the popcorn tub at me again, encouraging me to take more.
“So what’d you think?” he asks, helping himself to another handful. “Did the big twist live up to your expectations?”
“I don’t know.” I mull it over. “I mean, it wasn’t Sixth Sense-shocking. It wasn’t Crying Game-shocking. I guess there was too much build-up.”
“That’s why I wasn’t really into seeing this movie.”
“You weren’t into seeing it?” I ask, stopping in the aisle. “But you came with me. You didn’t have to come with me. Oh, God, you kind of did. Look, I didn’t mean to drag you here.”
“You didn’t.”
“Oh, come on, Buckley. I pretty much ordered you to come with me. I guess I just assumed—”
“It’s okay,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mind. Everyone I know has seen it too, so I figured this was my only chance.”
“Too bad it didn’t live up to all the hype. I mean, I was surprised that the whole thing turned out to be a dream, but wasn’t it kind of a letdown?”
“I don’t know. It was kind of like that short story ‘Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge.’ Ever read that?”
“Are you kidding? The Ambrose Bierce story? I was an English major. I must’ve read it a dozen times for lit and writing courses.”
“Me, too,” Buckley says. “I remember really loving that story when I read it the first time back in high school. I thought it was such an amazing twist, you know, that it was all just this stream-of-consciousness escape thing happening in the moment before he died. This was the same kind of thing. I liked it.”
“But you didn’t love it.”
He shrugs. “How about you?”
“I really wanted to love it. It’s been so long since I’ve seen a great movie. The last one I really loved was the one with Gwyneth Paltrow that came out at Christmas.”
Naturally, Will hated that movie. He thought it was poorly acted, sappily written and unrealistic.
“Oh, I loved that one too!” Buckley says, pulling on his pullover hooded khaki raincoat as we pause just inside the doors. “Man. It’s still pouring out.”
“What a crummy day. I’ll never get a cab.” I sigh, hunting through the pockets of my jeans for a subway token I thought I had.
“Want to go have a beer?”
“A beer? Now?” Surprised, I look up at him. Then I check my watch—as if it matters. As if there’s a cutoff time for beer on a rainy Sunday afternoon in Manhattan.
“Or…do you have to be someplace?”
“No!” I say too quickly. Because I really want that beer. It beats the hell out of taking the subway back to my lonely apartment while thinking of Will uptown, packing his boxes.
“Great. So let’s get a beer.”
I pull on my rain slicker. It’s one of those doofy shiny yellow touristy ones, and it makes me look as wide as a big old school bus from behind. I’d worry about that if I were with Will—in fact, I was doing just that earlier, when he and I left the restaurant—but naturally, I don’t have to worry with Buckley. That’s the nice thing about having gay guys as friends. You get male companionship without the female competitive PMS angle and without the whole messy sexual attraction issue.
“Where should we go?” Buckley asks.
“I know a good pub a block from here,” I tell him. “I spend a lot of time in this neighborhood.”
“So do I.”
“You do?”
“Actually, I live here.”
“Really? Where?”
“Fifty-fourth off Broadway.”
“No kidding.”
“You live here, too?”
“No, I live in the East Village.”
“Really? Then why’d you want to meet way up here?”
I don’t want to get into the whole Will thing, so I just say, “I had an errand to run up here earlier, so I thought it made sense. So do you have someplace you want to go? Since this is your neighborhood…”
“No, let’s try your place. I’m always up for something new. Hey, I’m spontaneous, remember?”
I grin at him, and note that he’s wearing another crewneck sweater with his jeans. “I see you went with the beige today.”
“What can I say? It was a beige kind of day. Apparently, you beg to differ. Do you always wear black?” he asks, eyeing my outfit.
Black jeans. A black long-sleeved tunic-jersey-type shirt that camouflages my thighs—or so I like to think.
“Always,” I tell him.
“Any particular reason?”
“It’s slimming,” I say promptly, and he grins.
“And here I thought you were trying to make some kind of political or artistic or spiritual statement.”
“Me? Nope, I’m just a full-figured gal trying to pass for a waif.”
We splash out into the rain and cross the street against the light. Two minutes later, we’re sitting on barstools at Frieda’s, this semi-cool dive Will and I come to sometimes. They have awesome potato skins with cheddar and bacon, a fact I mention to Buckley pretty much the moment we sit down.
“You want to order some?” he asks.
“After all that popcorn?”
“You’re too full?”
“See, Buckley, that’s the thing. I’m never full. I could eat all day long. I’m always up for some potato skins. Hence the flab.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Tracey. It’s not like you’re obese.”
“You’re sweet.” Too bad he’s gay. “So tell me about your failed relationship.”
“Do I have to?”
“Nah. Not if you don’t want to. We can talk about something more upbeat. Like…where are you from?”
“Long Island.”
“You’re from Long Island?”
He nods. “Why do you look so surprised?”
“You just don’t have that Lo-awn Guyland thing going on. You know…the accent. You don’t have one.”
