On its surface, the Olympic is probably not the neighborhood’s premier venue for a same-s*x wedding reception. But everyone who’s being “received” fits in the corner booth, and given its central role in our relationship to date, it feels contrived to pretend we’d rather go elsewhere. Michael Finney’s horsey brand of visual distinction adds years to his mug, and the waitress has served Esau before; she plunks a pitcher of mimosas down on the table next to a carafe of orange juice and makes a point of not noticing who serves what to whom.
Esau made me promise we’d go downtown in the morning and tie up any legal loose ends—we’ll probably end up in front of a judge; surely there’s something to sign—but the symbolism of exchanging vows in the company of our best friends was more than his senti
