“Are you gay?”
“Am I gay?” I want to be sure I understand the question.
“Yeah.” The girl is drunk. She wandered into the bar and sat near me. She came in with friends but they’re in the corner talking.
“No,” I say. “Do I seem gay?”
“Well, you see,” she says, clutching her Bud Light with Lime, “I’m kind of attracted to you, and usually the guys I’m attracted to turn out to be gay.”
I see. This is her pick-up line. A little self-deprecation or irony or something. Clever. Although, if she wasn’t stupid-drunk and hadn’t been slurring to my friend about being a bad influence on her nephew, maybe she’d realize that suggesting a guy is gay is rarely endearing—at least in a heterosexually romantic sense. On the other hand, she has a mustache tattooed on her index finger so she can hold it under her nose to appear mustachioed. So maybe she knows what she’s doing.
But she isn’t really my type. Then she spills her beer.
I should have said yes.