Page 41 of Fathers of the Bride
What had he made for dessert? Cake? Pie? Trifle? I felt like I’d missed out. Deprived even.
Raj was frosty when I got home—not an unusual occurrence, lately. He sat cross-legged on the green leather Chesterfield sofa in a pair of silk shorty pajamas flipping through his phone. I was sure he’d already taken a selfie or two. It was his job, after all.
Beyond Raj spread a view of West Hollywood and the Pacific Design Center—also called The Blue Whale. If the apartment had been on the other side of the building, facing north, I’d be able to look up the hill at my house, the house I’d just come from.
Raj did not look up from his work.
“Hey,” I said. “I thought you’d still be at a meeting?”
“I couldn’t find a good one,” he replied. Often, after working out with his trainer, he enjoyed stopping in at a twelve-step meeting. He didn’t need to. He wasn’t an alcoholic or a drug addict or a sexual compulsive. He just enjoyed the meetings. He said it kept him in touch with the common man. Plus, getting to feel superior to a room full of people for an hour—and not having to pay for it—was a big plus for him.
“Where haveyoubeen?” he asked.
“I met Kelly for a drink at Revolver.” A lie, of course, but not terribly far from the truth. Miles and I at least talkedaboutKelly.
“Ugh. Gay bars aresoover.”
I didn’t enjoy that sentiment. I’d heard it before, and I was sure I’d hear it again. The fact that our community was disappearing bit by bit, or rather bar by bar, didn’t seem to bother guys Raj’s age. And the fact that it didn’t bother them bothered me. But there was no point disagreeing with him. We’d had the argument before.
He put down his phone and looked at me intently. “Bae, I hope you didn’t decide everything, becauseIhave some ideas for the wedding.”
Although I was tempted to run from the room, I said, “Oh really?”
“Really. I’m thinking…” he paused dramatically, jumped off the sofa and leaned in toward me. “Two words: flash mob.”
“No,” I said reflexively.
“I’m not finished.”
“It’s not the kind of thing Kelly—”
“We could at least ask her. Oh, wait, no. The best part is the bride’s shocked face. So, we can’t ask—”
“Kelly would hate it.”
“Really? All I’m suggesting is that we ask the wedding guests to do a bit of simple choreography toWe Are the World. Why wouldn’t Kelly just love that?”
“You want people to dance to a forty-year-old song about starvation at a wedding?”
“Starvation inAfrica!”
“No.”
“Well, what about an African theme then?”
“Wouldn’t that be just like blackface?”
“Not African African-American, African actual African. Because they met there. That’s not like blackface, at all.”
“I’m not sure people will see it that way.”
“They met in Africa. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with a little mud cloth and a few zebra skins.”
“No, just no…”
“Well, what about—”
“I think that’s enough for now,” I said. What I really wanted to do was climb into bed and pretend to read a book while I thought through my dinner with Miles.
