...“Now,” he said as their breakfasts were put before them and she stole the bacon from his plate, “what are we doing?”

“Doing turnout recon for the State Chairman. So, are you gonna tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“Who she is.”

“There is no ‘she’!”

“I know why.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re gay as a picnic hamper.”

“Oh that’s such bosh. If I recall, you and I have…”

“Gay as a summer hat. Though, not sexually.”

“Sorry?”

“Read about this in Vogue.”

“You can read?”

“I look at a lot of big pictures, but I call it reading. Think about it. You dress terminally prep. Look at the Brooks Brothers suit you have on today.”

“This old thing? Cutest outfit west of Sloane Square.”

“You see!”

“I was joking.”

“Sure sister. So you’re a clotheshorse, have short well-groomed hair, wear pastel shirts with French cuffs and get your eyebrows done. You regularly have manicures and pedicures. You have more shoes than I do…”

“Do not.”

“How many do you have?’

“A dozen, maybe sixteen, max. Not counting sneakers and deck shoes, but counting my opera pumps.”

“You have pumps?!”

“It’s an unfortunate expression. They’re just patent leather loafers with, well, with black bows.”

“Bows? On pumps? A guy wearing pumps with bows? That’s the gayest thing I have ever heard. I, on the other hand, normal for my gender, have two dozen pairs of shoes.”

“You have more.”

“I’m a twentysomething single girl. Most guys have their sneakers and one or two pairs of dress shoes.”

“How do you know this? Take a survey during…?”

“I just know.”

“I bet.”

“As we also know, I’m not most guys.”

“That’s for damn sure. I digress. You don’t watch sports, any sports…”

“Wimbledon, the Masters, the America’s Cup, the Ashes…”

“That’s only because Wimbledon is Sloanie, the Ashes is phenomenally Sloanie and The Masters and the cup are ultra-preppy. They don’t count since you watch them for style, not for sport.”

“I see, only sports with badly dressed spectators count.”

“You don’t even watch the World Series!”

“I don’t watch any sport where grown men wear capri pants.”

“You love old Broadway, early twentieth century British public schoolboy poofy poetry and bubble gum rock. You like shopping with women. Your dream date would be a threeway with Dorothy Parker and Flannery O’Connor, supported by an Edith Piaf soundtrack.”

“Naturellement. Don’t forget Debra Messing in that ménage. I’d drink her bath water.”

“The way you go on about her, how could I forget? You own a boxed set of ‘AbFab’. You live for old films. You cry over schmaltzy love stories…”

“I only snarfle.”

“We went to Love Actually together playing hooky from work, remember?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You love to dance, specifically to disco music. How do I know? I’ve seen you move in the car to ‘Heaven Must be Missing an Angel’ when you thought I wasn’t looking. You read Cosmo…”

“It’s like being back in Army Intel and reading enemy transmissions. Gotta know how the other side is thinking.”

“I vote mostly Republican…”

“Like that would be unheard of, a closeted gay Republican. You’re missing the point. I don’t think you like guys in a sexual way. I think you like spending more time with women than you do with guys. Why do you think so many of your best friends are women and you spend hours on the phone with them each week?”

“Because sharp women are funnier and smarter than most guys?” said Danny.

“Also because they relate to you as a culturally gay male. Think how very Will and Grace you and I are.”

“Cut this out.”

“If you and I ever split up over whomever…”

“There is no ‘whomever’…”

“If you’re free you should call Pete Felcher and go gay bar-hopping with him.”

“At least we wouldn’t be hitting on the same type of girls. If I’m not gay sexually then why go gay bar-hopping?”

“Because silly, cute girls like me hang out with gay guys and…”

“You do? When?”

“During the little time off you give me. Anyway, we hang out with them because they won’t paw us or think they’ll impress us by mentioning the car they drive or where they live or how much money they make.”...