The one (worked-out) (STEM) (Brazilian) who I know through people invited me to come along to a party some other (older) (Brazilians) were throwing for a visiting scholar, so I met him at his place, and right away when he saw me, he picked a little bit of citrus-cell out of my hair, from my squeezing out lemons and limes into my left hand and rubbing it into my hair like I always do for highlights on most days, only I must have accidentally not combed that bit out that morning when I had done it.
“Shared location with [his dead partner’s name],” he suddenly said in the Uber, pursing his lips and gloomily looking down at the app, and then not saying anything more at all.
The (vivacious) and (warm) (Brazilian) wife of the couple who hosted the party had someone bring over a karaoke machine and we all did that at the end of the night, too, and my selection of “Mandy” was very popular, with everyone who was like over forty singing along, loudly, including all of the (Brazilians) there.
Only, the (worked-out) (STEM) (Brazilian) had never heard it – he’s like thirty – and so I had to explain to him who Barry Manilow is, including how he got his start playing piano in gay bathhouses for Bette Midler.
And, he thought that singing at bathhouses was just the greatest thing ever.
“I want to do that,” he was like.
(He sings and runs a samba band in his spare time.)
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