Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

once. I know how it’ll die. I can play those scenes in my sleep. This time, though … well, I don’t wanna know the end. Not for a while, anyway.”
    “Maybe there won’t be an end.”
    He smiled at her indulgently. “Everything ends, Babycakes.”
    “Now, Mouse, that’s not … What about us, then? You and I haven’t ended.”
    He laughed. “We’ll be cruising the old folks’ home together.”
    “Then what’s the difference?”
    “The difference, dearheart, is that you don’t need me and I don’t need you. It’s these other turkeys we need … these one-and-onlys. Or at least, we think we do. Our poor little psyches have been marred forever by Rock Hudson and Doris Day.”
    Mary Ann was composing a retort when Burke suddenly appeared behind her. “Well, we’re off, huh?”
    She turned and took his hand. “We wondered where you were. We were just waving goodbye to Jon.”
    “I did a little dickering with the maître d’.”
    “About what?”
    “I’m at your table now. That’s O.K., I hope?”
    “Of course! That’s wonderful!”
    Michael grinned wickedly. “Arnold and Melba will just adore you.”
    “Oh, hell,” said Mary Ann. “What in the world are we gonna tell them?”
    “Well …” Michael tapped his forefinger on his chin. “I think we should say that you and I are mature, freethinking adults. Our marriage simply isn’t working, so … we’re planning an amicable divorce, after which Burke and I will have a simple Episcopal wedding at Grace Cathedral.”
    “Very funny.”
    Burke laughed, winking at Michael. Then, turning to Mary Ann: “He’s got a point, you know. I could be gay. I mean, if I don’t remember …”
    “You are not gay. That’s an order.”
    “I don’ know,” said Michael ominously. “I’m sure I’ve seen him wearing green on Thursdays. And look at that body, girl. Straight dudes don’t have washboard stomachs.”
    Mary Ann patted Burke’s waist. “This one does.”
    Burke reddened visibly.
    Michael took both their hands. “C’mon, you sickos. I’m so hungry I could eat a steward.”
    The trio shared a joint in Mary Ann and Michael’s stateroom before heading to the dining room. When they sat down at the table, the matched pair from Dublin was conspicuously absent.
    “What?” mugged Michael. “How can I eat without Arnold and Melba?”
    Mary Ann giggled. “Maybe they ran out of clothes.”
    “Or,” suggested Burke, “the maître d’ tipped them off, and they’re busy reporting us to the—”
    He cut himself short when the couple appeared, pink as cooked shrimp and obviously delighted with their latest ensemble: matching Mexican cotton shirts, each embroidered with a single red rose.
    Melba’s voice was pure white sugar. “Hi, Young Marrieds! Who’s your friend?”
    Mary Ann began to stammer, seeing the Littlefields, seeing the rose, seeing Burke.
    “Oh, hi. This is … Oh, Burke, why don’t you …?” She jerked to her feet, knocking over her water glass. Burke had his head between his knees, gagging. She snatched a linen napkin off the table and pressed it to his mouth.
    “Burke … here, I’ll help you. Melba, I’m sorry. Give me your arm, Burke. It’s O.K….There, it’s O.K.” She led him away from the table without further explanation. Michael and the Littlefields watched their exit in silence.
    “Goddamn!” thundered Arnold. “What the hell was that about?”
    “Seasick,” said Michael quietly, still watching his friends.
    Arnold grunted. “He sure doesn’t seem like that kind of a fellow.”
    “No,” said Michael under his breath. “Great legs, though.”
    “Huh?”
    “Uh … it’s great to have sea legs.”
    “Right on!” concurred Melba.

Eccentric Old Bachelors
    S OMEWHERE IN THE NIGHTTIME SKY ABOVE THE MONTEREY peninsula, Michael loosened his seat belt and turned to check on his traveling companions.
    Burke was asleep, sprawled obliviously against the window like a Raggedy Andy doll. Mary Ann was still awake, trying her damnedest to get engrossed in PSA’s in-flight magazine. When she saw Michael watching her, she managed a tired smile.
    “I’m reading about Swinging Singles in San Francisco.”
    “Arrgh.”
    “It’s so depressing. Do you think I’m a Swinging Single?”
    Michael shook his head. “Not a bit.”
    “Thank God!” She leaned closer, whispering. “I don’t think you’re a faggot, either.”
    “Much obliged.”
    “I’ve come a long way on that, Michael.”
    “I