Free Men and Dogs by Katie Crouch Page A

then a good-sized Craftsman off Hampton Park is just the ticket.
    Though she’d never been here before, Hannah enters Palmer’s house without knocking. The house smells like warm bread, and Billie Holiday is crooning “Moonlight in Vermont” over the tastefully hidden speakers. They are of excellent quality; Hannah can actually hear the remnants of Billie’s last cigarette.
    She’s always envious when she enters the houses of gay men. Perhaps it’s the unbridled self-indulgence; the gleeful spending of tens of thousands on oversize Jacuzzi tubs, flat-screen televisions, teak decks fitted with wet bars. Or maybe it’s the total lack of concern as to future developments. Gone is the half-decorated room held back from its full potential because it may—listen for the quiver of hope—“one day” be a nursery; absent is the basement-converted-to-in-law-apartment because a nanny or night nurse might have to move in. Nor does one tend to see taste clashes so often compromising shared heterosexual homes. No mountain bikes leaning on chintz Pottery Barn sofas, no framed photos of golf courses hanging above beds draped with floral sheets.
    The theme in Palmer’s house? Functional yet Fantastic and Fun. The walls of the living room are dove gray, and the sectional sofa is beige with nice clean lines, but then the room is saved from predictability by a cluster of orange silk-and-felt pillows,
which match the very well-done painting of a rubber duck above the fireplace. The steel dining table is taunted by a vintage chandelier. The austere, requisite flat-screen television on the wall is framed by thin inset aquariums holding live saltwater fish.
    Hannah ventures farther into the house.
    “. . . can’t you just talk to me about it? Instead of stewing in your famous fucking silence?”
    A fight. Normally, she’d eavesdrop, but she’s had it with battles for the moment.
    “Hello?”
    A small tan dog suddenly scuttles out of the kitchen to investigate her trespassing. It makes barking motions, but nothing comes out.
    “Shit!” Tom runs out still wearing oven mitts and plants a kiss on both of her cheeks. Palmer’s latest lover—has it been nine months? ten?—is truly the cutest boy-man she’s ever known. About five seven, bright-blue eyes, yoga body, a sculpted little nose, all topped off by the most endearing mop of blond hair.
    “You can’t just barge in without ringing the bell! You’ve never been here before—you need a tour! ”
    “It’s my brother’s house,” she says, poking at his perfect abs. “I’m supposed to barge in. What’s wrong with your dog?”
    “Rumpus has no voice box,” Tom says. Upon hearing her name, Rumpus shakes with glee and rolls over, head cocked to the side.
Tom takes his gloves off and fluffs his own hair. His right hand lingers on his temple as he looks Hannah over.
    “Ew,” he says. “Your head.”
    “I know. But I’m not talking about it without a drink.”
    Tom nods. He is the best kind of man: gossipy, kind, good at making cocktails. They got to know each other when the “boys”
(DeWitt’s label) visited San Francisco for the Folsom Street Fair. If he weren’t always quoting from The Power of Now, he’d be real friend material.
    “Come on.”
    She follows him into the slate-blue kitchen and glances around. Look at the huge blown-up photographs of vegetables arranged to look like sexual organs! And those little lights hanging from the ceiling that make everyone look as if they’ve just had a facial!
    “Do you love the house?” Tom asks eagerly.
    “Love it, love it, love it.”
    Her brother is seated at the kitchen island, with the newspaper in front of him and a glass of wine. Not for the first time,
Hannah is struck by her brother’s looks. It’s eerie how much Palmer resembles Buzz. If she squints—
    They greet. He folds the paper and puts it aside. Hugs, how are you, you look good, you, too. Palmer is the type to edit before he speaks, but his eyes are