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: : : FLETCHER AND CLARK SIT NEAR the jukebox. Johnny Cash is on. Nobody knows, nobody sees. Nobody knows but me. Fletcher is in the middle of half-shouting something.
—She took it pretty well, I guess, he says. —I mean, I think she was kind of shocked at first, but— He shrugs.
—And your dad? asks Clark.
—My dad, says Fletcher, and he smirks. —My dad's not the problem. Ultimately he's going to defer to whatever my mom thinks. If I was to try to tell you what he really thinks, I'd say that he probably thinks I'm crazy, to take on the responsibility of parenting some kid who's not even mine, but he's not going to say that.
—Do you think you are?
—Do I think I am what?
—Crazy. To be doing what you're doing.
—Ah, Fletcher says. He takes a sip of beer and holds it there in his mouth for a second. Clark watches him squint. It's as though he is trying to make out the details on something far off.
He swallows. —No, he says. Then he tilts his head from side to side, weighing his answer. —Sometimes, he says. —It definitely—it definitely has its weird moments.
His face clouds for a minute, then clears.
—But anyway, he says, —we've planned out a time to get together with my folks, to make up for the missed holiday dinner, and we're bringing Leander, and, yeah, we'll see how it goes.
—Good luck with that, says Clark.
—Thanks, Fletcher says. The jukebox starts playing the Rolling Stones, "Under My Thumb." Clark makes a face.
—So how are things with you? Fletcher asks.
—They're good, says Clark. —I guess. I've been spending a lot of time with this guy Oliver lately.
—You've talked about him before, Fletcher says. —He's that guy who volunteers at the activist center with you?
—Yeah, that guy. We've sort of fallen into a routine now where we go out after working there and we grab a few beers—ugh. She drops her face into her hands. —By a few here I mean like ten. This guy drinks a lot.
—You've been known to put it away sometimes, Fletcher says.
—Yeah, Clark says. —When I was like nineteen. I mean, seriously, it's like back to those kinds of levels for me. Going in to work all hungover and shit.
—Really? says Fletcher. A look of concern crosses his face. Just for a second.
—It's not like I can't do my job with a hangover, Clark says. —Fuck, I could probably do my job drunk. She turns her bottle upside-down, by way of demonstration somehow. Only a single drip falls out.
Fletcher goes to get them another round.
He returns, sets her beer down in front of her, takes his seat. —So didn't—he says. He adjusts his position, settles in, starts over. —I remember you told me a while back something about this guy wants to get married to you?
—I don't know, Clark says. —I mean, yeah, he said that, but it was kind of like a joke, you know? It was just one of those things that people say.
—Right, sure, Fletcher says. —Cause I know that I'm saying that like all the time. In fact I just asked the bartender. Hey! Want to get married?
—You know what I mean, says Clark. —People say shit like that. Only then he kind of, like, ran with it? It's become a kind of in-joke, I guess? We're always talking about well, when we're married things will be like this, or they'll be like that.
—Like what kind of stuff?
—You know, Clark says. —Like—she sighs—like, I don't know, like when we're married we'll go to all these rallies together, and we'll be known as like this activist couple—
—Very romantic, Fletcher says.
—Fuck you, Clark says.
—So, would you consider it? I mean, do you like this guy?
—I don't know, says Clark. She drops her face into her hands again.
—And how does this affect your whole asexual thing?
—I don't know, says Clark, into her palms. She holds her face for a long time before she looks up again.
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