Markham’s Pub is perfect for this neighborhood. Since I’m the bartender, I know the regulars. Roger and Jackson arrive after work without fail, and again after dinner. Friends since grade school, they’re grateful to still have jobs.
Their girlfriends are nursing students. Zoë and Vanessa don’t come in when Roger and Jackson are here. They arrive earlier, drink wine near a window, and hold hands.
Today after an hour of giggling and entwining pretty ankles under the table, the girls approach the bar, having agreed I should know what’s happening tonight. Ordinarily, I turn my back when people offer details. But Zoë and Vanessa are so damn cute that I’m happy to listen.
“The only reason Roger and Jackson don’t already know,” Vanessa says, “is because they’re oblivious. On purpose.”
“It’s not like we haven’t given them fair warning,” Zoë says. “I mean, how explicit do we have to be? We’ve said we’re serious. We’ve even acted serious.”
Later, when Roger and Jackson arrive after work, I’m less thrilled by the situation, which, thank God, is not after all any of my business.
For weeks now Roger and Jackson have asked me about women alone, women in pairs, and women in groups. Is Sapphic love springing up everywhere this year, or is it just them?
Roger is watching a pair of dark beauties lost in conversation and asks, “In your educated opinion, Joe, are they lesbians?”
“The Brianti sisters? Shy but straight.”
Later that evening neither shows. Not up after dinner, anyway. Instead they stagger in, well after my shift when I’m savoring my taste of Armagnac and choosing the night’s final playlist.
“We don’t need to tell you what happened.” Jackson rocks back and forth.
“You know, I wouldn’t really have known…till now. Can I buy you guys a drink?”
Of course, I can. And since I’ve always liked them, I listen to their side—seems only fair. Zoë’s moving in with Vanessa; Jackson’s stuff was piled in the hallway. Roy can’t make the rent alone but—no way they can live together.
“Sorry.” I salute when their drinks arrive. “To better days.”
“We’re okay, Joe. I’m better already.”
Maybe so, but I hear them out until almost four in the morning. Jackson worries he failed to encourage Zoë’s feminine side. And Roger admits to hanging out with the guys too much, no girls allowed.
“Don’t blame yourselves. Maybe they’re made for each other.”
“If so, they lied to us. Told us we were their best lovers ever. They both said that.”
“And until lately, you probably were.”
Roger turns away, “You really think that?”
“I think what I always think: All in Love is Fair—Stevie Wonder. ’Cuse me a sec.”
I stand up. “Last call!”
