Page 57 of Sweat

“This is your ID?” Mike asks, flitting a disapproving look between the customer and their ID in Mike’s hand. He hands it back. “No, I don’t think so.”

“What?” asks the customer asks, rightfully bewildered.

My first thought is that Mike thinks the ID looks fake, but then he hands a credit card to the customer and says, “We can only process credit cards from the cardholder. It’s store policy.”

Huh? Tell that to the guy Mike rung up this morning who used his boss’s card to pick up a tray of sub sandwiches for some office function.

“I am the cardholder,” the customer says, an uptick of annoyance in their husky voice.

“Your name is Jennifer?” Mike asks, an edge to his amused tone.

The customer tosses their hands up. “Yeah, it is. Why does it matter?”

“What matters is that the picture on that ID is of a woman, and you don’t look like a woman to me.”

My eyes go wide and the back of my neck sweats the way it does when conflict is imminent and I’m right in the line of fire. I’m not sure what’s going on, but I know what Mike said is only going to escalate whatever situation this is.

“I am a woman, actually,” the customer states, showing her anger by folding her arms across her chest and pursing her lips. It’s a lot more restraint than I would’ve shown if some jackhole deli owner insisted I’m not a man.

“Whatever woman you are sure ain’t my definition of a woman.”

“Ha!” the customer laughs humorlessly. “And who made you the arbiter of what the definition of a woman is?”

“God gave me eyes, and that’s license enough. He also blessed me with the means to own this store and the agency to decide to deny service to whomever I please.”

Looking between Mike and Jennifer, I feel like a total doorknob. The noble side of me thinks I should tell Mike he’s being a fuckhead, but the side of me that needs a job says to keep my mouth shut. I end up frozen like a deer in headlights, waiting for Jennifer to leap over the counter and throttle Mike. I sure as hell wouldn’t blame her if she did.

Instead, she uncrosses her arms, shoves her cards into her pants pocket and storms out without her meat.

Mike laughs when she’s gone, shakes his head toward me and says, “Can you believe that?”

No, I really can’t. In all my cowardice, the only thing my mouth challenges Mike on is, “Since when do we check IDs for credit processes?”

Mike adopts a perfunctory look as he saunters up and plants his heavy palm on my shoulder. “You’re young, Tom, but as you get older, you’ll realize that the only way for society to function is if people know they can’t act however they want in public without facing consequences.”

“How was she acting?” I ask, too dumbfounded to read between the lines of Mike’s bullshit.

Mike chuckles. “Let’s just say, if you ever showed up to work in a dress and makeup, I’d fire your ass just to teach you a lesson, and you’ll thank me for it too. Whatever that chick does in the privacy of her own home is her business, but she damn well better look like a normal person around me.”

Even though I’d probably never wear a dress anywhere ever, I can’t help but feel personally slighted. Oh, right…it’s because I’m gay. Still getting used to that. And this right here is another reason not to commit to Rowan. Because once I do that, being gay is no longer just a private, personal identity, but a way of living, and life happens in public. Life happens in front of people. It’s brought up in conversation, and it’s how I make decisions that affect people other than myself.

I get to my truck and text Rowan, because even though he’s not my boyfriend, he’s sort of become my best friend. He may not tell me much of anything, but he’d never betray my confidence, and even when he teases me, he has a way of making me feel supported.

Me

Bad day at work ):

Before I shift out of park, my phone buzzes in the cupholder.

Rowan

What happened

Me

Nothing really. Just my boss is a dick. Going home now tho. See you tonight?

Rowan

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