I smirk and type back:Gayyyyyyyyyy
Zeke is so sensitive he’ll overthink that, so I add:I missed you too, you big wanker.
Zeke likes the message. A knotted rope in my chest undoes itself. We’re gonna be okay. We can hang out next Friday at the Tool Shed and things will be good again.
I’ve been lonely without him.
There’s a squawk of commotion from the hens, who have settled at the table beside us. One calls out, ‘Is that really him? No way!’
The woo girl goes, ‘Oi! Xander! Can we get a selfie?!’
Everyone in the beer garden peers in the same direction, because a genuinely famous person has entered the bar.
Xander Sullivan, our sequin-studded Perthonality, has graced us mere mortals with his presence. Tonight, he’s wearing a tight black T-shirt with rainbow words saying,SAME SAME – BUT DIFFERENT?He’s got a Progress Pride flag badge pinned to his chest and a dangly gold earring. His fake tan is darker than a bronze statue and his teeth are whiter than an igloo.
He pauses beside the hens’ night, flaps his hands around his face to pretend to be bashful about being recognised in public, then poses with them.
‘Woo!’ the woo girl woos, and the rest of the hens woo with her.
I hope they all get laryngitis. Tenille, the inked-up dyke sipping a whiskey on the rocks, looks like she’s ready to suplex them over the fence, Rhea Ripley style. I’d pay to see that.
Unexpectedly, once he’s done with the selfie, Xander makes a beeline for our table. ‘Bray Bray! Happy birthday, honey buns!’
Brayden’s face lights up. ‘Oh, you did come! Thank you, doll!’
They kiss the general air around each other’s jaws.
‘Just stopping in, like I said, busy busy, showbiz life, ya know,’ Xander says, pretending to touch up hair that doesn’t exist: his is cropped short to his head. ‘Having a good night?’ He peers at the dozen of us gawking at him. ‘Oh, hi, Brayden’s friends!’
Brayden quickly facilitates the introductions. To his credit, Xander takes the time to repeat each person’s name and shake their hand as if he’s ever going to speak to any of us again, which is a nice gesture, I suppose. I can’t decide if it’s genuinely polite to make the effort to meet all of us, or deeply entitled to rock up to someone else’s birthday party and make yourself the main character. I go with the latter, because I don’t like the guy.
Like him or not, there’s something star-strikey about shakinghands with a famous guy and knowing he’s momentarily looking at you. My handshake is firm; his is loose and indifferent.
‘Charlie,’ Xander repeats. ‘I had a little fluffy Pomeranian named Charlie once! He died, though.’
‘Oh,’ I say. How the hell am I meant to reply to that? ‘I’m – sorry?’
Xander bows his head and makes the namaste hands at me. ‘Bless you,’ he says. Gandhi with glitter.
Before he moves on, I add, ‘Hey, I work at that new bar, the Tool Shed. I think you know my boss, Curtis?’
Xander’s eyes flash with recognition. ‘Oh, yes!’ he says. ‘He’s sorted an invite to your opening! I’ll make a little appearance if I can. So important to support new LGBTQIA+ venues in our community!’
He presses two fingers to the Progress Pride flag pin on his shirt, the way the nuns at my high school used to touch their crucifixes.
I’ll make a little appearance, my arse. He straight-up begged for an invite.
‘That’s good of you, dude – thanks,’ I say.
The interaction should end there, but then something heinous comes out of my gob.
‘Hey, would it be okay if I got a selfie with you?’ a Charlie-like voice asks Xander. ‘You’ve done such huge things as a Perth gay dude. I hope to make an impact like that with my music one day. You kinda inspire me, man.’
I am horrified. I am sure what I just said isn’t true, yet my craving to get some rapport with him made me say it, so there must be a kernel of reality buried in there.
I’m even more disgusted when Xander beams at me with approval.
‘I would love that, yaaaassss!’ he gushes, posing beside me while I snap a selfie of the two of us together. ‘I’ll see you next Friday at the Tool Shed, Pomeranian Charlie!’
