Who Can It Be Now?

The basement thrums with Stevie Ray Vaughan's "Pride and Joy" bleeding through speakers that Miguel finally replaced last month, guitar licks sharp enough to cut glass, and I'm nursing what tastes like a particularly aggressive Maker's Mark that burns all the way down like liquid regret. Miguel sets it in front of me without asking, wedding ring catching light as his hands work, and the amber liquid swirls with notes of caramel and charred oak, something almost sweet underneath the fire that makes my throat constrict in ways that have nothing to do with alcohol content.

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I take my normal perch, my seat, and take a deep sigh.

Keira sits to my left, book open but eyes tracking the room with predator awareness that comes from living with someone who attracts chaos like lightning rods attract electricity. She doesn't touch me—never does in public—but her presence anchors like bedrock beneath earthquake conditions. Mary occupies the other side, wine glass catching light, saying nothing because sometimes the best support involves witnessed silence rather than commentary.

The triangle's been forming for weeks now. Renee in her corner by the pool table, biceps straining against tank top older than most of the younger patrons, chalk dust coating fingers that grip cue stick like it's the only solid thing in universe suddenly unstable. Sarah across the room in her usual spot, flannel pressed to military precision, boots making authoritative statements against concrete every time she shifts weight, stoic expression cracking around edges when she thinks nobody's watching. And Erin between them—literally, physically between them tonight—laughing at something Ezra says while their blue hair catches light like electric warning signal neither predator seems capable of heeding.

Mom, Ezra stage-whispers, leaning against bar next to me, this is gonna get messy, isn't it?

Messier than Della's kitchen after brunch rush, I mutter, watching Renee's jaw tightening when Sarah moves closer to Erin's table. Question is whether we intervene or let them detonate.

Let them blow, Della announces, emerging from kitchen with plates of blackened catfish that smell like heaven tastes like defiance. Some lessons you gotta learn by touching the fucking stove yourself.

The Police's "Every Breath You Take" transitions into Heart's "Barracuda," and the irony isn't lost on anyone. Brandon sits at corner table, notebook open, gin and tonic sweating in his grip, and I can see him cataloging every micro-expression, every territorial shift, probably already composing essay about queer romantic competition that'll get published while my stories collect rejections.

River arrives in forest green scrubs, twelve-hour shift written across face in exhaustion lines, and immediately gravitates toward Phoenix who's curled in beanbag throne with Grubby sitting nearby like silent sentinel. The ruby ring catches light when Phoenix gestures, talking about something that makes River smile despite obvious fatigue.

How long you give it before detonation? Bubba's voice rumbles from his position by window, massive frame casting shadows that feel protective rather than threatening.

Twenty minutes, Remy supplies, cigarette dangling from lips, French-thick accent wrapping around prediction like it's already historical fact. Mon Dieu, the energy in here could power New Orleans through Mardi Gras, cher.

Miguel refills my glass without asking, and this batch tastes different—richer, deeper, something that's been aging in barrels rather than plastic bottles. This one's special. Figured you'd need it.

The music shifts to Genesis's "Land of Confusion," and Phil Collins's voice cuts through mounting tension with prophetic accuracy about the state of things when people stop communicating and start performing.

Erin stands, heading toward bathroom, and both Renee and Sarah move simultaneously. It's Renee who reaches her first, hand on Erin's shoulder, words too low to hear but body language screaming possession. Sarah approaches from other angle, flannel-clad authority meeting muscle-bound determination in collision course that makes entire bar hold collective breath.

I'm not a piece of meat, Erin shouts with strength, that cuts through suddenly, loud enough to penetrate music, sharp enough to silence nearby conversations. I'm a person. An actual fucking person with thoughts and feelings and agency.

Nobody said you weren't, Renee starts, but voice lacks conviction, biceps flexing involuntarily like her body's preparing for fight her brain hasn't authorized yet.

You don't have to say it, Sarah interjects, boots planted wide, stoic expression cracking into something rawer. You are circling like she's prey instead of a human being making her own choices.

Rich coming from you, Renee snaps, turning attention from Erin to Sarah with velocity that makes air crackle. You've been doing the same intellectual bullshit peacocking routine for weeks, acting like your philosophical bullshit makes you more evolved than my honesty.

The bar's gone quiet except for Def Leppard's "Photograph" bleeding through speakers, and I catch myself tearing up because Gizmo and I used to belt this one during Saturday morning grocery runs, her voice hitting notes that made angels weep, back when world was simpler and my daughter still spoke to me.

Keira's hand doesn't touch mine, but I feel her presence shift incrementally closer, silent acknowledgment of pain without making spectacle of comfort.

Your honesty? Sarah's voice pitches higher, control cracking like ice under pressure. You mean your habit of treating every woman like conquest instead of connection? Your pattern of collecting admirers while complaining you can't find happiness?

Fuck you, Renee snarls, moving into Sarah's space with predator grace that comes from years of bodybuilding discipline and dive bar brawls. At least I'm honest about wanting someone. You hide behind your philosophical superiority complex while being too scared to actually feel anything real.

I SAID I'M NOT A PIECE OF MEAT! Erin's voice explodes, tears streaming down face that's gone blotchy with fury and frustration. You're both standing here arguing about who deserves me like I'm trophy instead of person! Like I don't get a say in this fucked-up competition I never signed up for!

Della's moved to edge of kitchen, spatula in hand like weapon, ready to intervene if this crosses from verbal to physical. Miguel's positioned himself strategically behind bar, wedding ring catching light as hands rest on wood that's seen decades of drama but maybe nothing quite this volatile.

This is better than cable, Brandon mutters, scribbling furiously, and I shoot him look that could peel paint.

Shush Honey. Let it play, I soothe quietly.

It kind of is though, he protests, but quieter, reading room finally. I mean, it's a classic love triangle catfight scenario—

CATFIGHT? Three voices explode simultaneously—Erin, Renee, and Sarah all turning on Brandon with unified fury that would be impressive if it wasn't terrifying.

Marcus shifts uncomfortably, wedding ring spinning around finger like rosary beads, probably grateful for once that his bisexual invisibility means staying outside drama's blast radius. Dani arranges crystals on nearby table with increased intensity, trying to manifest peaceful resolution through mineral energy and wishful thinking.

You wanna see a catfight? Renee advances on Brandon, and Bubba rises from chair with mountain-shifting inevitability.

Easy, cher, Remy intercedes, stepping between them with Louisiana grace that disguises how dangerous he can be when chosen family's threatened. Save the violence for people who deserve it.Your heart remember?

The distraction gives Sarah moment to grab Renee's arm, pulling her back, and suddenly they're facing each other instead of their mutual irritant. The music shifts to Queen's "Somebody to Love," and my throat constricts because this was Gizmo's favorite, the one she'd sing with such conviction that strangers in parking lots would stop to listen.

Let go of me, Renee says, but there's less heat in it, something breaking underneath muscle and bravado.

Fuck You, Renee, Sarah responds simply, stoic expression cracking completely into something vulnerable and raw. Because if I let go, you're gonna do something stupid, and I'm tired of watching you self-destruct.

Why do you care? Renee's voice cracks, tears streaming down face that's spent forty-something years being admired for strength while heart remained unseen. Why does it matter to you what I do?

The bar holds breath collectively, even the music seeming to lower in deference to moment unfolding.

Because I see you, Sarah says quietly, boots planted wide but stance somehow softer. Not the muscles, not the conquests, not the performance. I see the person underneath who's terrified that being soft means being weak, who mistakes intensity for intimacy because you've spent so long being valued for your body that you forgot you have a fucking soul worth knowing.

Renee's face crumples, forty-plus years of armor disintegrating in seconds, and she's pushing into Sarah's space—not aggressively now but desperately, like Sarah's the only solid thing in suddenly liquid universe. They collide in embrace that looks more like surrender than victory, Renee's frame shaking with sobs while Sarah's arms wrap around her with strength that comes from something deeper than physical training.

I'm sorry, Renee chokes out, words muffled against Sarah's shoulder. I'm so fucking sorry. You're right. I keep chasing conquests because relationships require being vulnerable, and I don't know how to do that without falling apart.

Then fall apart, Sarah murmurs, and her stoic facade's completely shattered now, tears streaming down face while she holds someone who's been fighting gravity for decades. Fall apart and let people help put you back together. That's what friends do.

Erin stands apart, body language shifted from fury to something softer—understanding maybe, or relief that she's no longer the object being fought over but witness to something more profound than romantic competition.

The music transitions to Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here," and I'm full-on crying now because Gizmo and I used to sing this one on long drives, her voice carrying harmonies that made my chest ache with pride and love, back when she still looked at me like I hung moon instead of destroyed her trust.

Keira's presence shifts infinitesimally closer, not touching but there, solid and constant as gravity itself.

I need to tell you something, Sarah says eventually, pulling back from embrace but keeping hands on Renee's shoulders like she's afraid letting go means losing connection completely. I haven't been competing for Erin. Not really. I thought I was, convinced myself I was, but that's not what's actually been happening.

What do you mean? Renee wipes her face with back of her hand, leaving streak of chalk dust mixing with tears.

There's someone else, Sarah admits, voice carrying weight of confession that costs something to speak aloud. Someone I've been guarded about even acknowledging to myself because the last time I let someone in, the damage was... extensive. Someone you all know. Someone with depth I haven't even begun to explore, who challenges everything I think I know about life, universe, and everything.

The bar erupts in speculation—who, when, how did we miss this—but Sarah holds up hand for silence, stoic authority reasserting itself enough to command attention.

I'm not telling you who, she says firmly. Because that's between me and them, and I need to figure out if what I'm feeling is real before making it public spectacle. But I needed you to know, Renee, that my protectiveness of you wasn't about competing for same prize.

She pauses, jaw working like she's choosing words with surgical precision, boots planted wide in stance that suggests she's bracing against something.

Maybe I needed someone to understand what it feels like when someone—even unintentionally—makes you believe safety's possible and then reminds you how fragile that belief actually is. Maybe that is why I fawned. I've been guarded with my emotions for fear of letting someone have the power to hurt me again. But despite my stoicism...I've fallen for someone else entirely. And I’m dealing with it.

Keira's book lowers completely now, and when I glance sideways her expression carries something I can't quite name—recognition maybe, or careful consideration, like she's solving an equation I don't even know exists yet.

Fuck, Renee laughs wetly, sound mixing tears with something approaching genuine amusement. You know what the really fucked up thing is? I think I've been fighting my own gray-sexuality this whole time. Getting another piece of tail that won't last, that never lasts, because relationships require emotional intimacy and I'm terrified of that. But friendships? Friendships last. Wendy, I’ll never get rid of her, and she will always mom me to death. That is purity.

Oh honey, Elaine calls from her corner, rum collins raised in salute. Welcome to the gray side. We have better conversation and fewer expectations of fucking every five minutes.

The tension breaks like fever, laughter rippling through room in waves of relief and recognition. Sage creates quick sketch on napkin—three figures holding each other, no romantic configuration but something more complex and true.

I'm still not a piece of meat bitches, Erin says, but there's less fury in it now, more statement of fact requiring acknowledgment.

You're absolutely not, Renee agrees.

Ditto, Sarah adds, joining embrace that transforms triangle into something more stable—equilateral support structure rather than competition geometry.

Miguel pours three glasses of something amber and smooth, sliding them across bar toward the women who've just navigated minefield without losing limbs. On the house. For figuring out that sometimes the best outcome is nobody winning because the whole game was rigged from start.

Della emerges from kitchen with fresh plate of quesadillas, setting them in middle of their table like peace offering blessed by aggressive care and extensive cursing. Eat. Process. Don't be fucking idiots again.

Brandon's still scribbling, and I'm too emotionally wrung out to tell him to stop documenting our lives like we're anthropological study rather than actual humans navigating actual pain.

River's dozed off against Phoenix's shoulder, twelve-hour shift catching up while Phoenix strokes their hair with gentle reverence, ruby ring catching light like promise made manifest. Grubby watches with expression suggesting profound relief that this particular drama resolved without casualties.

The music shifts to Rush's "Tom Sawyer," and Gus asks Bubba something about navigating desire when you're not sure what you actually want versus what you've been taught to want. Bubba's response rumbles through basement with geological patience, explaining that figuring out who you are takes lifetime, not semester.

Onyx sits in corner, tears streaming down face—not from personal pain but from witnessing others' courage, from seeing people navigate vulnerability without armor. Miranda's positioned herself nearby, one hand resting near Onyx's shoulder, not quite touching but offering possibility of contact if needed.

That was intense, Ezra says, blue hair electric in light, piercings glinting like armor pieces they won't need tonight.

That was necessary, I correct, watching Renee, Sarah, and Erin sharing quesadillas while talking quietly about boundaries, friendship, what it means to show up for each other without romantic performance. Sometimes the most radical thing you can do is stop competing and start communicating.

Keira's voice cuts through my processing, quiet enough that only I can hear: Interesting evening.

There's weight in those two words, layers of meaning I don't have energy to excavate right now, but her tone carries something careful and knowing that makes my chest tighten in ways I can't articulate.

Yeah, I manage, finishing bourbon that tastes like smoke and memory. Interesting.

Mary raises her wine glass slightly, acknowledgment without words, and I'm struck again by how strange and beautiful that is, so I just nod.

The night continues its basement alchemy—Chris arguing theology with Leila until she's red-faced from frustration about how he weaponizes scripture, Erik describing assembly line masculinity with disgust that makes other trans guys nod in recognition, Lisa asking questions about lesbian desire with pragmatic directness that comes from starting this journey late but pursuing it authentically.

Julie holds court about how her marriage taught her that constant physical desire isn't proof of love, that intimacy manifests through showing up when partner needs presence more than passion. Eileen's organizing some protest between sips of whatever Miguel's poured, kinetic energy barely contained by flight attendant posture.

By closing time, Renee and Sarah are shooting pool together, easy companionship replacing territorial tension, and Erin's laughing with Brandon about something while he promises to let her read anything he writes about tonight before publishing. River's awake again, holding Phoenix close while discussing wedding details with quiet intensity that makes permanent partnership feel like revolutionary act rather than heteronormative capitulation.

Miguel starts collecting glasses, wedding ring catching light as he works, and Della emerges to kiss his cheek with casual affection that speaks to fifteen years of choosing each other daily. The basement smells like spilled bourbon, blackened catfish, possibility, and something approaching peace.

Same time Thursday? Erin asks, and there's belonging in her voice that wasn't there before, understanding that chosen family requires showing up even when—especially when—shit gets messy.

Always, multiple voices respond, chorus of commitment that doesn't require blood relation or romantic configuration, just willingness to witness each other's humanity completely.

I finish the last of Miguel's special bourbon, letting it burn down into chest where Gizmo's absence sits like permanent bruise, where hope for Phoenix's future blooms alongside grief for relationships that couldn't survive my transition, where chosen family's love coexists with biological family's failures without requiring resolution or neat endings.

The night ends not with toast but with natural dissolution—people drifting toward doors, toward lives waiting above ground, toward next day's battles knowing sanctuary will be here when they need it. Keira and I walk out together, not touching but moving in synchronized rhythm that comes from years of practice.

The basement lights dim behind us, music finally cutting to silence, and somewhere above ground the city continues its indifferent rotation while we carry tonight's lessons into tomorrow's uncertainties.

"To survive the Borderlands / you must live sin fronteras / be a crossroads." - Gloria Anzaldúa

Anzaldúa understood what we proved tonight in that basement sanctuary: existing at intersections—between identities, between desires, between what we want and what we're capable of risking—requires navigating borderlands where no map exists, where guidebooks fail, where only lived experience and trusted witnesses can help us find our way. Sarah's unnamed desire exists in borderland between fear and hope, between past damage and future possibility, in space where stoicism protects but also imprisons. Renee's graysexuality occupies frontier between sexual expectation and authentic experience, refusing binary choice between celibacy and constant performance. Erin's personhood demands recognition at crossroads where others' projections meet her actual agency. We create sanctuary not by eliminating complexity but by holding space for people to exist sin fronteras—without demanding they choose single territory, single identity, single way of loving or being loved. The borderlands are where transformation happens, where old maps burn and new ones get drawn in tears and bourbon and the terrifying courage of trying again despite knowing exactly how badly it can hurt.