We’re sitting at our bar and you’re moping, as usual. I thought that taking you out tonight might cheer you up, but you’re sad again. Face buried in your beer, you’re a bear of a man. A teddybear of a man, maybe.
*”Something something… no girl will want to go home with you… redacted…”* I think I hear you say. It’s okay, it’s Friday night, and maybe we can still lift your spirits.
“Robert.” I announce, grandly spinning my barstool and waving my Old Fashioned wildly. I’m not drunk, mind you, this is just me. And you know that. Which is why you groan.
“What do you want, Puck.” You groan. Whatever I’m about to say or do is going to be… extra. It’s going to be A Fucking Lot.”
“Robert, Robert, Robert… My dear sweet darling, lovely pal Robert…” You grunt and look up at me.
Slender and long legged, short auburn hair, piercing green eyes, a rakish single hoop in my ear– I am the epitome of androgyny. Queer candy and don’t I know it. We’re an unlikely duo– the cuddly giant and the silly fairy. I’ve pointed it out before– you’re straight, you don’t get it. Figures.