Sneak You stand in front of your closet, frantically tearing articles of clothing from their hangers and laying them on your bed, your heart churning. Ba-bum ba-bum babum. A regular two-beat rhythm pulses quickly yet softly in your chest, so paradoxical that you think it might give out. You gingerly lay a burgundy button-up streaked with heathers atop a pair of khaki jeans. You look up across the room, searching for approval. Cooper walks over and pores over the selection. “You can’t wear khaki,” Cooper says after a moment of consideration, a tinge of playful revulsion in his voice. He splays across the stitched gray loveseat in the bedroom and stretches his arms behind his head and toward the ceiling, communicating his authority on the topic. “The gays hate khaki.” Oh god. A pang jolts through your stomach. You quickly hang up the khakis and double back for a pair of holey dark wash jeans. After cuffing the denim around your ankles to reveal a pair of worn Converse, you slink down the staircase of your childhood home and make your way out of the house with Cooper. The staircase is decorated with various pictures of you and your siblings, including a collection of milestones: first days of school, baptisms, and award ceremonies. You yell your I love yous to your parents, who are making baked ziti in the kitchen one room over as you escape through the front door. You make sure to keep your voice steady when you say goodbye, so as to conceal any notion of deceptions or wrongdoings soon to be committed. *** The groomed wooden door of the Victorian abode closes with a wham as Alicia runs across the lawn towards her getaway car. Her sequined romper glitters in the dim illumination of the street lamps. She opens the silver car door with a gleeful screech, hopping into the backseat.
Q* Anthology of Queer Culture 21
