Love is Always Write Anthology Bonus Volume

turtleneck and black blazer again, over worn jeans and sneakers. His hair was blue, but he wasn't wearing any makeup except the ever-present sparkly lip gloss.
    "Mal's gonna pay for this," he muttered as he climbed into the truck.
    "If it helps," I told him as he put his seatbelt on and I checked my mirrors, "there's coffee in the thermos. Sugar packets and creamer in the ashtray."
    "How did I not know you would be disgustingly prepared?" he grumbled, but he poured himself a cup of coffee and his scowl lifted a bit as he huddled over it.
    The re-enactors were scheduled to march in the parade, but that was only part of what Alan wanted. They'd also set up a historically accurate camp, and he wanted footage of that. In particular, and he wouldn't explain why, a blacksmith at work, and an infirmary if they had one set up.
    As a strong, helpful guy with a truck, I was used to being drafted for manual labor, especially for stressful things like moving. By the time we reached the site, I'd decided that was the best way to see my day— do what I was told, keep my mouth shut and endure. Alan didn't want to tell me his plans. "Me director. You camera boy." He didn't want to talk about the weather. "It's grey. It's Pennsylvania. Next." He didn't want to talk about sports. "When they play naked, I'll watch." Our college was "wetter" than the one he'd come from. He didn't want to discuss movies or TV or books. He did volunteer the opinion that plaid flannel shirts— I was wearing one as my second layer— should all be rubbed with garlic and burned.
    We spent two hours tromping about the encampment. Alan issued complaints and orders; I kept a firm hold on my temper and shot film.
    As I worked, it got easier to keep my temper. Alan saw things I didn't, like the woman in an ill-fitting Union uniform with stubble artfully drawn on her face, or the horse with a limp led by an exhausted-looking man who was probably supposed to be a scout. The more he pointed out, the more great footage I caught, and the less I cared that he mocked my "farmer" boots or my "straight boy" haircut along with my flannel shirt.
    When the actors formed up to march to the parade, Alan told me to go steal a couple horses. I reminded him the penalty was hanging, and suggested we drive into town and get ahead of the marchers instead. Alan rolled his eyes, but he was as tired as I was so he agreed.
    Back in town, the streets were more full than I'd expected. Alan looked at it and shook his head.
    "No good. We'll have anachronisms everywhere."
    "We can catch them back at that last crossroads," I said, turning the truck around.
    After another hour Alan admitted we had all the footage he could possibly use, and also as director he was directing me to carry him for the rest of the day. I packed my camera up and asked if he wanted to get lunch. I thought he'd warmed up to me in the last hour— or at least, stopped making fun of me— and I wanted to build on that. Also, I was hungry.
    "I don't want to walk another step," he said, turning to look at the still-thick crowd, "but there's funnel cake in that there mob."
    "Funnel cake it is." Funnel cake wasn't lunch, but close enough.
    " Into the woods ," Alan sang as we headed into the crowd, " the time is now, we have to live, I don't care how …"
    The cakes were seven dollars, but also huge. I asked Alan if he wanted to share, forgetting for one important moment how the man could eat.
    I got maybe five bites of my funnel cake. Alan was sneaky about it, too; he kept making me laugh and then eating while I couldn't. Finally I just gave up and handed him the plate.
    "About time, Blake," he said with a grin.
    "I'm just letting you think you won while I look for a dunking booth," I told him. He snickered and swiped his finger through the powdered sugar on the plate, then licked it off his hand. I looked away.
    "Fun as this is," he said, "unless you're buying more funnel cake, I gotta get home. I have plans tonight, and from the way they hurt, I'll be needing time to chop my legs off."
    "We could run back to the encampment and get that bone saw," I suggested, looking for a better way to get back to the truck than the route we'd walked in search of funnel cake.
    "I'm not running anywhere. Ever. Not for all of eternity. And after." Alan stuffed the last of the funnel cake in his mouth and stuck the plate in a garbage can.
    "You have powdered sugar on your nose," I told him.
    "Sweet!" he said, but he wiped it off, and