It’s so good to see you guys outside of a meeting.
Did you hear? AZT is 20 percent cheaper now.
It’s still 70 percent too expensive, but it’s a step.
Fur and Christmas sweaters are an interesting choice in this heat.
We’re both always freezing these days.
Who’s your cute friend?
Oh, this is Reza. He’s fresh off the boat from Tehran and Toronto.
Did he not want to stop off in Torino?
Art taps my shoulder and I blink my eyes. I say a meek, “Hello, nice to meet you.”
“I’m obsessed with that queen,” the man in the fursays. “Those outfits. The gowns, the hair. Honestly, that homely Queen Elizabeth should take some tips from her.”
“I’m sorry?” I say.
“Farah Diba!” he says. “Your queen. The glamour. The opulence. The extravaganza.”
“FarahDiva,” Christmas sweater says.
“Farrah Fawcett has nothing on her,” fur coat says.
“Thank you,” I say, as if he has complimented me. And then, stupidly, I say, “I don’t know her, though.”
The man in the Christmas sweater smiles. “Well, there’s still time. She’s not dead yet. Come on, baby, let’s let the boys be.”
“Wait!” Art says. And when he has their attention, he adds, “Could I take your picture? You just look so fabulous tonight.”
Fabulous? They look like they are going to die.
The men stand in front of the refrigerated section of the deli, which seems ironic since everything inside is fresh. Fur coat is taller than Christmas sweater, and so he rests his head atop Christmas sweater’s head. They smile. Art snaps.
“Glorious,” Art says.
“Make me look like Mahogany,” fur coat says.
The men hug Art before they leave, and I cannot help but watch as their skin touches his. One of them has a lesion just above his wrist, and it grazes Art’s neck as they hug. I want to push it away, to create a barrier between us and these men.
Art and I head to separate aisles. I find a bottle of nonalcoholic cider and purchase it with the money my mother gave me to take a taxi tonight. Art tells me he will be right out. As I wait outside, a group of people across the street are dancing, a portable stereo at their feet. And then I see a flower under my face. A single pink rose.
“A present,” Art says from behind me.
I turn around and see him smiling. “That’s a nice idea,” I say. “Does her uncle like flowers?”
Art blinks just once, then looks right at me like I’m an idiot.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing,” he says, his face reddening. “I just thought... It’s nothing.”
And that is when I realize that the rose was meant for me. My heart beats with equal parts excitement and fear. I can’t believe that this beautiful, fearless boy actually has feelings for me. “I understand.”
“Maybe I read the signs wrong,” he says.