I looked down. “Son of a bitch, again?”
“And before you ask, yes, it’s obvious.”
“What is?” I asked, raising my head.
“When you’re late for work. Because of… how’d you put it….” Neil raised his hands and inserted his index finger into the tunnel of the other.
I kicked Neil’s shin, and he swore loud enough to earn a glare from a pair of old ladies in the booth to our right.
He reached down, rubbed his leg, and directed an apology their way. “You’re a salty shit,” he hissed at me.
“Better turn that frown upside down, Neil. Not all men appreciate what a grouchy fuck you are.”
He straightened in his seat. “Thereisn’ta man.”
“Sure.”
“Seb.”
“I said, sure.”
“You said it with a tone.”
“There was no tone.”
“I swear to God.”
I lifted up and tugged the folded flyer from my back pocket. “Not to interrupt your righteous indignation, but have you ever heard of Queer Expectations?” I cautiously unfolded the paper.
Neil reorganized his expression, took another one of those long, calculated breaths, then said, “One could argue, based on being a gay man, that all of our expectations are colored in that respect.”
“What the fuck school of philosophy did you graduate from?” I asked.
Our waitress came around then, depositing two plates on the table—said burger for me, and—
“I thought you said no tacos.”
“I did.”
I pointed at Neil’s plate. “Then what is that?”
“Tacos. For me. I was on time.”
“This mystery man is going to kill you before the week’s out,” I grumbled.
Neil picked up a taco in one hand, gave me the finger with the other, and took a big bite.
I rolled my eyes, grabbed the ketchup bottle on the tabletop between us, and said while shaking it, “I’m not talking about anything akin to The Queer Experience. Just—Queer Expectations. It’s an event.”
Neil furrowed his brow, took another bite, then asked, “What sort of event?”
“It’s… um… it’s a book convention.”
“Oh.”
I pointed a french fry at him. “You thought it was some kind of sex thing, didn’t you?”
“With a name like that….” He shrugged.
