Majorca Flats -- 208

 “Hey … don't … it's OK … here's my hankie …. it's clean … c'mon … cry all you want ...” and Jason took her into his arms and hugged her close, his face comically bewildered as he looked over Esmé's head at Keith.

Keith got up and also put his arms round her. “What is it, love?”

Love? Jason put that away for later thought.

“I'm just a fag hag. I'll never meet a straight bloke.”

Jason didn't know what a fag hag was.

But Keith did. “That's a hateful word, Ezzaloona. Don't use it, for fuck's sake! Ya're fuckin' not a hag. Ya're beaut. Ya fuckin' are.”

“Whatever!” said Esmé, but she appeared comforted. “But all the same, here I am spending my spare time you bunch of queers, instead of vamping up some boyfriend.”

“Ya'll find someone, Ezz. Ya're so beaut and clever and witty. Any straight guy would be mad not to fall hell over heels in love with ya.”

“Yeah, but how'm I goin' to find a man if I only ever hang out with you lot?”

“What about the men who come into this café? Surely there are some decent straight guys among them?”

“Yeah. Till you see they've taken their wedding ring off for their night out. Or they think foreplay is the same as watching the footy. Or they don't return your phone calls.”

“Well, gays do that too,” said Keith.

“Men are bastards.”

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