“So, it was Keith, right?”
Esmé glared at him. “No, it was Fred.”
“Fred?” Luke wasn’t sure whether
she was teasing him. “Fred? I haven’t met a Fred.”
“I don’t bring all my men home, you know.
I mean, hundreds fall at my feet, bow down before me. Hundreds?
Thousands!”
“Yeah, right. Like me. Just a constant stream of sexy studs. I just fatigued all to hell every morning.”
“Aren’t we just the cat’s pyjamas?”
Luke grinned at her. “We are.”
“Yeah, well, of course it was Keith.”
Luke looked at her. Presumably
they had made love and it had all worked out but …. Keith was gay. Mostly.
His own gaydar wasn’t well developed, because he was never sure whether
blokes weren’t interested because they were straight or because they were just,
well, not interested. Not that he blamed
them. Who would be in a fat fuck like
him? All the same he was certain that Keith was gay. The way Keith had sassed him out wasn’t the
way straight guys looked at another man.
Keith was gay. Gay-shaded,
anyway. But Esmé seemed so happy. He didn’t want to spoil that. When it all went wrong, as it most prolly
would, then …. That would be the time
to pick up the pieces. That was
tomorrow’s problem.
“I’m glad,” he assured her. He
meant it. But all the same, he couldn’t help wondering
when he himself would find someone to love.
No comments:
Post a Comment