"I'm a middle-aged Indian gay man with a paunch, who would want me?"
"I would," said the obscenely tall white gay man with complimentary paunch, smiling.
He wears the royal purple in a pleasant plaid.
He carries an umbrella, looped casually around his wrist. They said rain, he knows.
And they are fine together, walking in synch, as I stall against the passersby.
I'm going to the store. I'm going to the store. I'm going to the store. I'm going to the store.
Almost tripped that curb.
What was I saying? Oh yes!
I'm going to the store. I'm going to the store....
The slight man in the silly shorts and fanny pack - front facing - urges himself to Target with serious intention.
He has spilled something green on the white of his shirt. No matter.
He is fine, too, bottle-thick glasses focused on his feet benevolently preventing him from noticing the stares.
"GURL, you should have seen him!" only a dash of original color peeking through the shocking yellow and orange tint on that head of pointy, implausible hair.
Against the red of his shirt and blush it is at once garish and becoming.
Hand splayed. Voice now hushed. Gossip the only item on the agenda.
Her blush and lowered lash replies.
And back to the racks they go. Teenaged and tender.
And they are fine.
As are we all.
If only we allow.