I  found myself moving away from the door and onto the balcony. I am painfully aware that I alone am the reason we’ve yet to fill a room. As melodramatic and colorful as Rachel is, it is my sexual preference that leaves the prospects at the door. It’s as if every female in New Orleans is either in denial or lacking an accurate perceptual mechanism while men make up for it by owning a pristine gift of finding the homosexual.

Regardless of it’s residence, I’m positive anyone would enjoy our apartment. We live towards the humbler end of the French Quarter in a quaint three-room on the second floor. As far as goes furnishing, let’s just say Rachel let me do as I wanted. It’s just perfect.

I reach the balcony and let myself lean over the railing. Below, the normal hustle and bustle of the New Orleans day is teaming. A slew of street musicians that have seem to set up a permanent camp outside our complex, are covering Beatles songs on broken violins and ukuleles.  This is an appropriate soundtrack to the developing storm of protesters preparing themselves for yet another march down the French Quarter. The anti-Vietnam movement had dwindled considerably over the years, but with recruitment letters still showing up on doorsteps, it completely makes sense. Partaking in a few rallies myself, I feel almost guilty for my immunity to the draft. Nothing more than a “I’m a homosexual” would get me out of service. Some would say this made me a coward: hiding behind my sexuality to avoid war. But this is not a war I believe in and I refuse to die because of it. 

“Should I tell them it’s not worth it?”

“SHIT,” I stand up abruptly, backing into our outdoor table and catching my side on the corner. “Shit, Finn…. NO! Just no!”

Finn, our next door neighbor just home from Vietnam, is  sitting in his chair on the adjacent balcony. He smiles at my momentary freak out and extends his arm slightly. Within his fingers he clutches a half spent blunt.

“Here, to take the fucking edge off, man,” Finn offers with that same goofy smile.

I consider it for a moment before hearing the shrill “and we have a half-bath!” from Rachel coming through the closed door.

“I better not,” I say as I resume my position of leaning over the balcony solemnly. “We’re showing the apartment. Don’t want them to think I’m some dirty hippy.”

“Or a crazy war vet?” Finn suggests, shrugging before bringing the roach to his own lips and inhaling sharply. Finn had been sent home for one very obvious reason: the loss of his legs. What was left now were two lonely stumps ending at the knee. Finn’s handicap did nearly nothing to stop him from his usual shenanigans. He was always getting high on the balcony, cat calling the girls below, and bellowing out notes along his favorite Kinks album.  I had learned enough over the years to never ask Finn about his time in the war. And he, for his part, never made to talk about it.  His daily conversations reflected the here and now: how was work going? Let’s road trip to some music festival? How is the roommate situation going? Will your groovy skirt roommate ever go out with me?

The only glimpse of a disenchanted war vet was when a letter would arrive from Washington in our post. Finn would knock on the door, letters clenched in his fist, and then watch me fervently as I opened and read the letter to myself.

“Census notice,” I had told him in shaky voice. “No one’s going to war…”

Now he uses his handicap and moments of paranoia as a punch line. Even now he is popping a wheelie on his chair.

“We all know why you won’t take a hit,” Finn continues, flashing me a winning smile.

“Oh do we?” I challenge. “It’s not my oozing of responsibility?”

“No,” Finn laughs, almost losing his balance. “You don't want to tarnish the whites of your eyes. The red would clash with your outfit, aye?”

I smile enduringly because he’s half right. He reaches out his hand again only this time I accept, standing on my tippy toes on the base of the railing and bridging the gab between us. Once safely back on the soles of my feet, I let myself take a deep drag. Maybe it’s worth relaxing for a change. Maybe it’s me being completely uptight all the time that leaves me tired and wondering at the end of the day. We sit in silence momentarily as I strain my ears to listen to Rachel chirp on and on about our fabulous location. I puff on Finn’s blunt a bit zealously  when I hear her open my bedroom door.

“Been a hard week?” Finn asks, waving his hand at me to keep the blunt when I attempt to pass it back. “I got a prescription, man.”

I shrug absent mindedly as I take another drag.

“Nothing too difficult, just the usual,” I say, propping my elbows on the railing. “Oh, a girl kissed me.”

“Oh well that’s just completely what I’d expect,” Finn laughs. “The gay next door gets more girl action than me. Must be your ability to share feelings and shit”

“Well, what can I say,” I jaunt. “I just have something you can’t offer.”

“No, you have two somethings I can’t offer,” Finn says. “A right and left leg.”

At this, I  lose my cool composure and hunch into a gut wrenching laugh. Not sure if Finn’s comment was actually all that funny or if Mary Jane was working her wonders, but there I was losing my grasp on the railing and finding a seat on the ground. Finn’s abhorrent hoots of laughter only egg me on as we laugh up a melody.  It feels good to laugh; like I was holding it in for a century and now that it’s arrived, I don't want it to ever leave. My stomach clinching and letting go,  I’m catching segments of Finn’s “because I don’t have any fucking legs.” I look up at him with tears running down my face as he continues to elaborate further than the joke required. This is some strong shit.

“No fucking legs for fucking ,” He snorts, patting his thighs roughly. “She has to do all the fucking work.”

I’m snorting, now completely convinced Finn’s commentary wasn't nearly as funny as the weed I had been consuming.

“Finn, I get it, I swear I do,” I get out between spurts of laughter.

“I bet you’d be good,” Finn continues, rolling closer to the bars and pressing his face between them. It only intensifies the insanity of this conversation. Having finished the blunt at hand, Finn makes to roll another one. “I mean look at those legs, you’d be fantastic.”

I let out an obnoxious snort and accept the newly rolled blunt and choking on the ash that burns my throat.

“Kurt would be fantastic at what?”

I  hadn’t even noticed the balcony door open and close and suddenly I’m looking up at a frowning Rachel. Finn too pushed back from the balcony bars in surprise.

“Nothing,” He fibs madly as if he were lying to his grandmother. “Fucking.”

I bite my lip to stifle my laughter before Rachel is turning on me with wide eyes. I look into them in wonder, aware Rachel is obviously trying to communicate through  pupil movement , but failing none the less.

“Rachel, I’ve gotten suddenly and inexplicably high,” I say, widening my eyes back at her. “I don’t know what these freaky owl eyes are supposed to mean.”

“It means our potential roommate is standing right behind me and I’m sure he’d want a proper introduction, “ she  says, crossing her arms and moving aside. As she moves, my loopy smile ceases dramatically .

My mouth opens and hangs like the idiot I am as I stare up at the man before me.  A moment’s time freezes and I’m suddenly vividly aware of how hard I feel on the ground , as if reality has tethered me closer and I was doomed to sit cross-legged forever on the cold concrete below me.  I’m not sure what this feeling is, and before I can dissect it further a very different feeling takes its place. Its as if that tether was snapped and I’ve become weightless and floating. It’s almost physically uncomfortable, these conflicting feelings, so much so that I find my hand clutching my heart. I blink a couple of times at his dark curls, bowing eye lashes and oh my god, I’m staring. He doesn't seem to notice as he simply beams down at me and offers me a hand off the ground. I stare at his extended hand momentarily before I  mentally kick myself and place my hand in his.

In one motion, he lifts me from the ground and turns the effort into a hand shake.

“Blaine Anderson," he says smiling widely at me.

 I’m still feeling slightly lightheaded with the ruminants of giddy laughter still fresh in my vocal folds. I seem to not be speaking. Or letting go of his hand.

“Rachel,” I say urgently, dropping his hand and putting my own in my pocket. Keeping heavy eye contact, I realize I just introduced myself as Rachel. Blaine’s eyes narrow as mine expand. Without further explanation, I turn to Rachel  and use her previously attempted mode of communication: wide eyes and flicking pupils.

“Uh… excuse us, Blaine,” Rachel stutters looking from me to Blaine.  With that, I turn on my heal and march out the door and don’t stop until I’m safely across the apartment  in my own room with Rachel in tow. Just as Rachel clears the threshold I close the door impatiently and grab her shoulders.

“Kurt—what the hell—“

“Rachel!” I hiss, interrupting her train of thought. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Rachel blinks her surprise and offers a questionable “no?”

“Did you know two men could be evicted for engaging in gay sex in their apartment? Not even if they are walked in on-just blatant accusing would suffice…. Dear GOD,”  My hissing is slowly climbing to irrational  yelling. “Did you put out a wanted add for THE most attractive guy on this planet? “

Rachel is suddenly smirking and shrugging my hands off her shoulders.

“Okay, Kurt, you’re obviously really high…”

“RACHEL,” I clap  a hand to my mouth as I’m almost positive the next block could hear it. “You’re high!”

She bites her lip at attempting to smother a smile.

“Okay yes, I’m high,” I confirm. “But you’re higher for thinking this is a good idea- I can’t…I just… UGH, let’s go.”

I take her by the hand and lead her back through the house back on to the balcony where Blaine and Finn are now exchanging some conversation regarding ivory and the local bar: He’s leaned over the railing to pass back my previously discarded blunt, exposing a glimpse of his back just above his belt. I’m losing my mind.

“Disclaimer,” I announce, taking both Blaine and Finn by surprise .

“No, no, no,” Rachel interrupts, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Kurt, you don’t come with a disclaimer.”

“I’m gay,” I spit out just as Rachel finishes. She rolls her eyes and steps on my toe.

Of course this must be obvious to him. Of course he’s probably tracking the fastest path to the exit. After the display of pure stupidity I just presented with the mere act of seeing him, I can’t imagine him staying: straight or not.  “And single.”

Did I just say that? Why did I add that? What did I just do?

But Blaine, for all the craziness I just threw at him, doesn't seem to mind. He’s looking at me with a gentle expression, one I can’t exactly read. Those eyebrows furrow momentarily as if to ask a question but then straighten up almost immediately.

His mouth then tries out different articulatory positions before he straightens up and asks “So will yall have me?”

Will I have him? Mercy…