A diminutive gentleman with a flaming red Amish-style beard was seated at the bar next to me. Motioning to Brock, he finally asked, "Is that your boyfriend."
Later Brock, who was wearing a fur stole at the time, remarked that whenever that question is asked of him and a girlfriend in a bar, he knows he's a long, long way from home. "I think it's the lack of clarity I find most jarring."
Put on the spot, I responded to the Leprechaun, "No, he's my very good friend."
I should have said, "Yes, the man in the fur is indeed my lover." But I didn't. In my state of rejected horror, I told the truth.
"Cool." Said the Leprechaun. "Can I get your number?"
This, I should point out, was immediately after the Leprechaun tried to sell us weed. "Oh, golly. Um...I don't really give my number out."
It was all I could come up with and the irony of the day's situation was lost on neither Brock nor me. "My God, Beth!" Brock whispered. "This is extraordinary."
This upset the Leprechaun, who finally announced, "Whatever. I was asking for him anyway!"
He used his Leprechaun head to motion to the elderly gentleman sitting beside him, passed out next to his boiler maker.
Maybe this little, drunk drug dealer with an Amish beard is the love of my life and I made him wallow in my cesspool of rejection because I didn't want to be there alone. I dumped my face in my hands and groaned, "Oh Brock, I'm so embarrassed!"
"Aww, I love you, Beth." Brock giggled. "You remind me of me. I mean, I went to this bar where, if you take your shirt off, you get a free drink. I removed my shirt and the hot bartender only gave me 50% off. And I'm talking recently."
And I laughed with my gay, like my character's supposed to do in this shitty, poorly-written, never-ending ro-co.