I tugged my hand free.
“We’re on vacation,” Marilyn explained. “From St. Louis.”
“I’m sorry.” The jab came out like a knee-jerk reaction.
“We wanted to visit all things queer in the Big Apple,” she continued, thankfully oblivious to my remark.
“Uh-huh. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but the Emporium isn’t a gay-centric shop.”
“You’re gay,” Zachary answered, like maybe I didn’t know.
“I’m not for sale.”
“Just my luck,” he said with a sort of wicked shy smile.
I cleared my throat and said, desperate to fill the bizarre silence, “I mean… I do have a few daguerreotypes of what I’m quite certain are lesbian couples.”
Marilyn and Zachary exchanged looks again.
“I spoke with a professor at Columbia last week about them. He insisted they were roommates. I swear to God, the photo could have been two women naked and embracing in one bed, and he’d have defended a dissertation on the familiarity of female friendships.”
Marilyn and Zachary both gasped at the same time.
I startled and cut short my rant. “What?”
“And there wasonly one bed!” they both exclaimed at once.
“What—?”
“It’s my favorite trope,” Zachary explained.
“Same,” Marilyn agreed, nodding. She asked me, “Do you read romance books?”
That heat was back, crawling up my neck, across my face, making my skin feel like little pinpricks of light were going to shoot out of every pore. “Well, I, uh—I prefer mysteries.” They were both staring at me, and I felt like my face was about to combust at this point. “Sometimes I do. The bookshop next door—”
“Queer books?” Marilyn interrupted.
“No. I mean, it’s just a used bookstore, but sometimes the owner finds gay romances and lets me borrow them. I’m not really into hetero love affairs.”
Zachary began vigorously tapping Marilyn’s arm. “The flyer, Marilyn. Give him one. You brought them, right?”
She was already digging through the messenger bag hanging from her shoulder, the front covered in no fewer than three dozen buttons, although I couldn’t make out what any of them were. Marilyn unearthed a slightly crumpled flyer and thrust it into my unwilling hands.
Awkwardly holding it and realizing neither had any intention of leaving my store until I acknowledged the contents, I sighed a little, reached for my magnifying glass, and read, “Queer Expectations.” I glanced up. “After having Ethan Cohen’s hand down my pants and liking it, I’ve not really had any other sort of expectation in life.”
Zachary’s mouth dropped open.
Marilyn rolled her finger in a motion for me to continue reading.
I returned to the flyer, and after a moment, concluded with, “Gay book convention.” Not that I wasn’t interested in LGBTQ studies or biographies—I mean, Iwasme. History and research were at the top of my list of pleasures, right beside a generous helping of cheesecake and Calvin smacking my bare ass and calling it pretty. But I have to admit, sometimes it’s nice to get lost in a fictional story, and seeing oneself represented—
“It’s specifically for romance books,” Marilyn corrected.
I lowered the flyer and asked with what sounded like hopeful wariness, “There’s enough gay romance books to warrant a convention?”
They both nodded in sync.
I brought the magnifying glass to the paper. “It’s next month?”
