So Mother,

I heard you had been seen the other day. I heard it from a young boy who I thought had fancy teeth, but who professed to being straight despite my best devices. Perhaps he really was. Mother I won't bore you with the psychiatry lesson, but I will convey that my therapist told me coming out to you repeatedly was good for my self-esteem.

But, Mother, we're losing the point, that I heard it from him, this boy, that you were standing on the sidewalk this early afternoon, and it was sunny, the sort of sunny that we like in this town, that we flock to here because this is the call that has brought us all: gay, straight, functional, blocked, to this fair city, and here it is enshrined in a particular color of sunlight.

I digress. Mother, this boy, he says he was out doing errands on his bicycle, and he had just picked up a new bottle of conditioner from Walgreen's, thinking to himself that he wished he didn't have to buy another bottle before he moved in with his girlfriend, because then they would buy one together.

Or maybe not? Because hadn't she said that she'd read some study where they proved that when you used the same beauty products you desired your partners less sexually.

He had bought the conditioner anyways, because his hair got fuzzy if he didn't, and he hoped that this was all just poppycock, and right now, certainly, they weren't having any problems sexually. They were more than fine. A way he'd never been. Satisfied.

And this satisfied boy had hopped on his bike thereafter moving back...