Sometimes, with a warm kind of gratitude to no one and nothing in particular, I think to myself, “This is so comfortable!” But then I am haunted by the momentary afterthought that the comfort of this, for me, cannot last.
She knew the man who broke her heart would be at her best friend’s wedding, and she wished to God she could show up with a fabulous Romanian fiancé of obscure royal descent who would give her ex the evil eye and dance too close to her at the reception. An unfortunate booking accident at the local hotel would have them staying next door to each other, and the ex would toss and turn for several miserable hours trying to ignore the animal screams of ecstasy audible through the paper-thin walls.
She said she was only interested in reciprocity, and he asked her to define the term. She answered without hesitation: “The price of my surrender is yours.”
He wore red crocodile skin loafers, listened to Elton John, and watched “Queer As Folk” religiously. Still, he couldn’t comprehend why no one seemed terribly surprised when he finally came out.