By Joshua Ryan
“What’s the matter, Jason? You look pensive.”
I was at the Alibi, which is a pretty quiet place, especially in the early evening; and it was Terry, the bartender, I was talking to. Terry got out of the Navy a year or so before, and he had that look that some of the ex-Navy guys keep. I liked that look, and I liked talking to Terry. “Pensive” was a joke between us. It was a word I had used one time, one of the many words that Terry had never heard before.
“Not really. Just drinking. Give me another one, will you?”
“Sure thing. But I still think there’s something wrong. You and Joey having a fight?”
“Joey? You mean the guy that’s always in my apartment?”
“That’s the one.”
“I never fight. I just like to be alone sometimes. Believe it or not.”
“Sure you do,” Terry said, pulling me another beer. “Since when?”
“Since now,” I said. “Since always. I hate the way these queers can’t be alone for a second.” I was so drunk, it was a miracle I got through that sentence.
“You do?”
“Sure I do.”
“Which means you’re thinking about some guy that you’d rather be alone with, all of the time.”
