The Summer heat has gotten to me.  I’m sitting by the Mississippi, sweat pouring from my skin as  I gaze out over the port. It’s been a good day. I finally got the job I’d been pining after: a high school teaching  job at an all girl school. Now that I’m openly gay, it’s become quite an issue finding jobs. It’s been flagged in my resume from my previous teaching job from which I got fired. As I was teaching middle school at the time, apparently homosexuality, pedophilia, and a complete lack of moral fortitude go hand in hand.

This was an award.  A frozen coffee drink, a plate of beignets, and the company of Blaine.  Him and I had been spending a good amount of time together ever since he moved in a month ago.  After witnessing him openly flirt with countless girls, it’s become overly apparent Blaine has his preference. At first this depressed me to no end. I spent many a nights cursing the gods and recounting karma, but in the end, there’s no changing it. Instead, I put my efforts into acquiring a best friend.

I would work on screen plays for my hypothetical musicals in his restaurant during the day, and then sit with him at his piano sipping spicy bloody maries as he piped out some psychedelic covers at night.  Blaine, in return, would sit at the breakfast table highlighting promising job offers in the wanted adds, tossing them at me as I poured milk across my cereal.

“Today will be the day!” He’d say confidently, stealing my spoon and helping himself to my cereal.

But today was the day, and I couldn’t be happier. So after a rather excellent rendition of “For he’s a Jolly Good Fellow” from Blaine, which resulted in a few bystanders throwing quarters our way, we are silently enjoying each other’s  presence as that harsh sun sinks away.

Blaine is licking at a popsicle he insisted on purchasing. It’s melting was overpowering his consuming and now he was feverishly  lapping away at the thing like a mad man. I know I said I was over the crazy “love a first sight” crush, but it’s best I don't watch.

“Who is Harvey Milk?” Blaine asks. I whip my head back around to look at him. He’s clearly defeated the popsicle, a mere stick resting between his fingers as a cigarette would.

“Harvey is this guy...”

“Do you like him?” Blaine cuts me off. His eyes look wide, and he seems to be biting his tongue over his sudden outburst.

I laugh. Not at Blaine, but at the notion. Blaine looks down at his feet and back up at me almost like he’s embarrassed. This puts me in check and I cut off my laughter with a heft cough and then a explanation.

“No, not romantically,” I say softly. “He’s this man I saw in the news once. He is an openly gay business owner running for some sort of office. He encouraged all gay men and women to leave the closet and be proud of who they are. He figures the government can’t rightly discriminate against all of us once they see their policemen, cross guards,  school teachers: people who make up the cornerstones of this ‘cookie cutter’ society stand up proud.”

Blaine is silent for a while, twirling the popsicle stick in his hand.

“Do ya think it will work?” He finally asks.

I think about it for a second: the way my life became impossibly harder after coming out, the way people looked at me differently, the way I myself had to get used to being gay. Then I shrug. I shrug because I just don’t know anymore.

“Well,” Blaine says decidedly. “I think you’re brave.”

I blink down at my hands in my lap before turning my eyes to his. He’s smiling gently, his hazel eyes ablaze as the sun’s last few rays surrender. I search for the familiar look of sympathy but instead am greeted by an overwhelming look of sincerity.

“Thanks,” I say, and I really am grateful.

We go back to watching the strong currents whirling in the Mississippi, the song of crickets filling the air.

“Oh, hey” Blaine says brightly. “You know how you and Rachel’s life dream is to be in musicales?”

I nod.

“Well this is no big deal, but a traveling troupe I used to preform with stumbled upon a hefty sum of money,” Blaine says. “An unnamed benefactor wants us to put on a anti-war performance to raise money for out injured vets.  Do you want to help me write, direct, and perform?”

I nod once more: mouth agape  and fists clenched.