In the Closet (boy x boy)

4. Wisdom of the Hungover

Sunday, March 5th

Barb holds the bridge of her nose, her head tormented by the results of her drunken shenanigans of last night. She stays in the shade on a cozy chair because every time she glances at a source of harsh light, she feels series of headaches set off. Her cat purrs, settled on her lap. I sway absently on a swing, also in the shade of a tall tree. The difference is that I'm not hungover, I just don't want to die of skin cancer. The latest early birds chirps in trees around us. Sun has well arisen, perched high above us. Barb almost slaughtered me and my whole family tree for waking her at noon on a Sunday.

"So, correct me if I didn't understand this right, you know he's gay and he has your phone," she says slowly, tone borderline murderous.

"Yes."

"That's it?" I wince as I meet her gaze. If I'm not dead yet, I'm not far from it. She pets her cat to calm her nerves. I've never been more thankful for Mr. Cuddles (yes, that's his really name and Barb was the one to choose it). I'm also glad I refrained from showing her the list I drafted of possible results to this ordeal once I returned home yesterday night. It's long and detailed and a bit pathetic.

I swing harder, convinced self-induced dizziness might allow a passable solution to bloom from my gooey mind.

"Yes, but-" I quiet myself when Barb abruptly sits up to reach a hand into the plate of fruits and vegetables her father prepared for us.

Her daunting but wasted eyes scold me.

"What the fuck is the deal then? Just trade. Your silence for your phone."

I groan. "I can't do that."

She crunches at a piece of juicy cucumber, holds my gaze a moment longer and retreats back into her seat.

"Mind telling me again why not." She places the leftover cucumber over her eyes, shrugs nonchalantly.

"He's not typical, Barb." She opens her mouth to say something but I don't allow her. "And sure, I'm not typical either but it's different."

Her mouth thins. She is not impressed. "Do tell how come."

"I do weird shit, alright, however I'm not homophobic," I say seriously.

"Are you not?" I frown.

"Is that even a question?"

She answer with another question. "Billy, are you gay?"

I flinch despite me. "No!" Mr. Cuddles mewls in disapproval.

"Point proven," she states flatly, nose scrunched.

"That's not it, Barb. I'm not homophobic, just wildly heterosexual." I wear my most honest face although she isn't even looking.

She snorts at me.

"Wildly? Really, Billy? You've never been wild about anything in this lifetime."

I fall back against the swing, despaired. "Come on now," I whine.

"So explain it to me. Tell me how much you like girls."

It sounds like a dare in one of those party games but it should mean nothing. I can't comprehend why answering seems so daunting.

"Well, the majority of people I truly appreciate are women. There's you, and my mom, and your mom, and that sweetheart of a woman at the coffee shop, and—"

"Okay, no, Billy." She begins, cutting me off short. I don't blame her, I was already running out of examples.

"Liking girls as in taking them out on a date," I raise my eyebrows in consideration, "kissing," I shiver and try not to grimace, "making love," a true feel of anguish fills me, "wedding and kids and all." I shake my head vigorously and I'm glad Barb didn't witness that mess of a reaction.