But look. My queerness is like my cowboyness. It’s just there. I don’t need to always wear my boots to have been born in Tombstone.

So many people I love hold their queerness central to their identities, and I get it, I love it. Be visible and unapologetic and let motherfuckers get cut just looking.

But   do   I   get   to    call  myself queer?    I   mean    I’m     partner       to  
{ a person who also questions the assumptions     of      being      called      }
a woman, we have kids. I’m a youngfather. I pass. I get a pass. I rarely get called out on the street. Most of the men I’ve loved were beyond my reach. So just who do I think I am? There’s so many lines in the sand.

I don’t know what to tell you, other than I want to buy that man a beer.

Ask how come he got his picture in the paper. We’ll talk about the land. About saguaros because why not? We won’t face each other because then we might have to fight. Instead we’ll gaze into the hazy mirror behind the bar, glances bouncing between the ornate liquor bottles, the giant odalisque hanging over us. The jukebox will play the right songs at the right times without us having to touch it. The place will be mostly empty. Late late afternoon.

We’ll head outside for a smoke, bring our beers out with us. End up climbing to the ridge of a tailings pile to get a better look at the world.

The sun will sink, and our fingers will wind like barbed wire. Fuck the maps. It’s 1983 in a ghost town, and we’re about to be born.