Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 3

the fog.
    So because I know that about me—I'm reconciled, you know? I've learned that you make the best of the hand you've been dealt. So I do. There are advantages to being eternally single, and if you're born without 20/20, you learn to make glasses a fashion accessory. Or some shit like that.
    That's why I can say that when I found Mike on the beach blowing a blond gorilla—good taste, Mike has—it didn't really hurt that much. 'Cause I'd expected it.
    Just thought it'd be later rather than sooner.
    Didn't think it'd be on the vacation we'd planned together for a month.
    And it wasn't as if we'd traded rings or anything like that. I mean, it was a one year anniversary trip; not a marriage. But it did sting that he couldn't wait a day while I got over the damn runs from eating one of those shaved ice cone things that the street vendors sell, so I guess I got all butt-hurt. Stupid, given the circumstances.
    But there was this pride thing going down, you know? I got pissed-off, wasn't thinkin' too clear, and laid into him when he got back. He told me I was a drama queen, which—okay fuck me, but I've never been a drama queen in my whole life. I'm not going to tell you I'm fault-free, but one thing I know about me is that I roll with the punches. So yeah. I got pissed off. And okay. So I was a little bit hurt.
    But not much.
    Because I get it. I'm just not the kind of guy that other guys want to settle down with.
    And I'm good with that. I don't blame them. It's smart. I'm fickle, I'm not serious, I'm all about joie de vivre.
    Here's the thing. Mike got his blowjob. He got another room, and then fucked his way around about town, showin' me what I'd passed up. Me? I got a job. And he went back to figuring out the taxes of rich queers in Bel Air. I reckon I got the better deal.
    I tend bar. On the beach. In Baja. Take that , Mikey.
    ****
    Oh. Except, I don't drink. Yeah. Serve it to others, won't touch it myself. No big reason, just, I like being awake, I like moving and doing shit, and alcohol has only ever slowed me down and made me want to chuck. I'll smoke a little grass sometimes, swipe a kid's Ritalin now and then, and I have this thing for a sharp, hot espresso, but otherwise, fuck it, you know?
    You got that I was kidding about the Ritalin, right? Except there was once—oh, right.
    Wrong story.
    Ondas y Sol —the place that hired me—is a sport resort. Water sports, heh. No, not that kind. At least, not as a rule, though once... cough . You know—windsurfing, sailing.
    The entrance to the compound has a swanky sign with a big old 'S' of a stylized wave. Waves and Sun ; we rent boards, give lessons, have a nice stretch of beach with lemon yellow umbrellas and loungers that local kids get paid a handful of pesos to line up each morning. We get a pretty good clientele—mostly a fit, sporting-type crowd, and though not filthy rich, comfortable enough to travel in style.
    Not so long ago, the owner pitched a fit when he realized it had become the in-place to meet other SoCal gayboys. He got over it when Lettie showed him the books. Didn't exactly turn him tolerant, but I think he's more squeamish than obnoxious. The kind of wrinkled old guy with tits and belly and spider legs that says stupid shit like, "as long as you don't touch me, okay?" Uh huh, okay.
    Aw, he's not so bad.
    I work weekdays at the outdoor bar. It's right next to the rentals. For five months now, I've been hoping for a chance to do some of the beginner lessons. Ceci keeps saying maybe, but so far, I only tend bar. Play cute beach waiter sometimes. Sucking up to the queers and the cougars.
    Probably wise of Ceci. I'm easily distracted, not someone anyone with sense would depend on. Just who I am, you know. And serving drinks—it's all right. I mean, hell—it's great in some ways. I get the pick of the crop. The men who come here, trim, fit...generous if you treat them right. I get a couple offers a night, so can even be choosy.
    So. It was a Wednesday when I first saw him. I remember, because it was Cinco de Mayo, and all the tourists had left town for a festival up the coast. I was unloading a rack of glassware after the lunch rush—such as it had been. Lettie counted receipts while I worked, ignoring me. A freckled woman sat at a table in the corner, big floppy hat to one side, poking at the keys on her laptop. She looked Australian, but don't ask me why I thought I knew that. I was probably wrong.
    "Erik!"
    That was Flaco, hollering