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“Oh, right. See?” he said stretching towards me. I peered at his chest just above his nipple, where there was a small Band-Aid.

I looked at Sue P, who just rolled her eyes.

“Well, I’m so glad everything turned out OK. Listen, I have to grab something to eat then head to my next class—and you probably need to go lay down or something to recover.”

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll talk later. Let everyone know I pulled through.”

“Will do,” I called, hiding my smile as Sue P led him towards his dorm.

Saturday, September 22, 1979, University City—I heard Jackson open our apartment’s door then exclaim, “You, again?”

“Oh, hush,” I heard MJ say. “You’ve barely seen me. I was gone all summer. Besides, you know I’m here because I adore you both. And I know you love me, Jackson. Also, I hate messiness—Sue P is a slob—and your place is always so clean and orderly, even though you’re both guys—”

“Whoa, girlfriend,” Jackson said in that queeny voice he sometimes adopts—his ability to code switch, that is change his presentation from uber masculine to effeminate gay at will, still startles me every time he does it. “You need to check your assumptions about gender. Also, I am a preacher’s kid, and cleanliness is next to godliness.”

Jackson was, I knew, serious. Despite working as a plumber, I’ve never seen Jackson dirty. Each morning, he leaves our apartment dressed in neat khakis and a carefully pressed button-down shirt. He returns home dressed as he left. On Fridays, he comes home with a brown paper bag under his arm,which contains his soiled work clothes. Even after a long day that includes overtime, he returns to me smelling of soap and aftershave. That is one of the things I love about him—that he always chooses to show me the best version of himself.

“Pardon my mistake, good sir,” MJ said bowing. “Oren,” she shouted when she saw me standing in the hall watching them, “Thank God you’re here. Please save me from this psychopath you’re in love with.”

I laughed, helplessly charmed by their manic antics in opposition to each other.

Saturday, October 20, 1979, University City—I was writing a paper for my comparative literature class. Tomorrow, I will go over to MJ’s room and type it on her fancy electric typewriter. I generally type her papers for her as well, as she is a terrible typist—think seven or eight words a minute,with typos. As MJ moons over my proficiency, in my head, I thank Mrs. Campbell, my typing teacher, who ignored the consternation of all the other teachers and the school’s principal over my decision to take typing rather than shop and welcomed me into her distaff den.

On the radio, Prince was insisting he wanted to be our brother, and our mother and our sister, too. Jackson came up behind me and wrapped his arms around me. “This song is for us.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re everything to each other. And all we have.”

I twisted in my chair to look at him. “Does that make you sad?” I asked.

“No.” He giggled and whispered in my ear, “I want to be your lover, too.”

“Youaremy lover, silly boy.” I pulled him onto my lap.

He made himself comfortable and looked into my eyes. He looks at me and I feel like a hero. Yet I know it is he who saved me.

“I love you, Blue Moon,” I said.

“I know,” he answered kissing me. “I love you, too.”

He pulled me to my feet, and we tumbled onto the bed. After, he looked pensive. “What’s wrong?” I asked him.

“I heard from Reverend Jack today.”

“What did he have to say?”

“The usual. He thinks this will get us sent to hell.” He held our entwined fingers in the air. “Do you think it will?”

I rolled onto my stomach. “You know on Judgment Day, when St. Peter stops me at the pearly gates and asks me what I did with my life, I will tell him I spent it loving you.”

“You think that will be enough to get you into heaven?”

I shrugged. “Living with you, loving you in the open, is my heaven. Nothing else matters.” I kissed him, laid my head down on my pillow. He slapped me on my naked ass. “No sleeping. Get up. You have a paper to write.”

“No,” I said, rolling onto my back. “Come here. I can write it in the morning.”

Indigo (1980)