my hotel, the thought of being alone in my room sends me straight to the hotel bar. It’s nearly empty, so I prop myself up on a bar stool and order a gin and tonic.
Before the bartender can pour the drink, I feel a presence beside me. I know without looking that it is Grace.
“Hi.” She greets me quietly, her voice caressing the syllable. “Are you still mad at me?”
I haven’t looked at her yet, am afraid to, actually. So I wait until the bartender returns with my drink. Wait until he recognizes and greets her. Wait while he gushes on and on and asks what it is he can get her.
“A glass of cabernet, please,” is her reply. He scampers to pour a glass, filling it far too full, and places it on the bar in front of her.
“On the house,” he winks. I know he wants to chat, so I muster up what I hope is a most withering look and throw it his way. Grace remains a virtue of charm.
The bartender gets my hint and reluctantly slithers away. Grace picks up her glass and lifts it to her lips as she repeats the words she’d spoken earlier for my ears only.
“Are you still mad at me?”
I steel myself against her, against feeling anything, and risk a glance at her eyes. I’m completely disŹarmed.
She is referring to a brief conversation we’d shared two days earlier, when I’d called to let her know about Connie. I had told her that the funeral was Thursday morning and asked if she’d like to go with me. Her response had been a cross between a guffaw and a chortle. “I’m not going to the funeral,” she stated simply, as if it were the most ridiculous suggestion she’d ever heard.
I was appalled, and during the next minute or so, I gleaned that she was somehow afraid that she would be outed if she showed up at Connie’s funeral. She was a high-profile public figure, she explained, and how would it look if she attended the funeral of some lesbian who’d died on her way to the Women’s Music Festival. I told her that I personally didn’t give a shit what it would look like, to which she replied that it must be very easy for me to fly in on my shiny white horse, be the concerned and grieving ex-lover, and then blow out of town again. She, on the other hand, had to stay.
I’d hung up the phone feeling more shaken than when I’d first called her. I damned her silently and wondered how she could possibly be so callous.
Now I choose not to answer her question, but to pose one of my own. “How did you find me?”
“I know a lot of people in high places,” she smiles. But when it becomes clear that I’m not in a jovial mood, her smile fades and her face becomes clear and earnest. “I followed you.”
It takes me a moment to understand. “From the funeral home?” I’m incredulous.
She is nodding, unashamed. “Look,” she begins. “You hung up the other day without giving me a chance to explain.” She pauses briefly, all traces of her smile vanishing as her eyes pierce mine. “I don’t mean to sound cruel, Liz. But I barely knew Connie. She was your lover. She was part of your life, not mine. I met her just one night. Other than that, the only way she ever touched my life was in a negative way, through you. So if I can feel any pain right now it’s over your loss. Not mine.”
I take a moment to digest her words and know that she is right, no matter how difficult the honesty is to hear. Her eyes are searching mine, becoming wary. “I know I made it sound like I was only worried about being outed the other day. But that really isn’t the issue for me here. I’ve made no attempt to hide the fact that I’m gay. I was just using that as an excuse the other day. The truth is that I’m just not comfortable with going to the funeral, okay? Please just respect that.”
Part of me understands. Part of me doesn’t.
Grace continues to stare at me another moment, misinterpreting my lack of response before averting her gaze and reaching for her wine. “Christ,” she mutters. “I barely even
Before the bartender can pour the drink, I feel a presence beside me. I know without looking that it is Grace.
“Hi.” She greets me quietly, her voice caressing the syllable. “Are you still mad at me?”
I haven’t looked at her yet, am afraid to, actually. So I wait until the bartender returns with my drink. Wait until he recognizes and greets her. Wait while he gushes on and on and asks what it is he can get her.
“A glass of cabernet, please,” is her reply. He scampers to pour a glass, filling it far too full, and places it on the bar in front of her.
“On the house,” he winks. I know he wants to chat, so I muster up what I hope is a most withering look and throw it his way. Grace remains a virtue of charm.
The bartender gets my hint and reluctantly slithers away. Grace picks up her glass and lifts it to her lips as she repeats the words she’d spoken earlier for my ears only.
“Are you still mad at me?”
I steel myself against her, against feeling anything, and risk a glance at her eyes. I’m completely disŹarmed.
She is referring to a brief conversation we’d shared two days earlier, when I’d called to let her know about Connie. I had told her that the funeral was Thursday morning and asked if she’d like to go with me. Her response had been a cross between a guffaw and a chortle. “I’m not going to the funeral,” she stated simply, as if it were the most ridiculous suggestion she’d ever heard.
I was appalled, and during the next minute or so, I gleaned that she was somehow afraid that she would be outed if she showed up at Connie’s funeral. She was a high-profile public figure, she explained, and how would it look if she attended the funeral of some lesbian who’d died on her way to the Women’s Music Festival. I told her that I personally didn’t give a shit what it would look like, to which she replied that it must be very easy for me to fly in on my shiny white horse, be the concerned and grieving ex-lover, and then blow out of town again. She, on the other hand, had to stay.
I’d hung up the phone feeling more shaken than when I’d first called her. I damned her silently and wondered how she could possibly be so callous.
Now I choose not to answer her question, but to pose one of my own. “How did you find me?”
“I know a lot of people in high places,” she smiles. But when it becomes clear that I’m not in a jovial mood, her smile fades and her face becomes clear and earnest. “I followed you.”
It takes me a moment to understand. “From the funeral home?” I’m incredulous.
She is nodding, unashamed. “Look,” she begins. “You hung up the other day without giving me a chance to explain.” She pauses briefly, all traces of her smile vanishing as her eyes pierce mine. “I don’t mean to sound cruel, Liz. But I barely knew Connie. She was your lover. She was part of your life, not mine. I met her just one night. Other than that, the only way she ever touched my life was in a negative way, through you. So if I can feel any pain right now it’s over your loss. Not mine.”
I take a moment to digest her words and know that she is right, no matter how difficult the honesty is to hear. Her eyes are searching mine, becoming wary. “I know I made it sound like I was only worried about being outed the other day. But that really isn’t the issue for me here. I’ve made no attempt to hide the fact that I’m gay. I was just using that as an excuse the other day. The truth is that I’m just not comfortable with going to the funeral, okay? Please just respect that.”
Part of me understands. Part of me doesn’t.
Grace continues to stare at me another moment, misinterpreting my lack of response before averting her gaze and reaching for her wine. “Christ,” she mutters. “I barely even
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