Savannah and I escaped the three-story fashion mania and wandered into a bookstore on the way to food. I bought a feather quill because I could. We found titles to books that looked interesting and some that just made us laugh. I warned her that the graphic novel collection of Buffy the Vampire Slayer she found may be hers for her birthday, if she’s good. She looked at me with a look of warning as if I wasn’t allowed to spoil her. When we walked out of the store there was a group of three homeless people bundled up together loving on a dog who was wrapped in blankets with them. They were exchanging nose kisses for chin kisses. It’s one of those times that I think about how much we don’t deserve dogs, but perhaps they do.
We ended up in Honey Hole, a sandwich shop near Capitol Hill next to a sex shop named Babe Land. The bartender seated us in a cozy spot towards the back by the bar, and we plotted ways that I could feign illness or act like an alcoholic to get his attention so they could fall in love over taking care of me. We laughed and blushed about all of his tattoos and his nice beard and how surprisingly deep his voice was. We both got some of the best sandwiches and topped it off with cocktails–I found one called a Southern Belle (whiskey, strawberry syrup, ginger beer and a few other ingredients) and laughed at how “me” it was/wasn’t. I remember at some point putting my pinkie up as I sipped, feeling fancy, and then slopped some more over the sandwich. Our receipts came with Dum-Dum lollipops.
It was late in Seattle when we walked back through to get in the car and come home. There was a guy who, as Savannah described him looked like he raided through Kurt Cobain’s closet, held his arms open to us and said, “This guy is a human jackhammer,” and kept walking. I would have felt offended if it weren’t for the debate between us that ensued: “Is he talking about himself, or could he be opening his arms up in astonishment about the jackhammer-ing he just had?” We passed a lit up sign that read “Gay City” and wanted to check out the gay lounge–a nook-like area that looked like booze, music and books–but remembered our Cobain-ish friend and took it as more of a warning. A woman inside, I think I only noticed, kept eyeing one of us with a smirk.
Two older men passed us shouting loudly at one another about how large their penises were; they amazingly didn’t take a poll from the street. I appreciated their reserve–sure they were being offensive, but they were keeping it to themselves. They weren’t trying to accost me with their genitalia, they were really just excited about the news.
On the way back home we listened to Savannah’s new favorite song, “I Don’t Want to Be Funny Anymore” by Lucy Dacus, and I remembered how happy and lucky I am to be here… To have a friend who sees me as a whole human being, not just a face or voice or body–y’know, the way the rest of the world tends to do.