Café Pierre looked like an old country cottage, with French doors that opened onto the sidewalk. Jayson walked toward it, telling himself to continue past if he felt uncomfortable. He had assumed the bar would be clandestine, like speakeasies he’d seen in movies. He never suspected that it would be quaint, or so public.

He’d only learned of the place a few days ago. Friends had made snide comments. None of them knew about him, of course. No one did. He’d never said anything to anyone.

Jayson had been told that those “afflicted” were sinful, depraved, and dangerous, and while he didn’t think of himself like that, he understood that others would. He had no one to confide in, and no role models to consult. His parents referred to such people as abominations.

Standing in the doorway, he peered into the bar’s dimness. A heavy-set man wearing a straw boater played the piano. A hurricane lamp glowed on the piano’s closed lid, its soft light complementing what seemed a relaxed atmosphere. When Jayson stepped forward to get a better look inside, an elderly, hollow-cheeked waiter greeted him, and with the sweep of a bony brown hand, invited him to sit wherever he wished. Jayson threaded a path to the other side of the room, as far from the open doors as possible.

He fixed his gaze on the gas fireplace that flickered nearby and the liquor bottles behind the bar, glinting like Christmas ornaments. He understood that simply being there had momentous consequences, although exactly what they were remained a mystery.

A different waiter, this one dressed in a white jacket and bowtie, approached his table. “What may I get you?”

Jayson glanced at a hand-lettered chalkboard touting several cocktails as specialties of the house. “I’ll have one of your Coco Locos, please.” He liked the name.

“Just to let you know, there’s a cover charge. It includes a second drink.”

“Do I order both now?”

The waiter chuckled. “No. You can wait.” He set a few cocktail napkins on the table before turning toward the bar.

Though tempted to ask how much the cover charge would be, Jayson knew it wouldn’t matter. He would stay, regardless. He took a few deep breaths and blotted the rivulets of perspiration rolling down his sideburns with one of the napkins. When the waiter returned with an oversized ceramic coconut shell adorned with a pineapple slice, a cherry, and mint sprigs, Jayson laughed, embarrassed by its appearance. “It’s more potent than it looks,” the waiter said with a smile.

Jayson tapped his fingers to the spirited piano music. The piece sounded familiar, jazzy, fun! The type of tune with witty rhyming lyrics. He listened while pulling swallows of the frothy cocktail through its colorful straw, the taste sweet, like a coconut cream pie.

As he sipped, he wondered how a romantic encounter gets initiated here. Would someone approach and offer to buy him a drink? He couldn’t imagine being bold enough to take such an initiative, worried that it could get him punched in the nose. He had a crush on a guy who lived in his neighborhood—dark hair, sapphire-blue eyes—but could barely speak in his presence.

The waiter slowed the next time he walked by. “Ready for that second one?” he asked. Jayson nodded. “The same?” Jayson smiled in reply. He felt a lessening of tension in his neck and back, along with something akin to mild sleepiness, the sensation quite pleasant.

When the second drink arrived, Jayson told himself to go slow, but the sultry evening air and nervousness defeated that. Curiosity got the better of him, too; he looked around, surveying the other customers. Everyone seemed rather sedate. He saw no cross-table talk, so when a good-looking fellow at the table next to his leaned over and said, “He’s great, isn’t he?” Jayson was taken by surprise.

“Who is?” Jayson asked, his heart beating faster.

“Milo, the man on the piano.”

“Oh, yes. He’s good.”

“Good? He’s one of the best.”

At that moment, the waiter returned and set a glass of water in front of Jayson. “Thought you might want some of this.” He gave Jayson a cautionary look.

Ignoring the waiter’s suggestion, and concerned that the intrusion might derail his conversation, he turned toward the man beside him and said, “Guess you’ve been here before.”

“I always try to come when Milo plays. It’s not often you get to hear someone so accomplished. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

Jayson took a swig of his cocktail. He felt lightheaded. “And to meet someone.” He couldn’t believe that he’d just said aloud what he’d been thinking all night.

The man smiled and turned his attention to his straight-up martini.

Jayson extended his hand. “I’m Jayson.”

“Hi, Jayson. I’m Bill. So, who are you here to meet?”

Jayson took another swallow of his Coco Loco. “How about you?” He thought his response clever.

“My wife,” the guy said. “She’ll be walking in any minute.”

“Your wife? You’re married?”

The fellow retrieved the olive from his martini and ate it. “Six years now.”

The alcohol had overwhelmed Jayson’s restraint. “And she doesn’t mind going to a gay bar?”

The man’s eyes widened. “A gay bar?” He shook his head. “You’re thinking of Café Pierre in Exile. This is Café Pierre. That bar is a couple blocks further down the street.”

Jayson’s face grew flush. He nodded, settled back in his chair, and listened to the pianist sing Gershwin’s “They Can’t Take That Away from Me.” Instead of requesting the check on the waiter’s next pass, he asked for a ginger ale. This evening, he decided, had been a dress rehearsal. He might not be going to that other bar tonight, but he would someday soon. Maybe even tomorrow.