Angel

“You look great,” Paul said.

“I’m going to try on the brown one,” he said, pulling the tank off.

“Why do you need to try it on? They’re all the same. They’re just different colors.”

“I want to see what the color looks like on me.”

“It’ll look great.”

“How do you know?”

“You always look great.”

“You’re biased.”

“Maybe, but I’m not wrong.”

As Ian tried on the brown and then the green tank, Paul drifted to his own thoughts. If Paul had a “boyfriend,” what was he? Was he gay, straight, bisexual? None of the check boxes seemed quite right. He understood the comic absurdity of his thought: I’m not gay, but my boyfriend is. Yet that was how he felt about things. He certainly couldn’t insist he was “straight” anymore, given the circumstances. “Bisexual” was the obvious (and least absurd) choice, but it didn’t feel right to him either. Paul had always associated that word with people who wanted to play around and experiment with sex. To his mind, it lacked commitment and serious intent.

His sexuality wasn’t confusing or complicated at all, really. He had fallen in love with Sara, and he fell in love with Ian. Simple. It only became complicated when he tried to fit that reality into the shorthand of official categories. That these labels failed to describe how he felt about himself should not have troubled him much, but so many people had faith in the categories that he was incli

ned to believe the problem was with himself, and not the check boxes. That was where he became confused.

Ian did end up taking all three shirts. He found the brown tank top most flattering and decided to wear out of the store. He ripped off the tag and took it up to Andy to ring up.

“You got another tattoo,” Andy said. “Nice work.”

“Thanks,” Ian said. He turned his shoulder toward Andy and gazed over it like an actress posing on the red carpet. He couldn’t make such a gesture seriously, so he raised his eyebrows and stuck out his tongue. Andy laughed and blushed.

Paul handed his credit card to the clerk. Something was bothering him, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. As they walked out of the store, Ian turned his shoulder toward Paul and batted his eyes. “Well, how do I look?”

Paul was distracted. It was something Andy had said. Something had given him the idea that…. Finally, it dawned on him: “He said you got another tattoo.”

“What?”

“Andy, he said ‘you got another tattoo’.”

“Yeah.”

“Another tattoo.”

Ian looked confused.

“How did he know about the first one?” Paul asked.

“Ah,” Ian said.

“I mean it’s—” He gestured toward Ian’s hip bone.

“Yeah,” he said, putting his hand over the spot. “I don’t know. I guess he saw it once.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t know.”