I had a distinct impression you’d be back. Even before you’d arrived I had Serge prepare the same drink you had the last time. I assume someone who comes in to a lounge two weeks in a row by themselves at such a late hour to sit in soft light and conversate strikes me as someone who would have a usual. But if you were interested in branching out tonight we’ll count this drink as the evening’s welcome-back. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I assume you’re coming back for something more than alcohol, and the reason’s not likely to be the carpet or the flaking paint. Serge is an interesting story, but, unfortunately, I don’t talk about the people I work with.
Telling tales of the average customer who walks through the door is easy enough: I don’t have to worry about the boring details and how given the context what they said really wasn’t all that bad and whatever else—all things that get in the way of a good story. Not that Serge would likely do much of any of that. He’s quite tight lipped about details, and the angels as well as the demons are in the details so all I’m left to work with is a quite mortal story that leaves most of everything to the imagination, the bastard.
A life lived without being attentive to detail is one not worth being spoken of amongst spirits, ethereal or ether-eal. You can be the type who wouldn’t care to give them, but ignore them is something completely different. On the one side is sophistication; the other side is for those who would rather watch a sitcom than sit behind the window of a café and invent stories of all the people who walk by. And give you so much with just a walk-by that you hardly need to invent at all: the way the hands swing, the colours they wear, how they hold their face. But why am I telling you? You’ve done this more than anyone.
I’ve arrived at this from you’re reappearing here and drinking the same cocktail and asking for the same seat. It leads me to believe that you are someone who enjoys the detail, the marrow. And I can assure that the Bonne Nuit offers all sorts of intricacies, it’s is a place built up from detail: stories lodge themselves underneath the tables to keep them from wobbling, they polish the mirror behind the bar so you can clearly see yourself, they fill the cracks to keep out the drafts, they make sure the door is not ajar, they wrap themselves around the lights to warm them, to keep them from glowing cold and hollow. That is what details are to this place. And they rub off on you. There’s a new detail in how you’re holding your glass right now that you didn’t the night before.
As I was saying, devil’s in the details, everything else, and of course I have a story that jumps to mind. Two days ago, two gentlemen come in for lunch on that beautiful spring day and sit against the wall near the entrance. They’re dressed as the same person: fitted suit jackets, pants with perfect seams, costly watches and shoes with fine laces tied in uncomplicated knots, though one can find differences if looking attentively. The one I come to know as Darryl, the one facing away from the window, is your stereotypical tall, dark, not-quite-handsome-but-not-quite-ugly type, straddling the line between GQ perfume advertisement and neanderthal brutishness. He had what I’m sure was an intentional five o’clock shadow and strong eyebrows (the eyebrows seemed to be intentional as well), and when he sat he immediately took the menu in hand, not pausing to notice some of the women who had come in taking cursory looks at his jawline and groomed sideburns.
His friend, Morgan—of a similar build and style—took a moment to straighten his pants before he sat down, though the point seemed moot considering his pants were hemmed too short. Not that you could see the bottom of his knees, but this being the sort of lounge that it is those who come here can tell if you’re right or left handed by the hem of your pants. He sat down and brushed his straw-hair behind his ears, taking care not to touch the pieces that fell on his forehead. He leaned back in his chair, placed his arm over the backrest while interlocking his fingers and looked around the Bonne Nuit at all the women appreciating Darryl’s uniquely-sculpted façade, and then out the front window.
“You’ve really never been here before?”
Darryl kept looking through the cocktails, giving an answer that either showed him to be an incredibly curt or effortlessly annoyed kind of person. “I haven’t.”
“You need to come here. This is the sort of hole-in-wall-place that people remember, and then when they go to that place they think of you.”
“I know we’re in advertising but do we have to live our lives like it?”
“I just mean for people in the industry. You’ll have an easier time making connections if you can be the guy who knows all the hidden trebuchet’s around town.”
“I don’t think . . . never mind.” Darryl tucked the drink list between the table and the wall and folded his hands on the table. “So what ‘guy’ are you then?”
“I am many guys. No one guy defines me.” Morgan smiled at the server as she approached. The two ordered light cocktails, Darryl taking care in his pronunciation and Morgan rattling off several details about how he liked his drink and how he was sure the bartender was competent enough to make it, he’d been here before. The server smiled, took a glance at Darryl who was inspecting a dry patch between his second and third knuckle, and walked toward the bar. Morgan watched her walk away. “If there’s any guy I try and be it’s the one who notices when the server is taking glances at me.”
Darryl looked up at Morgan who subtly pointed to the bar.
“I think she took a shining to you.”
Darryl went back to inspecting his knuckle.
Morgan looked over his shoulder and watched the server lean over the bar, play with her notepad, fix the placement of her shoe by pressing her left foot into the floor. “What do you think of her?”
“She’s fine.”
“Darryl, there’s a difference between being married and almost married, just give me a quick beef rating.”
Darryl dropped his hand to the table and looked at the server. “Low choice cut. Ask her out.”
“Of course I would ask her out, I’ve been in a dry patch for the last couple of months, I was wondering if you could get Najya out of your head for a moment and give an objective opinion.”
Darryl leaned back in his chair and placed his hands evenly on his thighs. “Stop trying to work up momentum with me and just ask her out.”
“She’s not even looking at me, she’s looking at you, and you can’t ask a girl out where she works, you novice.”
“You mean cowards can’t.” And after Morgan saw Darryl’s smile he smiled back and the two smiled at their server when she brought them back their drinks. She quickly went to the next table without making eye contact.
“Do you think she heard us?”
“You wouldn’t have asked her out if she didn’t so what difference does it make?” The two sipped their drinks. Morgan kept his glass no further than three inches from his mouth at all times while Darryl placed his drink back on the table looking like it didn’t taste like he thought it would. He licked the inside of his cheek before carrying on. “So what’s going on with all your current prospects?”
“All dried up, I’m afraid.” Morgan took another draw from his glass.
“You lost the account with Campari?”
“Oh, you meant business prospects, I thought you meant women. Campari has to get back to me but I’ve got them, and you want to know why? Because the Vice CEO called me and said that they just went to Migurney’s downtown and they thought of me.”
“So the trick works.”
“The trick works.”
Darryl waited for Morgan to expand on his business, but Morgan just kept looking into his liquor. “So things with Alicia didn’t work out I’m guessing.”
“That was weeks ago, where have you been?”
“Was there someone after Alicia?”
Morgan thought. “Katie.”
“And what happened with Katie?”
“She said she wanted to be friends and that she’d call me.”
“And did she call you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I told her not to call me.”
When Darryl’s cheeks stopped clenching he placed the glass back on the coaster. “I can’t remember the last time I had a gimlet this tart.”
“Have I told you I respect what you and Najya have? I have this understanding now of how hard it is to find someone like that. And to keep it. I used to think it was so simple.”
Darryl offered the usual conciliatory response of, “I’m sure there’s someone out there for you too.”
“I’m not sure anymore. I used to have three things going on at once and now I’ve got nothing. And then the other day I was trying on suit jackets, did I tell you about this?” Darryl shook his head. “I was trying on a dress shirt for Andrew’s wedding and the guy working the change room made a pass at me.”
“What sort of pass?”
“I asked him what my shoulders looked like in the back and he said ‘As straight as’ and then he trailed off and went back into the change room mumbling to himself.” Darryl tried to interject but Morgan cut him off. “He had a look on his face too, okay? Anyway, I bought the shirt—“
“Of course you bought that shirt.”
“I bought the shirt and then I spent the rest of the afternoon wondering if I should just be gay.” Morgan took another hit of his drink, leaving a barely visible portion for the ice to sit in. “I seriously considered it, the lifestyle.” Morgan stared into his glass, as though he had just revealed a hole he had been trying to cover up, as though he had just renounced Mother Church of which he had been a deacon all these years. Neither spoke for a moment, forcing Darryl to move the conversation along.
“So what did you come up with?”
“Well, I have to admit something first.” He looked up at Darryl. “I imagined us as partners.”
“Why the hell would you pick me? What about Liam? Liam’s a much more obvious choice.”
“I didn’t think we’d get along as well.”
“Well what about Grant.”
“He has awful cologne.”
“You mean you considered other people beside me?”
Morgan lifted his cup, “Congratulations,” kicked back his head and drained what was left. He pushed the glass to the end of the table, signaling to Choice-Grade server that he needed another. “There was a lot more than just considering which of my friends are the gayest. There was compatibility, habits, interests . . .” He trailed off while Darryl spun his glass. After a decidedly long consideration of other possible topics to segue into, Darryl bit his lip and asked out of the side of his mouth:
“So how much did you consider?”
“I didn’t . . .” Morgan swallowed the rest of the sentence as their server came to ask if he’d have another drink. He nodded and watched her walk back to the bar and Morgan continued, now conscious of how many people were sitting around them. “I just thought about the day to day life of it. The relationship part.”
Darryl kept spinning his glass.
“For example. You don’t like to drink very much and I do, so that would work out if we ever had to go to a party together. I’m a talker, you’re a listener, I’m outgoing, you’re an introvert, neither of us is anal retentive (get rid of that smirk, you know what I mean), and we both hate the Rangers. What could go wrong?”
“You can’t just make a relationship out of—“
“You also like to drive and I don’t. We’re roughly the same size, so there’s the clothes-sharing thing that some couple do.”
“I wouldn’t be comfortable with that.”
“Okay, so we wouldn’t share clothes, and I wouldn’t be the type to get bent out of shape about it so that’s another thing we wouldn’t have to worry about. You have your side of the closet, I’d have mine.” Another hush blanketed the table as the server returned with Morgan’s drink. She told Darryl that the bartender was wondering what he thought of his drink and Darryl said he liked it and she said it was because he was trying a new balance and if he didn’t like it he could send it back. Darryl nodded and said he liked it fine and she smiled and he smiled back and she walked back to the bar. Morgan took the opportunity to elaborate. “And I know you have a problem returning food you don’t like—“
“It’s not a problem, I just don’t want to be rude—“
“So we could just switch plates if you didn’t like something and I could do it for you because I’m a jerk anyway.”
Darryl considered. “I do like every book you give me.”
“And how often do we go to see movies because Najya isn’t interested in anything you want to see?”
“Najya doesn’t . . .” Darryl paused, stared off into space, took another drink, winced. “Where would we go on holidays?”
“I was thinking Sao Paulo.”
“Good choice, interesting enough to tell people but not a cliché.”
“Well we both hate nature and prefer metropolis sites.”
“What would we do there?”
“Go to the beach, maybe take some lessons in a samba school, eat out every night. We’d make it coincide with their Pride parade.”
Conversation paused as the server returned with Darryl’s drink and started again with her leaving.” Who would cook?”
Morgan leaned back in his chair, staring out the window. “We’d eat out, I hate cooking.”
“We can’t just spend money like that while I’m still getting on my feet.”
“Well then we’d eat out with my money and we’d use your money for rent and utilities.”
“But then what do I get to spend?”
“My money.”
“I’m not comfortable with that either.”
Morgan adjusted how he was sitting as the server returned with Darryl’s drink. “Fine then, separate bank accounts.”
“Whose parents would we see on the holidays?”
“Most likely yours because my parents wouldn’t be talking to me.”
Darryl leaned forward. “So you actually figured out everything from vacations to which set of parents we’d see?”
Morgan nodded. “I was depressed. I ate a bag of chips that afternoon. A whole bag.”
“At least I could get your pants hemmed for you.”
“What do you mean?”
Darryl considered the comment, what would come of it, and decided it was time. “All of your pants are hemmed short.”
Morgan kicked out a leg and measured with his eye how much sock was visible. “Are my pants hemmed too short?”
“Have you been taking them to the Sui Chou?”
“No, I’ve been taking them to my own girl.” Morgan shifted his foot out in front of the table staring at his ankle. He almost tripped a CEO-looking gentleman on his way to the door. The man stared at Morgan who stared at his ankle whose polyester pattern stared at Darryl.
“How many kids would we have? Did you think of names?”
Morgan was still staring at his ankle. “We wouldn’t have children.” He looked up to catch the grin fading back into Darryl’s face.
“How could we not have children?”
“We’d what, adopt a small Nigerian child we’d name Johnathan and have him running around while we try and teach him English? I already imagined this conversation and you agreed, no kids.”
“Well we need to re-imagine it for my benefit because I don’t see why I’d ever agree to that.”
“We wouldn’t be making enough money until we were in our mid-thirties and you agreed that mid-thirties would be too late to be chasing around after a child. You said it’d be bad enough to have two gay white dads, worse if we were both old.”
“Well regardless of how smart Gay Darryl is, I want to have kids.”
“And I would say no.”
“Well this would be a break-off point for me.”
“No it wouldn’t, your break-off would be points would be if I put writing a novel above our financial security or if I bought an American car.”
Darryl looked back to his knuckles, the space between the second and third that was flaking, that itched.
Morgan played with his cuff. “What?” Darryl’s finger hovered over the patch, his nail prepped for scraping, but he folded his hands instead.
“I haven’t talked to Najya in two weeks.”
Morgan stopped playing with his cuff. “When is the wedding?”
“In five weeks.” They kept staring into their respective areas of dead space: Darryl, his knuckles; Morgan, Darryl’s forehead.
“The kid-thing just . . . now of all times. Eight months ago would’ve been the time but I guess it just never came up.” Darryl leaned back into his chair and looked out the window, squinting in the noon sun that fell through the air to the floor. “After you explained our holidays I thought this might not be such a loss anyway.” Darryl waited for his grin to evaporate before bringing the glass to his lips. Their silence was overtaken by the talk of other customers, the noise of traffic issuing from the open door, and the chatter of ice inside their cocktails. Darryl watched the traffic. Morgan watched Darryl.
“I’d ask if you had tried talking to her about it but it seems like a stupid question.”
Darryl placed his drink on the table and scratched his knuckle. “You’d said that thing before about it not being easy to find what I had with Najya. Well apparently I didn’t even have it.”
The server returned and before she could ask anything Morgan interrupted. “Would you like to go out sometime?”
She seemed to consider her response. “I’m not interested in being anyone’s experiment.” She placed the bill on the table, picked up their drinks and walked back to the bar.
Morgan looked at Darryl and shrugged. “I thought it might make you feel better.”
Darryl stared out the window. “I haven’t found anything that’s made me feel better in two weeks.”
Without saying anything, they slowly stood up and looked at the bar. Then to the front door. Darryl buttoned his suit jacket while Morgan took out a few bills and pocketed their bill.
Morgan looked up from his chest. “Well . . . since I won’t be seeing Choice-grade anytime soon . . .” and grinned.
“I suppose there’s always Sao Paulo.”
Darryl pushed his chair in while Morgan walked to the door, wondering out loud if there might be any children to adopt along the sandy sidewalks and sun-filled fronds.
It’s the details that kill us, isn’t it. The peanut crumbs. We send out our hopes, they flip, and everything we expected is turned to ash in our mouths and smoke in our eyes and there’s nothing left to do but pay the tab.
Speaking of tab I’ve gotten Serge to start one for you, but if you’d like to pay tonight that of course is perfectly fine as well. And one last piece of advice before I leave you for the evening:
