Mat shook his head, frowning, as the two made their way through the decorative glass and wooden doors onto the snowy street. "Could we at least stop meeting in all these gay bars all the time?"
Lincoln laughed. "You asked me where I was."
"Yeah, well I hate all the looks those guys give me."
They walked down the street at a casual pace. It was just after seven.
"What looks?"
"They keep staring at me as if to say, 'What is I guy like that doing with a guy like him?' As if I could never get a guy like you to like me."
"Mat, are you for real?" Lincoln looked incredulous. "But you're not gay."
Mat looked offended, he gritted his teeth. "Pisses me off all the same."
Lincoln laughed. He visibly assessed Mat's appearance in a dark brown undershirt and light grey tweed jacket. "You can relax about that, take it from a guy that knows, tweed is a natural gay repellant." Lincoln gave him a friendly nudge.
"What's wrong with the way I'm dressed."
"It's embarrassing at least for me, being your closest gay friend and not being capable of making a dent in that fuddy-duddy closet of yours..."
"Hey! Don't think I won't clock you a good one right here, right now."
Lincoln laughed, "Just walk a safe distance in front so people won't know we're together and I'll be fine with just that."
A young man drove up in a grey BMW. "Need a ride?"
"No thanks," Lincoln said. "I have year-round parking across the street."
"Get in, I'll drive you up."
Lincoln got in, shoving his bags in the back. He folded his large frame into the back seat. Mat sat beside him.
Eyeing his friend's packages, he shook his head again.
"I can't dump a broad without her slamming my ass on Facebook."
Lincoln snickered.
"Lincoln, I've got one question for you. What kind of control you have over men, and can it be reverse-engineered from 'gay' to 'straight'?"
* * *
Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!
Is the ringing in my ears getting louder?
The man lying in the grimy cell covered his ears harder with his hands. To his chagrin, the sound intensified.
"What the…"
"Yo," the officer at the gate called to him in Spanish. "Time to go, gringo."
The man perked up. "Huh?"
"Time to go, you're out of here."
Ohh yeah.
The man rolled over, falling right off the side of the suspended wooden bench that served as a cot and onto the floor. His head met dirt. The other occupants of the cell snickered.
The man brought himself up awkwardly, swaying on his feet. He shook his head roughly.