer, our knees touching. Again, I refused to look at the time.

"Poetry," I suggested.

"I love poetry," he replied.

"Do you write it or just read it?"

"I just read it. There's a nice poetry place two squares from my house," he said as he pointed in that direction.

"Wanna go there?" I suggested.

"They are closed today."

"Bummer. Which poets do you read, then? I'm no expert, but I know of a few."

"It started in High School when they made us read Poe and Robert Frost. Then I kept looking for myself and started reading Pablo Neruda, Emily Dickinson, among others... The list keeps growing."

"Is there a favorite one?"

"Oh yes. Konstantinos Kavafy. He was Greek and lived in Alexandria. He wasn't very popular during his time, but he was important in reviving Greek poetry. The English translations don't rhyme much, but I love how he portrays ancient Greece through his verses, like glimpses of antiquity. You should read him some time."

"Now I must."

At last, the spell was broken. Benedict reached for his phone and looked at the time. 5:35pm.

"I think we should get going," he said.

My feet refused to move. My arm wanted to hold him there, talking about his love for poetry and himself and his life, until the sun hid behind us, and after that, keep talking, looking at each other, until the sun caught up to us from the east. We would go back to the food truck and order more spicy chicken noodles and come back to this bench and repeat it all over again, but I knew this could not be. We both stood up reluctantly, almost hesitant. I noticed he was feeling the same way.

We walked back to the restaurant, the place where everything began, and walked slower than ever. On the way back, each step I took felt like one moment less with him. We remained silent, as if mourning. He walked his bicycle onto the sidewalk and I followed, but I wasn't ready to let go just yet, not with such downcast spirits.

I noticed the bicycle had some tubes attached to the rear wheel. "Hey. Can I take you to your house?"

"What about the bike?"

"Allow me." I mounted the bicycle and told him to step on the tubes. He understood and did so. Then he grabbed on tight to my shoulders. He didn't smell like baked lamb and coffee anymore. I smelled his scent.

"How are you gonna come back?" he asked.

"I'll just call an Uber. Guide the way."

Ring! Ring! I rode down the sidewalk and followed his directions. First down Ocean Avenue, then up Venice Boulevard. We took a turn at Inglewood. Somewhere along the way, his arms crossed over my neck and collarbone. His face was closer to mine and I swear his nose poked on my hair.

"We can stop here," he said.

We were in the corner of two suburban streets, by a tall fence, but we didn't stop at any specific house. "My house is over there," he pointed to a white one, with blue striped curtains and a garden in the front. "I made you stop here because I shouldn't push my luck."

"I understand."

He took a deep breath. "I guess this is it." Then he paused. He grabbed my hand one last time. He was gentle. "Thank you for everything."

The time had come. I wanted to tell him to try, and to try harder. But I knew, even though we had connected beautifully during this short while, that in the bigger picture, we were still strangers. Instead, I watched him as he rode his bike towards the house with blue striped curtains. I looked at Benediktos one last time, with his golden curls, white polo shirt, and lean silhouette. I kept looking until the door closed.

The Uber took me back to the Pier where I finally decided to check my notifications. It had two hundred and twenty-two text messages and thirty-four missed calls. I caught up with my friends, who were hysterical. They kept harassing me with questions.

"I'm fine. I'm fine. I'll tell you when we get to the car."

We were already on the highway heading back home when I felt something odd in my back pocket. I reached for it and produced a folded piece of yellow paper. It was from Benedict's notepad. I opened it immediately.

Myres, Alexandria A.D. 340 — Konstantinos Kavafy

I googled it instantly and read... I read it twice. It is about a man who attends his beloved friend's funeral, only to find himself engulfed by the bustle of a religious ritual. As the speaker is surrounded by plaintive prayers and mourning strangers, he can't help but to feel like an outsider and question everything he knew about his late friend.

I remained silent the rest of the trip. By the time I was done, I had a glimpse of the future Benedict and I would have had. Despite such bittersweet vision, what I wished for the most, deep inside, was for him to have given me his phone number.