Free The Death of Friends by Michael Nava Page A

drinks an entirely different person inhabited her body: a smart, sensual woman who could be bitingly shrewd and funny. Drinking with her took on an aura of romance.
    We’d meet in the bar of a second-class hotel on Geary. It was dark and deserted, with a jukebox that played Billie Holiday and Dinah Washington. The bartender was an Australian and a dead ringer for Elizabeth Taylor in a fat phase, who poured drinks with a heavy hand. In a booth upholstered in worn red leather we’d listen to old songs suffused with that warm alcoholic glow that lifted us out of the ordinary and made everything bigger and more dramatic.
    One night she insisted that I take her to a gay bar.
    “Why?” I asked warily.
    “I want to see that part of your life.”
    “It’s not that interesting.”
    “It would be to me. Please, Henry, I’ll behave.”
    “It’s not a stop on the Gray Line tour.”
    “I don’t want to gawk,” she said, offended. “I want to size up the competition.”
    “What competition?”
    “The competition for you,” she said, smiling provocatively. This was a familiar line of banter between us.
    “You’re almost a married woman,” I pointed out.
    “Almost, Henry, almost. Come on, I hear the best dancing in the city’s at gay bars.”
    “Cha-cha-cha,” I said, and we were off.
    The Hide ’n Seek was, as usual on a Saturday night, packed and smoky, musky with sweat and cologne. In the darkness, Bay grabbed for my hand and whispered, “I can hardly breathe in here.”
    “You’ll get used to it,” I said, pumping her hand reassuringly.
    I got us drinks and edged her against the wall near the dance floor where the boys moved like liquid sex to the throb of disco. A tiny blond sashayed past us, stopped, looked at Bay, touched her breast and said, “Nice drag, honey.”
    “It’s real,” I said.
    He yanked his hand back as if burned and went on his way, laughing.
    “Was he making a pass at me?” Bay asked.
    I explained drag to her.
    “He thought I was a boy?” she giggled. She looked around the room. “I wish I was a boy tonight. These guys are gorgeous.”
    “Looks aren’t everything,” I told her.
    “No? What do you want in a man?”
    “Don’t be a bitch.”
    “I’m serious,” she said. “You never talk about your boyfriends. What are they like?”
    “I don’t have one,” I said.
    “But if you did, what would he be like?”
    Like Chris, I thought. “Oh, Bay, I don’t know. I’m just looking for that certain special anyone. Let’s dance.”
    I dragged her out to the dance floor, where we wedged ourselves among the dancing boys. She was as snaky-hipped as they were. I watched her move, studied her body, tested myself for responsiveness. But it was the boy in the tight black jeans behind her who raced my pulse.
    “What are you thinking?” she shouted over the music.
    “Not thinking,” I said. “Dancing.”
    She pressed against me, her breasts soft on my chest, her hair swishing against my cheek and said, “Don’t I turn you on, just a little?”
    “I’d have to be dead if you didn’t,” I replied.
    She smirked. “Liar. My tits terrify you.”
    “Yeah, they’re pretty scary,” I agreed.
    And we both laughed.
    At last call we were sitting on empty beer boxes against the wall, watching the boys frantically pick each other up.
    Out of nowhere, Bay asked, “Did Chris ever cheat on me?”
    “Why are you asking?” I replied, neutrally. “Do you think he did?”
    “No, not Chris,” she said. “Maybe I want him to. Maybe I want him to fall in love with someone else. Maybe I don’t want to get married.”
    “No? Why not? Don’t you love him?”
    “He’s just so safe,” she said. “I want an adventure.”
    “Who’s stopping you?”
    “The only time I feel free is when I’m with you,” she said, leaning against me. “Are you sure you don’t want to sleep with me?”
    I put my arm around her and marveled, in my twenty-three-year-old way, at the irony of the