The lighting changed. A spotlight dragged itself across the sweaty crowd to the stage, where a femme with a 1920s bob haircut entered. It wasn’t so much a stage as a raised flat of particleboard atop two mouldy skids. A nineties tune blared through the speakers, and the crowd roared in recognition. She sat on a chair and took out a bowl of raspberries. In time with the music, she put one raspberry on each finger on her right hand, then naughtily sucked each finger’s raspberry into her mouth. The crowd went wild in anticipation of every lick. As the song faded, she made her way through the crowd, sexily slinking her way past me, down the corridor, to the back of Wet Bar. One person whose shoulder she touched in her journey swooned and held their* heart. What a hot show.
Her titillating walk slowly switched into a tired gait the farther she got from the stage. As soon as she was out of sight of the audience, she removed her heels and sighed before entering the dressing room. Just as I was about to approach her and tell her what a stunning performance she had given, I felt someone brushing past me.
It was you, Evan.
In the dim club lights, I saw you holding a large sheet cake while fumbling with a lighter to touch it to the tips of a dozen birthday candles.
“Can I help you?” I offered.
“Yes, please!” I heard your voice for the first time. Deep and rich. I quickly held the bottom of the cake. A few flicks of your thumb along the spark wheel of the lighter and it became obvious the safety guard was confusing you.
“Would you like me to try?” I offered again.
We switched positions. You holding the cake. Me sparking the lighter. Our heads inches apart as I lit each of the birthday candles. The soft light from below catching your gaze upon me.
“It’s—” Something caught in my throat and my voice squeaked out of nervousness. “It’s my birthday today, too.” You smiled, watching me finish the last few candles.
“Then I guess you’ll have to join us.” You took the cake from me and ceremoniously walked down the corridor to the dressing room. The muffled sound of performers prepping rose to full volume once you opened the door.
“Happy birthday to you . . .” you began, and everyone joined in. “Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to youuuuuuu!”
It was obvious by the look of things that the dressing room was actually the bar’s office during the week. With the performers present, a strip of bare bulbs screwed into the wall lit up two greasy mirrors. The ambience of the lighting helped us ignore the administrative elements of dusty photocopiers, posted staff schedules and laminated inspirational posters. The dressing room was larger than the one at Epic, but with the dancers doing their makeup sitting on office chairs and their kits sitting atop plastic inboxes, it was just as sad.
“Where are all the Scorpios?” you asked. “Inez, Kiley, Sandra! Blow out these candles before my arm gives out. This cake is huge.” The three performers stepped forward as if they had won something. “And you, birthday boy. Sorry . . . what’s your name?”
My face got hot. “Kay.”
“It’s Kay’s birthday today, too,” you said with a grin. I cautiously joined the Scorpios and we blew out the candles. Smoke filled the air.
One dancer approached me wearing only one tassel while she fanned the other nipple’s adhesive dry with a folded computer mouse pad. She gave me a peck on the cheek. “Happy Scorpio season, Kay.” She kissed you on the cheek next. “Thank you, Evan. This is amazing.” Another dancer approached me with a bong.
“Take a hit first so that it tastes like one of those artisanal cupcakes you get from a hipster pastry shop.” I obliged, and with eyes dry, I dug into the cheap chocolatey goodness.
“I wanted to pop in to see you all and let you know that thanks to your performances, we made our goal for Cole’s surgery.” Everyone cheered. I gulped.
What do I remember of you that night? Oh yes. Your suit was well tailored. I had never seen craftsmanship like that in real life. I had to fight myself not to touch the fabric. The deep-grey wool with the most modest lines of pinstripes sat well on your wide chest and brought out the sleek texture of your black skin. The light of the bare bulbs caught your eyes and reflected back to me as the colour red. I shook my head, wondering if it was an optical illusion, but when you stepped forward and extended your hand, your eyes went back to the most delicious shade of brown. Fuck. I admit, I was so stoned. It took every last calorie in me to not touch the perfect bald fade on the nape of your neck, not to trace the exact lines of your beard edging, not to offer you the lip balm in my pocket in case your lips needed moisturizing. Instead I stood there, in my ridiculous Queen Victoria ensemble, and curtsied. You put your hand away and bowed deeply.
“Thank you for your help, your majesty,” you said. I fell in love. It was you who had organized the joint Scorpio birthday party in support of Cole’s top surgery. It was you who took me by the hand and led me outside for our first kiss. It was you who paid for the cab that drove us to my humble apartment, where we made love for the first time.
“Who put you in this outfit?”
“My roommate, Nolan.”
“Queen Victoria?”
“Yes.”
“Nice. Take it off.”
We made love like lions, growing skinny with the passage of time and sex. We took a selfie of us under the low canopy of my bedsheets, you biting my ear.
“You know when I post this on Instagram, it’s official, right?”
“I do,” you said while kissing the backs of my hands. We received dozens of well-wishes from friends who commented on the post. We were too busy making love to care about the comments from trolls telling us that we were abominations and deserved to die.
I ran out of groceries, and you went out to get supplies using your Verification Card. Like all of us, you too had mysteriously dwindling funds in your account.
“I had to use what little cash I had in my pocket. You okay with Pop-Tarts for dinner?”
“As long as I can have you for dessert.”
We strolled around Yonge Street, window shopping in the freezing rain. We held hands until we saw two cops doing a random check on a Black boy of about seventeen years old, arresting him for not having his Verification Card on his person.
“Let’s go into this store until they move on down the street.”
“Sounds like a plan, babes. I hope they leave soon.”
Time passed. You called your mother to tell her the good news of our partnership.
“Put him on the phone. I need to hear his voice,” she said.
“Hello, Mrs. King.”
“Hello, Kay. When can I expect you two for dinner?”
I enter the cottage looking for Bahadur, assuming that they ducked out of digging ditches and transporting dead chickens, but they aren’t to be found. I proceed into the main farmhouse with the screen door creaking behind me.
“Is that you, Peter?” Hanna calls out.
“No, ma’am. It’s me. Kay.”
“Come on in, young man.”
I wipe off my shoes, walk past the hallway of dead-people pictures and into the living room. Hanna and Bahadur are sitting on the couch together looking at old photo albums. An entire pile stands in a toppled-over mess atop a multicoloured crocheted couch cover.