the crossdresser at Martuni'sHer nails were a flawless gloss, the lipstick applied
with the delicacy and precision of a Geisha. I thought
she looked far younger than her 64 years. She blushed and sighed.
I sipped my gimlet slowly. We talked of love, of course, the long and short
of our various missteps, the predicaments and permutations we
had slipped and squirreled our way into. It turns out you can find an ally
in just about anyone, a compatriot with whom you straddle the wide sea
of solitude to link arms and jubilate. When we said goodbye,
I felt her firm grip on my shoulder, the sweet tug of her perfume.
A paradox, I thought. But aren’t we all? The streetlights led me home.