Riding back from lunch just now, I was sitting across the aisle from a classic fag-and-his-hag duo. Oh, it’s possible I was imagining things, that the young man was not the least bent, but I truly suspect the farthest down on the LGBTQI spectrum he could fall would be the Questioning bit. As for her, her role in life was well and truly cemented.
He was young and adorable, even his braces (!) seemed like flattering accessories. She was, uhm, not adorable. A little overweight, bad two-tone hair, “artistic” shoes and a too tight horizontal striped tee shirt. It’s actually the shirt that makes me wonder if the boy was all the way out. Surely anyone who has left the closet behind would have talked her out of such a mistake.
She was overly gregarious, laughing loudly and telling some complicated story that lasted from Church Street all the way downtown and which required lots of touching, constantly patting him on the arm or grabbing his knee. His contribution to the conversation seemed to be mostly sub-audible static.
I foresee all too clearly the future here. More hanging-out together that she construes as dates; a late night, teary proclamation (on one side or the other, or both); text messages ignored; and then a confrontation in a bar to be named at a later date.
Haven’t we all been there before?