LatinosUSA

Standing at the water cooler, Stan, a 30-something actuary, turned to Amy, a co-worker about his age.

“I think I’d like to get to know you, Amy,” Stan told his colleague of long standing.

Amy pulled her chin back an inch and regarded the man with a puzzled look. “Stan, we’ve known each other for more than five years. You broke me in,” she reminded him.

“What I mean,” explained Stan, “is that I want to get closer to you.” When she still didn’t get it, he said, “I want us to be lovers, Amy.”

She blinked at him for a moment, then replied. “Well, fine, Stan, only you’ll have to clear it with my girlfriend first.”

Stan’s eyes opened wide. ‘You mean…you mean, you’re…” he spluttered.

Amy permitted herself a tiny smile. “That’s right, I do the dirty with another chick.” Now she laughed lightly.

“I’m sorry, Amy,” Stan said hastily. “I had no idea. I mean, I thought you were normal.”

Now Amy narrowed her eyes at her friend. “Normal?” she repeated. “You mean, as in not twisted or freakish or disfigured?” She wasn’t smiling now.

“That’s not what I said,” he protested.

“But it’s what you meant, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

“You must think me an awful shit,” muttered Stan contritely, scuffing the carpet with the toe of his shoe. “It just surprised me, is all.”

“Not at all,” she said. “You can’t always tell a person’s sexuality or gender identity by just looking at them, Stan. I mean, I’m a lesbian, but I don’t wear it on my sleeve. I don’t always come to work dressed in rainbows. Frankly, it’s nobody’s business, other than my lover and me. I don’t hold it against you, Stan. We’re still friends,” she assured him, punching him in the shoulder playfully.

As they sipped their paper cups of water, Stan remarked matter-of-factly, “You know, you’re right, Amy, you can’t always tell about a person, sexually, I mean. For example, you couldn’t possibly know that I’m actually bi- and I was only trying to make you so that our coworkers wouldn’t suspect.”

Amy stared at him, speechless.

Stan went on, “George and some of the guys said that you were hot and we put together a pool. The first one to score with you would win the pot — $500. Screwing you,” he said, “would serve the dual purpose of having the guys think I wasn’t queer, while at the same time giving me some extra bucks. I need a new set of tires,” he explained.

Amy crumpled up her paper cup, held it over the waste can, and let it fall. “I was wrong about you, Stan,” she told him. “You really are a shit!”

Previously published in “Children, Churches and Daddies”