“Your wardrobe is sad, Peter. Your wardrobe is appropriate for a man who has given up on joy and replaced it with fabrics that don’t wrinkle.”
“Fabrics that don’t wrinkle are practical. I save on fabric softener.”
Benji actually barked a laugh. A woman pushing a stroller turned and grinned.
He then said, “Fabrics that don’t wrinkle are the sartorial equivalent of your old fragrance-free conditioner. They work, technically, but they’ve surrendered to a philosophy of minimum viable aesthetics.”
“You’re critiquing my clothes at a zoo café.”
“I’m critiquing your clothes because I care about you and because someone needs to tell you that you own four identical gray T-shirts. That, inanygay world, is a cry for help.”
“I own four identical gray T-shirts because when I find a shirt that fits, I buy multiples. It’s efficient.”
“It’s a uniform. You’re one step from a capsule wardrobe TED talk.”
“Capsule wardrobes are perfectly rational.”
“I’m taking you shopping,” Benji said between bites of his wrap.
“You are not taking me shopping.”
“I’m taking you shopping, and you’re going to buy one shirt that has a color on it. I require only one at this juncture. We’ll ease into quantities later. You must agree to a hue that exists outside the spectrum between concrete and midnight, and I must approve prior to final purchase.”
“You’re asking me to change a system that has worked for years.”
“I’m asking you to own one shirt that doesn’t make you look like you’re attending your own funeral.”
I looked at him across the table with his Flamingo Wrap and his green T-shirt and his face animated with the passionate conviction of a man who believed that a gray T-shirt was a moral failing.
“One,” I said.
“One shirt. In a color that isn’t navy. And for the record, navy is gray with mild ambition but without a will to live. It doesn’t count.”
“Navy doesn’t count?” I asked, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable with the status of our negotiations.
“Navydoes not count.” He punctuated each word.
“Fine. One shirt. You get to approve. No navy or gray.”
“Or navy or gray adjacent.”
“Fine.”
“I accept your terms,” he said, tossing back the last bite of wrap with more satisfaction than the act warranted.
As I finished my sandwich, he told me about the giraffe and her tongue-hand connection again. I told him about the potassium protocol again, offering a few more details than before, which he pretended to find interesting but I suspected he found boring as hell. We talked about the clinic and the bar and Clementine, the new foster who was hiding under the bathroom sink.
“She’ll come around,” Benji said. “She just needs to know the room is safe.”
“Most of them do.”
“Most ofusdo,” he said lightly.
Still, those four words carried the weight of everything underneath them.
I reached across the table and put my hand over his. In a zoo café, in the middle of the day, surrounded by families and a man in a flamingo costume who appeared to be having a difficult afternoon. I put my hand over his, and it was the first time I’d voluntarily touched another person in public since David.
Benji looked at our hands, then looked at me.
