On the tram ride
home, Luke didn’t speak, but instead stared out of the window at the passing
city. When they got home, he said,
“Nice bloke, your
Keith.” He seemed a little melancholy. You
might get someone to love, even if he is gay, but I won’t get anybody ever,
was the subtext.
“Not mine, Luke.”
“He likes you.”
Esmé shrugged. “He’s gay,” she said. “He’s a friend.”
Luke had watched
how Keith had looked at Esmé, and he wasn’t so sure. But he didn’t want to raise her hopes so he
let the subject drop.
“Are you working
tonight?” he asked.
“No. Well, I have an assignment.”
“How does pizza
and a beer and a DVD sound to you?”
“Which DVD?”
“I dunno. I bought some new gay movies from Amazon.”
“Do you think I’m
turning into a fag hag?” Esmé had read that term just that morning and it had
terribly depressed her.
“That’s a horrible
word, Ezz. Just because you have two gay
friends.”
One of whom gets a hard-on when he dances with me. “Yes, but, I’ll prolly never get a man, you
know.” She sensed Luke’s sadness and all
at once she shared it.
“Why ever not?”
So Esmé finally
told him. It felt as if a wound was torn
open and scraped with salt. But
afterwards—though there was still a throbbing ache—for the first time since it
had happened, she believed that she would be OK. Things would get better.
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