Page 16 of Romeo vs Romeo

He would put a hand on his throat, feeling his collarbones with the palm of his hand, like it was some erotic display, yet he would speak as though he was in a job interview. And when I had seen him lean back in his chair, his hand would wander restlessly to his crotch as if to feel his cock for no other reason than that it was right there.

Even when he agreed to walk with me, he bit his lip seductively but without any of the invitations he had displayed when he had truly wanted me. It looked as though he was alluring by instinct.

I hated how well it worked on me.

“Can you stop?” I asked, just as we turned around the corner, leaving the chatter of the bar far behind us.

“Stop what?” he asked, either confirming my suspicion or teasing me mercilessly.

“That,” I said, pointing to where his hand had slipped under his top, resting on his ribcage casually.

Roman snorted. “Does it make you uncomfortable?”

“Actually, yeah, it does,” I said.

This seemed to entertain him. “The only reason it bothers you is because of your unresolved issues with male physique.” Even so, he made a show of pulling his hand out from under the top, patting the white fabric, and tucking both his hands inside his pockets. “I don’t think I can blame you, though.”

“Don’t,” I said. It sounded more like a plea than I would have liked.Don’t blame me for the things that have been done to me, I thought in my most pathetic, self-pitying tone. And while I wouldn’t want to sound like that if my life depended on it, there was some truth to it.

If you had a child and you raised that child in one windowless room, and you never told that child that stars existed, could you blame that child for hating all the stargazers? If for no other reason, then they would hate them with envy for getting to watch the stars their whole lives while the child lived in total darkness.

I was denied the truth of my own existence because it conflicted with the altered truth my parents had imposed on me. My mother’s friends had sons with wives and children, all more pious, more devout, more successful, and more appropriate as sons than the pathetic old me.

“Mama Viv scared you,” Roman said in a carefully controlled voice.

I swallowed. “I wasn’t afraid.”

“You were nervous,” Roman said.

“I don’t understand why…” I fell silent for a moment, hearing my mother’s words speak in my voice. “What she does is new to me.”

“You’ve seen her before,” Roman said.

“We never spoke.” Agitation in my voice had no place to be there, I knew, but to justify myself to a man of Roman’s habits triggered something deeply buried in me. Cooling off, I exhaled. “I think she is talented.” It seemed to please Roman that I said so, which made me happier than I would have admitted. “Is she…uh, transgender?”

“Mama Viv’s a drag queen,” Roman said simply. If that was self-explanatory, it didn’t work with me. I still didn’t understand. He glanced at me, not unkindly, and added, “Mama Viv is a persona, you see. The gender of the person wearingthe persona is irrelevant because Lady Vivien Woodcock is a woman. Her life mirrors the life of the man behind the fake eyelashes, but they are not the same person. It’s rare for Roger to spill over as much as he did tonight, bringing up Thomas and Broadway auditions. Lady Vivien is a wealthy widow sipping cocktails and cooling herself with a vintage fan; Roger is a man whose trauma motivates him to fix what’s broken in this world.”

“To help people like you and me,” I murmured. I didn’t know why this made my eyes sting.

“Yes,” Roman said. “To be the pillar of a community that accepts itself with all its faults, virtues, and campiness. To never let history repeat itself. To never be in a world where your race, gender, and sexuality are somebody’s issue.” Roman hesitated for a moment, then licked his lips hastily. “You know, Roger doesn’t profit from Neon Nights. I helped with the books once, and I know he gets a salary to cover his basic expenses, but the entire surplus is divided between the employees, community events, and charity donations.”

That rang strange in my head. My father was a wealthy man and a true force in the literal landscape of New York City. What sort of person gave up their profits? It had to take a Diogenes-like madman or one of those rare altruists to do such a thing.

We slowed down as we neared the end of one narrow street and the crossing of a much larger avenue. I dared myself to ask what I wanted to know. “Your arrest?” I said, stumbling over my words.

Cracking a smile, Roman turned around and walked backward, looking into my eyes. He veered a little to the right and the long brick wall of an old building. “Oh, that?” he said. “I’m a troublemaker.” He leaned against the wall, lifting one foot up and resting the sole of his shoe against the wall. “Or did you think I was a nice, law-abiding citizen?”

I snorted. Was he flirting? Even as I wondered about it, I found myself walking closer to him than the other edge of the sidewalk. “I didn’t think you were nice.”

“Ouch.”

“Your words,” I pointed out.

“It’s true, though,” Roman said. “I’m a bad boy.” This time, he couldn’t hold his laughter. He shook his head. “Nah, I’m not like that. Not entirely, at least. It was a Wall Street die-in.”

I frowned. “It was a what?”

“A die-in, you know?” Roman cocked his head. “It’s when protesters lie like they’re dead and disrupt traffic.”

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