No, Paul and I Are Not a Couple…Not That There’s Anything Wrong with That

“You want another one?”

Paul tapped the side of his glass, which until moments ago had contained Hemingway Daquiri. We’d already had some prosecco at his house, but the daquiris were super tasty.

“Absolutely.”

It was Wednesday night at the Orbit Room and, on the advice of the owner, we’d come to witness Drag Queen Confidential. I was to do Author Night the following Wednesday and needed ideas for my presentation. Dan, the owner/bartender, quietly set the daquiris down in front of us. I attempted to pay but Paul waved me off.

“I got this one.”

He hadn’t let me pay for the last round either.

“You know I’m not going to put out, no matter how drunk I get, right?”

Paul laughed quietly. “You always say that…”

There were fifteen or twenty other attendees for the show, a monthly event. Besides the prosecco, Paul and I had attended a networking mixer earlier in the evening and migrated straight from that event to this one.

“This is interesting.” Even though he was right next to me, Paul whispered so as not to disturb the speaker who, judging by the size of the audience, was quite well known for his performances.

I whispered back. “Do you mean the drink or the guy in the dress?”

Paul’s eyes darted to the speaker and back to his drink. “Both.”

I nodded in agreement. The speaker definitely had an interesting story to tell about his star rising in a niche performance genre, almost as interesting as the Hemingway Daquiris, however it did not take long for me to grow tired of the fawning questions from the rapt audience. After I’d gleaned all the info I required on the mechanics of the presentation, I was ready to go. It appeared, however, that Paul was not. He was engrossed.

“Did you want to stay?” I whispered at his face, which was no more than six inches from mine. His cologne smelled fantastic.

“Yeah, maybe a couple more minutes.”

Now feeling extra bored, I looked around the bar room. Although a few of the audience members sported women’s clothing, and wore it well, I noticed a dearth of actual members of the fairer sex. I waved Dan over. “I know this is called Drag Queen Confidential, but do you get many women at these things?”

“Women?” 

“Yeah, single women. Paul’s in the market.”

Dan looked at me like I had a third eye in my forehead. “I thought you two were a couple.”

“No, Dan, we’re not a couple…not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

I fielded the quote from Seinfeld so as not to sound irascible, and knew I succeeded when Dan returned the smile and whispered his response. “Sometimes, but mostly lesbians.”

I dropped it and let Paul enjoy the show. This was not the first time it was assumed he and I were “together” and certainly wouldn’t be the last. We spent a decent amount of time with each other, and in my neighborhood it is generally assumed that two groomed, slim, well-dressed middle-aged men drinking Hemingway Daquiris were likely a couple. And all the hugging did little to dispel the impression, even though prolific hugs were (mostly) induced by prodigious alcohol consumption.

The show ended fifteen minutes later and, after introducing ourselves to the guest of honor, we made our way back out to the street, leaving behind the adoring crowd.

“Where to?” Paul was not ready to call it a night.

“Longfellow?” Neither was I.

We walked south on Vine Street, covering the seven blocks in under twenty minutes. Paul’s an aggressive walker and strode like a college freshman late for an eight AM class. I, though no slouch in the walking department, found myself lagging, feeling like a child trying to keep up with a distracted parent. It occurred to me that, if I could grab his hand, he could drag me along with him. I declined the idea for appearances and quickened my pace instead. On the positive side, we arrived at Longfellow much faster than we would have had I set the pace.

The U-shaped bar was two-thirds full when we arrived and were handed drink and food menus as we took control of two barstools.

“What can I get for you guys?” The tattooed bartender waited patiently for us to order.

Paul jumped in. “You know what? I’ll have an Aperol Spritz. I was thinking I wanted a beer but probably best to stick with alcohol.”

It seemed a stretch to categorize an Aperol Spritz as “alcohol,” but who was I to argue. “I’ll have the same.”

Longfellow, like the majority of bars in Over the Rhine, did not have a vast interior and the space that was available was dominated by the bar which, in my experience, never had fewer than three bartenders ready to serve. I gave the place a once-over as we waited for the drinks and recognized a couple of the regulars. Paul was looking around, too, so I used his distraction to slip the bartender my credit card.
“Can you put both of those Aperols on there?”

“Do you want this open or closed?” She waved the card with one hand while she continued to pour drinks with the other.

“Better leave it open.”

Paul heard the exchange and attempted to intervene. “Why don’t you let me buy those?”

“Your partner already paid for them.” The bartender responded as she topped off the drinks with Prosecco and set them in front of us.

Partner?

I let it go. We were sitting there drinking Aperol Spritzes, wearing (almost) matching floral print, short-sleeved button-downs, looking clean and coiffed. What else was she going to think, that we were part of an Hawaiian shirt pub crawl?

I don’t remember how many Aperol Spritzes Paul and I consumed that evening, but likely more than two and less than five. Regardless, we’d ingested enough alcohol to thrust us into the “I love you, man” phase of the evening, along with the aforementioned hugging that accompanied that stage of drunkenness.

Now filled to the brim with brotherly love, we departed and went our separate ways, he to his house and me to mine. As I did my best not to stumble, I crossed paths with someone who recognized me from earlier in evening. He was, perhaps, one of regulars from Longfellow or an audience member from the Orbit, but either way I remained unsure of his identity.

He extended his hand as we approached each other. “Where’s your partner?”

Maybe Paul and I were spending too much time together.