I shake my head. The confidence and nerve, not to mention the body, I had to pull off such a move have gone the way of the Sony Walkman. I pull open my dresser drawers and closet and in a few minutes am more tamely attired in a pair of faded Levi’s and a Chicago Cubs T-shirt. Hey, I can at least try to pass for butch.
Too soon and not soon enough, my phone rings, and I know it’s Carlos at my front gate.
What if it’s not? A sudden thought occurs to me. What if it’s Tate, calling to say he’s on his way home? Oh, wouldn’t that just be too perfect? I love my boy and want to be with him as much as possible, just not right now.
Fortunately the number on the screen is not Tate’s. Tate’s name, not his number, would come up anyway, along with a picture of him I took last summer at a street fair
