Free Stages by Donald Bowie

must be the fifth or sixth time I’ve come here.”
    “Try it once, you’re a philosopher,” Mike said. “Twice, you’re a pervert. Voltaire said that. Or words to that effect.” He drained his glass of Scotch and ordered another.
    “I’m not a pervert,” Melanie said. “What I am is perverse, which is not what you have to be if you want to sleep with a guy on the swim team without joining a sorority.”
    “Seeing as I’ve been drinking,” Mike said, drinking, “I’ll be frank. I’m glad you showed up.”
    Melanie shrugged.
    “Nice to know I’m welcome,” she said.
    “Really,” Mike said. “The few times we came here together, I had fun. I really did have fun. All the times I’ve been here alone, I’ve just sat or leaned against a wall, not talking to anybody. And…slowly shrinking in my own estimation, until I feel like a troll two feet tall.”
    “Self-loathing is what keeps us all coming back for more,” Melanie said cheerfully.
    “You know, I’ve known about this place since I was in high school,” Mike said. “A couple of girls I knew used to drive in here on weekends sometimes to stare at all the queers. One of them—her name was Mary Margaret—used to say, ‘Some of them are so cute. If only I could reform one of those guys.’ ’Course I could understand the way she felt. At the time I felt exactly the same way. About the guys on the hockey team.”
    “It’s a basic human instinct,” Melanie said. “To want the ones you can’t have. Anybody who wants somebody they can have is taking the chance of ruining their unhappiness.”
    “Psychology one-oh-one,” Mike said.
    “History one-oh-two,” Melanie replied. “One-oh-two is personal history.”
    “Uh-huh,” said Mike as he took another sip of Scotch. “You know, seriously, Mel, I can’t get over how it doesn’t bother you being here when you know the only guy in the joint who’s interested in you—even as a person—is me. Most women at least want to feel, well, appreciated, don’t they?”
    “Sure, plenty of women want to be pursued by the general public,” Melanie said. “Why are there actresses, and ballet dancers, why is there makeup? But in the end it’s not a crowd of admirers that counts, it’s a Valentine you got in the fourth grade from this kid and it had a little gray mouse on it with a heart under its arm, like a little paperboy delivering papers, and just because of that card you fell in love. For a long, long time.”
    “Okay, I understand,” Mike said. “I just thought you might feel awkward.”
    “What’s awkward is a fraternity party,” Melanie said. “Where they all are after you. Like a bunch of German shepherds standing on their hind legs and pawing, with beer on their breath.”
    Leering, Melanie started panting and did a dog paddle up the front of Mike’s shirt.
    “Okay, okay,” he said. “I get the idea.”
    “How come you didn’t give it a shot with Eric yourself?” Melanie said as she settled back onto her stool.
    “I don’t know,” Mike replied.
    “Were you afraid to?”
    “I suppose.”
    Melanie sighed.
    “Stand By Your Man” was playing on the jukebox.
    “At least there’s one thing I’m not alone in,” Mike said. “Being scared of rejection. You read ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’ for English, didn’t you? ‘I am not Prince Hamlet.’ It’s a neat trick, Mel, if you can play the lead role in the drama of your own life. Most of us watch ourselves, from the wings.”
    He drank some more Scotch.
    “I think David’s girlfriend watches the soaps and takes notes,” Melanie said. “Well, anyway, you win some, you lose some. The thing is to keep playing the game.”
    “I haven’t got forever to do that,” Mike replied. “Look around this place. I’d really rather not turn into one of these old queers who wear their overcoats over their shoulders like capes. And red socks. And handkerchiefs that… bloom out of their jacket pockets.”
    “There