Page 12 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

My stomach groaned with pleasure.

“Excellent choices,” the waiter said, collecting the menus from Peter. “I’ll get your order put in right away.”

Peter gave him a smile and a nod, then turned his head back to me once he was gone.

“Did I order the right thing?” he asked.

I nodded. “I can’t wait for my food now.”

“How was my ‘au poivre’?”

“Excellent,” I said.

“Good,” Peter said, leaning in. “Was this a good choice for our first date?”

My words caught in my throat, so I had to ease myself into taking a deep breath before I responded to him.

“Perfect,” I said. “It is perfect.”

“I know that Montreal was our official first date,” Peter said, “but this is the first one we got to actually plan, so it’s still a first date.”

“I feel that I’m okay with that.”

“So,” Peter gestured at my glass, “soda?”

I shrugged as my cheeks warmed. “I don’t drink.”

“Did you remember to pack your medication?” Peter asked nonchalantly as he brought his wine glass to his lips.

Though I hadn’t mentioned my need for medication since our one perfect night in Montreal, Peter had remembered. The fluttering in my stomach returned.

“Yes.”

“Good,” Peter said. “The desserts here are insanely good. They have a crème brûlée that’s served in a tart style crust, which sounds weird, but it’s ridiculously delicious, and—”

“We still have cheesecake in your refrigerator.” I laughed at Peter’s dessert suggestion.

He shrugged. “It’ll still be there. It would be delicious for breakfast.”

Though instinct told me that I should chastise Peter for his suggestion—cheesecake for breakfast?—I didn’t want to do that. Instead, I leaned in, mirroring his position, and smiled at him.

“I like you, Peter,” I said.

“I like you, too, Enzo,” he replied. “A lot.”

Torpid and bloated, though ebullient, after dinner, Peter and I decided to walk around the neighborhood in which Butcher’s Prime was located. Even on a Monday, late in the evening, the neighborhood showed no signs of slowing down. People scurried into and from bars and restaurants, sat at outdoor cafes, drank beers and spirits, had late-night meals, and mingled on the street. Peter must have sensed my anxiety, because his hand found mine, and his fingers tangled with my fingers, and he didn’t let go as we walked along.

Holding hands with Peter—another man—fed my anxiety momentarily. Queerness, displayed openly, anywhere in the world is a risk. Sometimes it is calculated, based on what one knows about a neighborhood, city, or country. But it is still a risk. In the U.S., I’d been led to believe that unless one was in New York City or Los Angeles, it was best to not display affection openly if you are queer.

However, I found that Peter and I were not the only two men, or two women, or only queer couple, holding hands on the street. I’d whispered a question to Peter, wondering if we were in a “gay neighborhood,” but he had responded that Minneapolis was simply a “queer-friendly” city. Though he was forced to admit that some areas were not as friendly—but he wouldn’t take me to those areas. I thanked him for that.

The people we passed on the street were cheerful and friendly and loud, greeting us with “hellos” and “how are you’s.” Peter whispered to me to simply respond with “Hello!” and “Great! How are you?” and to keep walking.

“Not to sound jaded, but it’s just a formality,” Peter had explained. “No one wants to stop for an actual conversation. And they don’t want to know if your day sucked. Save that for friends.”

Americans. I had thought. French by birth, I was not predisposed to cheerful, positive displays if that was not how I felt—and sometimes even if it was how I felt. We’re all trudging through life to an inevitable death, collecting misery along the way, my French innermost self whispered. However, I appreciated the efficiency of the American way of greeting people on the street, even if it was disingenuous.

Greet person so they know you have noticed them and are a polite person.