Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda

“Do you know where we’re going?” I ask.

“I do,” says Abby. And twenty minutes later, we pull into the lot for Zesto. I never go to Zesto. I mean, I almost never come into Atlanta proper. It’s warm and noisy inside, full of people eating chili dogs and burgers and things like that. But I quite honestly don’t give a shit that it’s January. I get chocolate ice cream swirled with Oreos, and for the ten minutes it takes to eat it, I almost feel normal again. By the time we step back out to the car, the sun is beginning to set.

So then we go to Junkman’s Daughter. Which is right next to Aurora Coffee.

But I’m not thinking about Blue.

We spend a few minutes poking around inside. I sort of love Junkman’s Daughter. Nick gets caught up in a display of books about Eastern philosophy, and Abby buys a pair of tights. I end up wandering through the aisles, trying not to make eye contact with scary-looking pink mohawk girls.

I’m not thinking about Aurora Coffee, and I’m not thinking about Blue.

I can’t think about Blue.

I really can’t think about Blue being Martin.

It’s dark but not late, and Abby and Nick want to take me to this feminist bookstore that evidently has a lot of gay stuff. So we look through the shelves, and Abby pulls out LGBT picture books to show me, and Nick shuffles around looking awkward. Abby buys me a book about gay penguins, and then we walk down the street for a little while longer. But it’s getting chilly and we’re getting hungry again, so we pile back into the car and drive to Midtown.

Abby seems to know exactly where we’re going. She pulls into a side street and parallel parks like it’s nothing. Then we walk briskly up to the corner and onto the main road. Nick shivers in only a light jacket, and Abby rolls her eyes and says, “Georgia boy.” And then she puts her arm around him, rubbing her hand up and down his arm as they walk.

“Here we are,” she says finally when we arrive at a place on Juniper called Webster’s. There’s a big patio strung with Christmas lights and rainbow banners, and even though the patio’s empty, the parking lot is overflowing.

“Is this like a gay bar?” I ask.

Abby and Nick both grin.

“Okay,” I say, “but how are we getting in?” I’m five seven, Nick can’t grow facial hair, and Abby’s wearing a wristful of friendship bracelets. There’s no freaking way we pass for twenty-one.

“It’s a restaurant,” says Abby. “We’re getting dinner.”

Inside, Webster’s is packed with guys wearing scarves and jackets and skinny jeans. And they’re all cute and they’re all overwhelming. Most of them have piercings. There’s a bar in the back, and some kind of hip-hop music playing, and waiters turning sideways to squeeze through the crowd with pints of beer and baskets of chicken wings.

“Just the three of y’all?” asks the host, resting his hand on my shoulder for barely a second, but it’s enough to make my stomach flutter. “Should be just a minute, hon.”

We step off to the side, and Nick gets a menu to look through, and everything they serve here is an innuendo. Sausages. Buns. Abby can’t stop giggling. I have to keep reminding myself this is just a restaurant. I accidentally make eye contact with a hot guy wearing a tight V-neck shirt, and I look away quickly, but my heart pounds.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” I say, because I’m pretty sure I’m going to combust if I keep standing here. The bathrooms are down a little hallway past the bar, and I have to push through this crowd of people to get there. When I step out again, the crowd is even thicker. There are two girls holding beers and sort of dancing, and a group of guys laughing, and lots of people holding drinks or holding hands.

Someone taps my shoulder. “Alex?”

I turn around. “I’m not—”

“You’re not Alex,” says the guy, “but you have Alex hair.” And then he reaches up to ruffle his fingers through it.

He’s sitting on a barstool, and he looks like he’s not much older than I am. He’s got blond hair, much lighter than mine. Draco-blond. He’s wearing a polo shirt and normal jeans, and he’s very cute, and I think he might be drunk.

“What’s your name, Alex?” he says to me, sliding off the barstool. When he stands, he’s almost a head taller than me, and he smells like deodorant. He has extremely white teeth.

“Simon,” I say.

“Simple Simon met a pie-man.” He giggles.

He’s definitely drunk.

“I’m Peter,” he says, and I think: Peter Peter pumpkin eater.

“Don’t move,” he says. “I’m buying you a drink.” He puts a hand on my elbow, and then turns to the bar, and all of a sudden I’m holding an honest-to-God martini glass full of something green. “Like apples,” says Peter.