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I brought her with me to meet Richard and some college friends of his for a drink. I was only stopping in for one drink because Richard had asked me to, and then I was on my way to work. Ginger was going to the show at the bar that night, so I convinced her to tag along. It was a mistake. Richard was running late and wasn’t there when we arrived and the bar—excuse me, cocktail lounge—had a ten-dollar cover. Ginger offended the bouncer and amused me by muttering about it being a pay-to-play, and when we walked in it was clear we were extremely underdressed. I was wearing black jeans and boots and a red T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off because I made more tips the more skin I flashed, and though Ginger was wearing a tight black tube dress, the tattoos that cover every inch of her arms, legs, chest, and back made her the center of attention.
We got drinks (twelve-dollar martinis flavored with herbs and served in tiny glasses) and stood at a table, waiting for Richard. The place was crowded, so I didn’t think much when Ginger’s shoulders tensed. She was constantly getting people coming up to her to touch her tattoos and ask her what they meant—or, less flatteringly, tell her that she’d be so pretty if she didn’t have them—so I’d grown accustomed to running interference. I swung around to sit next to her, but she waved me back across the table and started talking about a tattoo she’d done that afternoon.
Later on she told me she’d sat down just in time to hear a man with an upper crust-y New York accent say, “I can’t wait to clap eyes on Richie’s rough-trade trailer trash. Richie says he’s like a jackhammer.” The table behind us had been, of course, Richard’s college friends. Needless to say, we didn’t have much to talk about and I was relieved when it was time for us to leave so I could get to work.
Richard walked us out and kissed me. “Thanks for putting up with those guys,” he said. “You know how it is. They were probably nervous around you because you’re so hot.” He winked at Ginger and she just walked away.
After a year and a half or so of dinners and fucking that I thought of as dating, though I guess I never used the word to Richard, I stopped by Richard’s apartment on my way to work because I’d left a book there the night before. I stepped out of the elevator—Richard lived in one of those posh buildings in Center City with a doorman and everything—and jogged down the hallway. I don’t remember why I didn’t call first. As I turned the corner to knock on Richard’s door, I saw him standing in front of it. At first, I thought I was catching him just getting home and had a moment of being thankful for my good timing. Then I saw the arms wrapped around his neck.
Richard was making out with another guy right in his doorway. I must’ve made a sound—coughed, or gasped, or said his name—because Richard turned around. What I remember most about the moment his eyes met mine is that there wasn’t any surprise in them. Not even a microsecond of shock, or guilt, or shame. His hair was mussed and the collar of his shirt askew, and he just smiled at me.
“Hey, Dan,” he said. “Not a great time.”
The man he was with was the opposite of me in every way: a gorgeous little twink, thin and blond, with big blue eyes and apple cheeks and an arm slung around Richard’s waist with the casualness of long habit.
I had no idea what to say or do and, suddenly, what seemed like the absolute most important thing was that Richard not have the slightest inkling that I cared at all.
“I need my book,” I said, and my voice came out scratchy and high. The twink shifted a few inches to the left, so I could squeeze through the doorway.
At work that night, as I mechanically poured drinks and stared at the lights strobing over the crowd, I played the conversation Richard and I had over and over in my mind, trying to make sense of the pieces.
Things Richard said:
“Well, it isn’t as if we’re exclusive,” and, at my shocked expression, “I’m sorry if you thought that, Daniel, but we never had that conversation.”
“Don’t look at me like I’ve betrayed you. I would never cheat on a boyfriend, but when did we ever decide that’s what we were?”
Socking me softly in the shoulder, “Come now, if you were my boyfriend you would’ve had to spring for a real birthday present.” In fact, I’d spent more money on Richard’s gift, a first American edition of John Dalton’s A New System of Chemical Philosophy, than on any other gift I’d ever given.
