1 If I were straight, or if I lived in one of a handful of cities-- really, a handful of neighborhoods--it could happen at a coffee shop. Failing that, it could happen at work. It wouldn't be a "meet cute." I'm too uptight for that. But a hello, a recognition that we were connecting in a space of romantic possibility, rather than the usual space between men who don't know each other, which is more about measuring distance, maintaining boundaries. Sometimes people just start talking to strangers. That's how it would happen. He starts talking to me. Complaining. Maybe about the weather because it's early February in the Midwest. Let's say we're in line at the post office, and he says, "Line's long but at least it's warm in here," clapping his gloved hands together, a padded envelope between them. He shows a little bit of tooth, a smile under his beard. Then I'd have to say something, and I'd want to say something because he's got a kind, wide face. A little grizzled, wrinkled around the eyes, but bright eyes. I'd want to continue the conversation. But I wouldn't be able to think of anything fast enough, and the moment would pass. No, not this time. That's the second thing that's different. Not only are we free from the assumption that we're both straight, but the moment doesn't pass. He puts out his hand and says his first name: maybe it's Sandro or Chris or Jake. I say my name, shake his hand, and ask how he's holding up with the snow. I mention that I heard on the news they're up to eight feet total accumulation this winter in cmh. (The airport code for Columbus. He'd be local; he'd recognize it.) And he says that must be why his back has been sore for the last week, shoveling that much. "That shit weighs a ton." And I say that it's my left rotator cuff, that I fucked it up with decades of bad form at the gym, and I really feel it shoveling. The line dwindles as we talk, and soon he's at the front. He nods at me, then goes up to the counter. While I'm waiting--at the head of the line now--I scribble my phone number on a Priority Mail label and step up to leave it beside him as he watches the clerk weigh his envelope. "Hey," I say as I place the square of paper, "say hello sometime." The Castro. ptown. Parts of New York City. Neighborhoods where that kind of interaction would be possible. They are as foreign to me as if they existed in some other epoch: a Roaring Twenties, a Summer of Love. I don't live in those neighborhoods, and those neighborhoods don't live in me. Excerpted from The Spring Before Obergefell: A Novel by Ben Grossberg All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
