Here’s one I made earlier…

Back at the flyingscribbler hangar for 24 hours, I remember promising a Toronto inspired story. There is one fermenting, but this tired and dehydrated steward just can’t get the words out in the time available. I have to sleep after all. But fear not, i am flying back to Toronto in the morning, (yes, they really do make us work for our money, and you thought it was a simple doss. Believe me, it does not feel like a doss at 3.30am, cleaning vomit from a toilet wash basin), so the story can linger a while longer. Until Tuesday.

However, fearing to upset my readers,(and having found the blog stat function I find that I do have readers, what a thrill), I happen to have a flash up my sleeve. I wrote it after watching Torch Song Trilogy again after, oh so many years. Is Harvey Fierstein a saint yet? What? He’s not? Shocking. I hope you like it. It made me titter anyway.

BED AND BREAKFAST

‘Well,’ announced Derek entering the kitchen and laying his hang-over eyes on the drag queen sitting at the table, ‘that explains the sequins in the bathroom.’

‘I’m sorry honey, this dress is dropping glitter faster than a salmon shedding scales on a fishmonger’s slab. I’ll clean them up in a minute.’

‘It’s not a problem. That coffee hot?’

‘Just made it. I hope you don’t mind. I didn’t pry or anything; I was only looking for the coffee.’

Derek yawned, waving away any infringement of his privacy. He reached for a cup, squinting through the head pounding created by the effort. Breathing to stabilize, he poured the coffee and sat down.

Silence.

Derek’s mouth hesitated with a question and gave up.

‘Don’t worry sweetie, I was the perfect gentleman.’

Derek could feel the rush of shamed blood drowning his face.

‘That was your question, wasn’t it? It usually is. How did we meet? Did we do it? Was it good?’

Sipping coffee, Derek peered through his guest’s lashes.

‘If you’re interested, the answers are: At my club. No. Does not apply.’

Derek lowered his eyes, bashful.

‘I don’t usually, you know…’

‘Seduce female impersonators?’

Derek nodded.

‘That makes me feel like an ethnic minority.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Would it matter if I was?’

Shake of the head.

‘Does this make a difference?’

Derek watched his guest flare his nails and drum roll the table.

‘No. It doesn’t.’

‘Good. I’m Crystal DeCanter, by the way. But you can call me Peter.’

copyright: flyingscribbler 2010.

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