Reggie again peeked at his crisp clothes. He knew they would soon start to wrinkle, wick perspiration, soak in embarrassing crevices. The sun blazed through the ancient aspens. No wind circulated. Reggie hoped his hiking fit didn’t look too much like a Patagonia, J. Crew, or REI commercial. Should I have chosen a different ball cap, button up, ventilated trouser? Should I have carried a lighter, less back drenching, pack? He thought. Reggie wanted to make a good first impression.

This is silly, he said. It’s never going to work.

He laughed at the idea of a mating call. He didn’t want their meetup to be seen as sexual, intentional. He wanted their first connect to be organic, a way to foster a lasting, genuine relationship. Reggie enjoyed the idea of them cooking side by side, of foraging for wild onions and fallen pine nuts and unfamiliar tubers. He wanted to bring home wild game - skunk, wolverine, lynx - then play Chopped with these wondrous ingredients. If only Ted Allen could actually be there, Reggie thought. He smiled at the idea of forest to table. He pulled down his creeping plaid shirt. He removed a wet leaf from the sole of his Merrell boots.

Reggie’s bluetooth speaker blared Keith Sweat: teasing and pleasing and needing. The Facebook group had swore this was the correct song. The one that had lured it before. Reggie snickered as he mumbled along about being loved by him. He knew he wasn’t the greatest lover or the most attentive person, but he was willing to try. To go all in. He no longer wanted two-year stints. He no longer wanted to awkwardly return toothbrushes, travel mugs, or favorite books. Reggie was no longer afraid of commitment, and he hoped it was too.

“Cuz I won’t bite,” Reggie shout-sang then listened as his words echoed within the trees.

Reggie had stumbled across the Sasquatch Love Facebook group. It was three in the morning. He had been struggling with sleep. It had been eight months since he and his ex broke up. They drifted apart. She had enjoyed visiting and having drinks with friends. He liked staying home, trying new recipes, tasting new wines. They both participated in each other's events but they just weren’t meant for each other. No spark kindled. Reggie had thought the social group was about a person’s love for the mythical creature: it’s ten foot height; it’s ape-like features; it’s dark-reddish hair. Instead, the group focused on finding true love with Sasquatch, comments stated:

I heard Sasquatch is a fabulous listener
I heard it’s the best chef
I heard it will take you to the most beautiful cliffs to spy Orion
I heard it’s a beast on the trail, but as gentle as a snail

Reggie hadn’t believed it: Sasquatch’s love. There’s no such thing, Reggie said to his computer months later, after having wormholed the internet. Then there was this woman. She described in poetic detail the tenderness of Sasquatch’s big, calloused paws. She wrote about combing and braiding and feathering its hair. She talked about being bridle-carried through the woods and picking dandelions and scavenging Chanterelles. But, she mentioned that Sasquatch suffered from social anxiety disorder, which was the reason their relationship failed: She wanted to live in the city, and Sasquatch might have had agoraphobia.

Reggie’s heart had seemed to stop from that news. Tears tumbled. His lungs momentarily collapsed. Poor thing, he thought. For weeks Sasquatch loped through his mind, when crossing the street, raking leaves, taking a bubble bath. The idea of him and Sasquatch, Reggie wondered. The idea of them homesteading. Building a log cabin with a river-stone chimney. Pineneedle-smoking salmon and trout with wild rosemary and a side of sauteed stinging nettles. Reggie craved Sasquatch’s strong grip massaging his tired calves. Reggie imagined Sasquatch’s furry face nuzzling his neck. I will be the small spoon, Reggie had said as he packed his sleeping bag, instant coffee, sunscreen.

Keith Sweat continued to seduce the countryside. Reggie’s clothes had soaked through. His feet ached. Altitude sickness may have been setting in. What am I doing? Reggie said. This is stupid. Reggie shook his head. Would Sasquatch like his personality? Would Sasquatch be okay with his dry skin and extra weight and use of Tom’s All Natural deodorant that doesn’t cover up his body odor?

Reggie turned off the music.

No one likes me, Reggie yelled. No one wants me.

Reggie took off his pack. He tossed it against a tree. He snatched his ball cap from his head, slung it into a bush.

I want someone to kiss me all over, Reggie shouted. I want someone to place me above them.

Reggie closed his eyes. He wrapped his arms around himself. He stepped from side to side. He slowly turned in tight circles. The sun haloed his body. A breeze carried a musky smell. Reggie knew that could not be Sasquatch because the woman had written that Sasquatch smelled sweet and floral at the same time. That Sasquatch loved Lavender and Dwarf Irises and Stokes’ Asters and other purple flowers that would never allow for it to smell acrid. Purple was Reggie’s favorite color.

A cracked stick startled him. Reggie ceased his dancing. He twisted around, eyes searching, hair mussed. He believed he saw fur. Something moving over a ridge.

Nobody baby, Reggie began to sing. He took out his phone, hit play on his music app.

Reggie’s peripheral vision detected movement. He locked his eyes on something. Reggie grinned. He opened his arms wide. He sang full throat. His hips swayed. Keith Sweat’s voice tickled his ears. He envisioned a young Sweat’s penetrating stare, thin mustache, crooked smile.

Don’t be afraid, Reggie whispered.

The sound of foot pounds came closer. He heard grunts. Huffing. Reggie closed his eyes. A shadow swallowed him. Gave him chills. Keith Sweat bellowed Sasquatch’s mating call, while Reggie danced and danced and danced, waiting for that powerful embrace.

James Morena earned his MFA in Fiction at Mountain View Grand in Southern New Hampshire. His writing has been or soon to be published in StoryQuarterly, storySouth, Defunkt Magazine, Litro Magazine, The Citron Review, Pithead Chapel, Rio Grande Review and others. He has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize.