Tanya, the cashier at the Mobil station, wears ten colors in her hair. Late at night, clutching her pillow, Julie smiles and names each one. But during the day, Julie opens her notebook and tries to turn the technicolor memories into poetry—blue like X, red deeper than Y, the pink of Z—but finding the right words becomes as futile as high school calculus. In those moments, all she can think about is the fluid motion of Tanya’s arm as she rings up a bag of M&Ms. Share-sized. A Hallmark movie in the making. Julie will take what she can get, fairy tale romance or not. Born on a Kansas corn farm, and transplanted into the gay capital of New England for a monthlong writing fellowship, she’s learned to pick her battles. Provincetown exists outside of reality, or outside of her reality, at least. She’s never seen so many rainbow flags on one street, never seen so many bald men holding hands—never seen a store sell weed grinders, gallon bottles of lube, and peeing Calvin t-shirts in the same aisle. But the highlight of her days are the midnight trips to the Mobil station. A quest to feed two addictions: one, to multicolored chocolate pills; and two, to Tanya’s smile. Julie feels like the female James Bond of legend as she prowls, ducking between the cookie and candy aisles without a sound. She takes as long as possible to pick up her one item, sneaking glances through the shelves at the register where Tanya sits, texting. She looks at Tanya, unless Tanya is looking at her, because Julie is not ready to make eye contact. Someday she will be. Just not now. Or ever. Until one night, as she reads the back of the Lays Classic bag for the tenth time that week, Julie hears a voice in her ear: “M&Ms[i] again[/i], girl?” Julie yelps and jumps to attention. Tayna is within reach, leaning against a shelf, arms crossed and all ten colors in sight. She has Julie trapped in the aisle, stuck between the potato chips and the beer cooler. There’s a thick silence between them until Tanya clicks her tongue, which hits Julie like a whip to the ass. “Yes?” Julie tries, realizing she’s crushing her bag of candy nearly hard enough to burst the air out of it. She stuffs the bag in her pocket—then thinks that probably looks like she’s trying to shoplift, and takes it back out. “They’re good.” She makes herself laugh. “Did we go to high school together or something?” Julie imagines sitting with Tanya under the bleachers. “No, I don’t think so.” “Yeah, me either, what with that ack-sent of yours,” Tanya says, twisting her salty Boston vowels into a mock-Southern drawl. Julie’s face burns and Tanya smirks. “Just seemed like the simplest explanation as to why you keep stalking me.” Stammering before she even knows what she’s going to say, Julie spits out, “I wasn’t.” “I know I’m hot as hell, but...” Tanya flips a blue braid out of her eyes, then, still grinning, points to Julie’s face. “And you’re red as hell.” “I mean, of course it is!” Julie says, eyes on Tanya’s lips. “You’re accusing me of—I don’t know, but something.” “You’ve got a nice chin.” That strikes Julie like a tranquilizer dart. She touches her chin, sharp and bony, as if feeling it for the first time. The last time someone commented on her chin, it was her brother, pointing out a pimple. “Thanks,” she says. “Uh. You too.” “Y’know,” Tanya says, leaning in, “my shift only goes from 9PM to 1AM. I’ve got the rest of the day free.” She pauses. “The rest of the night, too.” Julie tries not to explode. “Uh-huh.” Silence. “Is this your first time doing this?” “Yes,” says Julie. She has no idea what this is. Tanya giggles, and Julie ascends. “Well, country girl, if you’re free tomorrow morning”—she waited for Julie to nod—“how about we meet up at KoHi Café. Ten o’clock? Bring your chin.” “You bring your hair,” Julie shoots back. Tanya snorts and walks away. “I’ll try to remember,” she calls over her shoulder, before her rainbow locks disappear behind a shelf of salsa jars. And Julie just stands there, still stuck in place between the potato chips and the beer, legs shaking and mouth drying up. She has to take a moment just staring at her reflection in the cooler, trying to shake herself back into reality—then she lets out a way-too-girly squeak and dances in place. “You gonna buy those M&Ms or what?” Tanya shouts across the store. Julie nearly falls on her face, but catches herself and scurries over to the counter. [hr] Gav keeps a quote above their mirror, scribbled out onto a thin strip of paper: “Be as gay as you want.” And another below their mirror, in crimson glitter ink: “Aliens don’t give a fuck about the gender binary.” They repeat the words under their breath, quiet whispers to the toothpaste-stained sink. Gav hasn’t stepped into a church since seventh grade at Ursuline Academy—the same place they’d been laughed at when they asked the nuns to call them Gavin instead of Gabrielle, the same place they’d been told that not wearing makeup was the first step in dying unloved and alone—and this is a more fervent prayer, a more holy sacrament than any priest can give them. They repeat the words as they swipe the electric razor over their scalp once, twice, three times, letting scraggly blond bangs fall like dead leaves. Gav is nearly 25, this isn’t their first rodeo; soon the sink is flooded with hair, and they can feel the air sweep clean over their head. It’s become a ritual at this point, for Gav to shave their head at the start of every summer, right before the tourists start pouring in. Around the locals, a shaved head is passé. But around the tourists? Tourists, those comfortable white Democrats, watching Gav like they're a new species—an alien, come to destroy the world. And Gav lets them watch. They smile, hold their bald head high. These tourists, they’re never quite sure what box to place Gav in. Just the way Gav likes it. They're too cute to stay trapped in a box anyway. [hr] Ten years after Tony puts on lipstick and his uncle punches him in the chest, he goes to the Methodist Church yard sale and stuffs a 50¢ bikini—skimpy, lacy, tight—into his pockets when no one’s looking. It’s easier than buying from Walmart; this way, he doesn’t have to look a cashier in the eye. No, no cashier. Just Jesus. But that’s okay, because he’s out to lunch with his boss, and while usually that would be terrifying and awful and soul-killing, this time he’s wearing the bikini under his clothes and he’s never felt better. Never. It’s a nice nylon material, and wearing it, Tony feels like he can take on the world. He wonders occasionally, as he chats with his employer about real estate accounts and market projections, if wearing women’s underwear makes him weird. If the rush of adrenaline he gets whenever he moves and feels the bikini pinch against his skin is wrong—if it’s gay, even. But it doesn’t take much effort to crush up the thoughts and throw them away. He’s straight as hell. Back in high school, he dated, like, [i]twenty[/i] girls and even kissed three of them. Three! That had to put him within the Top 500 straight males in America, at least. And besides, girls wear jeans all the time—why can’t he wear a bikini? [hr] In twenty minutes, Terence has used up a third of his phone battery just from turning the screen on and off and on and off and on again, waiting for the text message that will give him a heart attack. At the insistence of his roommate, he's spent the last week cruising on this new blind dating app, looking for a hookup. It had been nerve wracking at first—he'd seen [i]The Craigslist Killer[/i] enough times to develop a lifetime fear of internet dating—but once he sat down and really got to it, finding a match was easy. So now he stands in front of the homemade ice cream shop, waiting for his date—a Patriots logo avatar with the name Kevin7—to arrive. Terence spins around and checks his outfit in the shop window; just something casual, a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. He doubted it was enough, but his roommate said it made him look like a nonchalant sex god—an African king, powerful, benevolent, sensual. He didn't know about being a king, or even a god, but the holiest people were usually virgins... His phone goes off. [quote]Standing in front of bike shop.. u here?[/quote] Terence grins and looks up. The bike shop is just across the street, but surrounded by people, both tourists and otherwise. He texts Kevin back—"Yes! Wave, I'll find you"—and looks for the hand. It doesn't take long to find the waving hand, connected to the torso of a giant. Kevin is tall, skinny, white, like a birch tree. His blond hair has been cut down short, and he wears a deep purple v-neck that exposes a chest of taut muscles. Taking a sharp breath, Terence realizes this is his last chance to back out, to save himself from internet serial killer death—but soon releases that breath and walks forward. Kevin keeps waving, even as Terence approaches, even as Terence stops right next to him. It's only when Terence grins and says, "Kevin7?" that the human birch tree jumps and looks at Terence with deer-in-headlights eyes. "Hey," he finally says, voice just an octave or two too low to be helium. He's frowning. "Terence?" "Yep! Uh—" Terence wipes his hand off on his jeans, then offers it. "Great to finally meet you." Kevin stares at the hand like a child stares a broccoli suddenly dumped onto their plate, but after too long, returns the gesture. "Hey," he says through a plastic laugh. Immediately, Terence feels himself on the edge. He tries to hold up his smile. "Everything okay? You get here alright?" Kevin freezes for a moment more before covering his face with both hands, giggling, and squirming in place like a gay worm. "God," he says, shaking his head. "Sorry, it's just—this is gonna sound super silly, I'm sorry, really." "It's no problem," says Terence, waving away the excuse like he's shooing away a fly. He braces himself. "Tell me." "I just—" Kevin grins, flashing his shining white teeth. "I didn't know you were gonna be black!" A moment of silence. Terence makes himself laugh. "Oh, yeah? Haha!" "Yeah, I mean, I guess I should have known from the name, but—I don't think I've ever met a gay black guy before!" Half of Terence's friends are gay black men. But suddenly he's imagining himself on an endangered species list—an exotic find, a bucket list item crossed off. He nods. "I mean, not that it's a problem, y'know?" Kevin scoffs and gestures to the hundreds of other white men that surround them. "I'm not one of those 'No blacks, no fats, no femmes' guys. No way. This'll just be a new experience for me!" A lot of words are curdling under Terence's tongue. But he comes up with a different one: "Cool." "C'mon," says Kevin, winking. "Let's grab some ice cream. You've got no idea how much I love chocolate." He intones the last word, milking it for all its meaning. Terence makes himself follow after. "Yeah. Me too." [hr] [center][b]Spence 😜[/b][/center] [center][b]Friday[/b] 5:26 PM[/center] [quote]hey 😉[/quote] [quote][right]hey ❤️❤️[/right][/quote] [quote]did u get that pic I sent last night[/quote] [quote][right]yes!!![/right][/quote] [quote][right]god you are so ducking hot[/right][/quote] [quote][right]fucking*[/right][/quote] [quote]how come u didn’t send one back[/quote] [quote][right]too busy 😉👅💦[/right][/quote] [quote]with what[/quote] [quote][right]the fuck you think????[/right][/quote] [quote]OH[/quote] [quote]selfish 😤[/quote] [quote][right]you’re gonna be at Ortega’s tomorrow right??[/right][/quote] [quote][right]Kim said the party’s backon[/right][/quote] [quote][right]she’s making vegan chicken wings[/right][/quote] [quote][right]I can show you something after that 😉😉[/right][/quote] [quote]whats a vegan chicken wing[/quote] [quote]😍[/quote] [quote][right]something with cauliflower[/right][/quote] [quote][right]but that pic was like yes[/right][/quote] [quote][right]woulv’ve been even better without the shirt[/right][/quote] [quote][right]come to the party like that? I can show you off[/right][/quote] [quote][right]how does that sound?[/right][/quote] [quote]so good[/quote] [quote]what else are you gonna do to me[/quote] [quote][right]once we get out of there Im gonna rip off those tiny shorts[/right][/quote] [quote]please[/quote] [quote][right]gonna grab you and make you beg[/right][/quote] [quote][right]maybe I won’t even wait until we leave[/right][/quote] [quote][right]maybe we’ll do this in front of everyone[/right][/quote] [quote][right]destroy your ass while theyre all watching[/right][/quote] [quote]god im so friggin hard[/quote] [quote][right]how hard?[/right][/quote] [center]5:40 PM[/center] [quote][right]Spence?[/right][/quote] [center]5:51 PM[/center] [quote][right]Helloooooooooooo[/right][/quote] [center]6:07 PM[/center] [quote][right]???[/right][/quote] [quote]sorry my mom made me go wash the dishes[/quote] [quote]super hard 💦[/quote] [hr] Mark has no memory of last night—just an aching back and a hangover fiercer than a nor’easter. His artisan espresso is cooling quickly. Sitting in the back of Joe’s Coffee, head buried in his arms, he appreciates the early morning quiet. It’s barely past 7AM; the only people up this early are the fitness freaks, one of the few cliques in town that Mark has no experience with. None during the day, at least. He cringes deeper into his arms when the entrance bell jingles. Hopefully they’ll take care to use as few words as possible when ordering their artisan latte. The chair across from him squeaks against the floor. “Had a good night?” says a voice that’s more scrap metal than silk. “You do this to yourself, y’know.” “I’m innocent,” Mark replies without looking up. “I’m just having a good time.” “The road to hell is paved with good times.” Joe gives a husky giggle. “And cute twinks.” Mark rolls his eyes, but can’t hold back the laugh. Joe knows his fair share about good times, even if it takes a warehouse’s worth of booze to get him tipsy—he’s bear big, his arms as thick as telephone poles. As for the twinks—it’s been a long time since the two of them hung out. Joe’s beard rustles as he strokes it, as if he were some sort of Harvard genius, and not some hairy fuck with a taste for leather. “So,” he says, leaning in close enough that the table creaks under his weight, “who was he?” Mark snorts. “You don’t know him.” “I know a lot more people than you know I know.” “I know that you don’t know as many people as you think you know, Mr. Socialite,” says Mark. He shrugs. “’Sides, was just a one time thing.” “You and your one time things,” Joe scolds, sounding just like his mother. He sits back, and his belly jiggles when he laughs—Mark remembers without looking. “Always the same.” Mark manages to lift his head just enough to peek up at him. “With rare exceptions.” And Joe becomes a sunburned walrus, blushing under his beard. With another giggle, he takes Mark’s coffee cup. “Lemme grab you another, Marky-Marks.” Mark smiles and collapses back into his arms. “Grab me an Advil while you’re at it.”