What Difference Does it Make

They finished their meals with minimal conversation. Duo declined desert, opting to get the check. He paid with the newspaper\'s American Express, uttered a politely cold goodbye before collecting his jacket and left the restaurant. Duo could come back tomorrow for lunch. Quatre would probably join him, since nothing made Quatre happier than a free lunch.

Duo smiled as the image of Bailey\'s round, smug, greasy face twisting as Duo bested him again. Bailey claimed that getting everywhere first gave the least biased opinion, but Duo\'s columns were an event. He reviewed with style. Duo wasn\'t some flabby, balding, middle-aged slob who couldn\'t pull his chair in under the table; he was the fashion plate. The storefront window come to life. When Duo went somewhere, it was a production: Bucchi boots, DESIL jeans, Bugatchi micro fiber t-shirt, and his Magli, leather jacket. No three piece suit. Nothing stuffy or out of date. Piece by piece, he matched the mannequins.

Duo looked down the sidewalk at This Week hailing a cab, running away from his failure. From the ruins of his ideal date. His brush with notoriety, however brief it was. Duo didn\'t feel sorry though, This Week knew what to expect. He\'d heard rumors about Duo Rhul\'s notorious relationships, but he still wanted his three dates, his chance to strip away the designer wrappings and try to see what was inside. It was just another one. Just like the others, who were all relived when Duo left their sex-rumpled beds and their neat little cookie cutter Ikea apartments.

Duo turned away, and started walking. Tonight was a night for liquor. The sweet, clear burn of vodka; the heavy leaden lump, the asteroid flaming in his craterous stomach. The gaseous run off filling his heat, the weightlessness pulling against the rock in his belly, a balloon bobbing on the end of its string.

He turned to the street, staring it down, watching for the yellow cars with their neat hats proclaiming rides for hire. Holding out his arm, he waited for someone to notice, an empty cab taking pity on him, allowing him to enter. Allowing him to be escorted to the bar, safe from molesting hookers and panhandling slackers.

He sighed as a cab fell off from the lines of traffic, pulling gently in from on him. Duo slid inside, shutting the door, shitting him into the darkness. It smelled heavily of cigarettes and body odor. The stench was a real thing. A real pair of sagging, old balloon breast cradled in a black lycra halter. Real long, red claws digging into his scalp, pushing his head in the chasm between those wrinkled breasts. The smell slithering down his throat in hot moist breaths. C\'mon honey, let\'s prove to her you\'re a man. Duo reached over and rolled down the window. He left the exhaust and asphalt smells of the city waft in, overpowering the stink, before telling the driver to take him to the Ruby Slipper. He needed a drink more than ever.

The ride was dark and quiet, just the whorl of traffic and an occasional tinny message over the radio, everything in some sort of code. Duo didn\'t understand what was being said, but he didn\'t really care. He did wonder what the codes for the gay bars were. He was certain they had to have blanketed them all under the same label. From the manly, dark leather fetish club to the dyke bar on 43rd to the cosmopolitan men at Ruby\'s, they were all one people, and all undesirable.

As they stopped at an intersection a familiar laugh drew Duo\'s attention to the window. The two cars in the lane beside him looked like they were kissing, rear bumper to front. The one in back looked like Quatre\'s car, but there were a lot of silver Mercedes in that part of the city. On the other side, Duo thought he caught a glimpse of blond hair, but he wasn\'t sure of the sex. The blond hair was speaking to brunette hair. He didn\'t get a good look at either person because the cab started moving again.

The car slowed, pulling to the beautifully pink curb beneath Ruby\'s. Rosy light fell, blanketing the area in a proud color. It had the promise of safety. It had the promise of false warmth, coming from a beautiful rainbow of bottles. Ruby\'s was the nest best place to home.

Duo slid from the cab, handing the driver a collection of bills while looking up. Two sparkling pumps hovered over the sidewalk, glowing like a red neon sun. Behind it blushed a line of blood red windows. Shadows moved across them like a puppet show for the people at the straight bars to watch. They\'d look from across the street and tisk at the debauchery of homosexuality, fully believing that gay men still had sex in park bushes, before heading into the darkness of a club to find another random night\'s fuck.