There Sophie was, trying her best to enjoy the ramen that had just been placed in front of her at the restaurant when a pair of ostensibly “butch” dudes sat down at the two-top table next to hers. And, because it was a ramen restaurant, the placement of each table was decidedly “on top of one another,” making it easy for Sophie to hear the duo’s incredibly banal conversation. The one thing that wasn’t banal about them (though maybe even this was, too, in its own way) was that they were obviously going out of their way to seem straight. In a manner that, naturally, they weren’t even aware of. Trying so inherently to “overcorrect” any sense of their queerness by acting as stereotypically “hetero male” as they could.

So it was that the requisite talk of sports and “pussy” could be overheard. Talk that was more glaringly counteracted by the guy sitting kitty-corner to Sophie, who she nicknamed Fagola #1, repeatedly complimenting Fagola #2. Just because he loved his “haircut” so much. But it was obvious there was something else about Fagola #2 that he loved far more, though he tried to suppress it even as it was bubbling to the surface from deep within his loins. What he didn’t suppress, however, was the urge to take Fagola #2’s picture multiple times on his phone. Because of the “haircut.”

The none-too-codedness of it all was enough to make Sophie barely keep down her noodles as she suffered through their monotonous exchange that was so desperately trying to conceal the “subtext” of their togetherness in this scenario. It was apparent that neither of them felt comfortable being alone with the other. That, to them, it was somehow “taboo” for just two men to spend time with one another. More specifically, two “straight” men. For this was a breed more known for being spotted in large groups, carousing together in bars, sporting events or strip clubs. Or at least that was the enduring myth. It especially seemed to be for Fagola #1 and Fagola #2. As though they couldn’t shake the thought that some junior high/high school bully type might pop out from behind the curtain and scream, “Hey! Get a load of these two fags!” just because they were two men sitting together, “gayly” having a conversation.

Sophie understood, in a sense, where they were, er, coming from. After all, this wasn’t the most open-minded town in the world. Sure, it was “liberal” in respect to the rest of its red state environs, but no one was under any delusions about how “buttoned up” it still was. Shit, this ramen restaurant had only opened about six months ago, and now served as pretty much the only source of “ethnic” cuisine in the area…though some tried to say the local deli counted as being “Jewish.” So sure, maybe Sophie oughtn’t have been so irritated by their blatant repression. It wasn’t as though this place encouraged being open about who you “really” were. It was essentially as hetero as you could get. Ironically making it a homogenous location. Sophie herself certainly wouldn’t be living here if she hadn’t been forced to come back after a brief stint in “the big city.” And though she was embarrassed about her inability to succeed there, she still took comfort in the fact that at least she had tried. That was far more than most from this godforsaken hellhole could say. In fact, most of the residents here took pride in the tradition of staying. Of having such deep roots with their lineage in this particular town. Smack-dab in the middle of nowhere.

Lost in these thoughts, mixed with contempt and annoyance as they were, Sophie unwittingly let her ramen get far too cold for enjoyable consumption. A truly remarkable feat considering how piping hot it was when her server had brought it out to her. The idea of trying to finish it now seemed both pointless and gross, so she attempted to make eye contact with her harried server to nonverbally let him know she wanted the bill. But any such attempts at catching his attention in this way were futile when pitted against all the tables he was currently dealing with, pulled in every direction like Stretch Armstrong (or his dog, Fetch Armstrong). And it just gave Sophie more time to listen to these men do their best impersonation of what it was to be straight. The only reprieve she got from it came when Fagola #2 got up to go to the bathroom. That left Fagola #1 plenty of time to make occasional faux flirtatious glances at her, what with their positioning at these tables being so “in close proximity.”

When Sophie made the mistake of letting her eyes linger on his gaze for too long, he took it as an invitation to say, “Sup?”

How, she wondered, could this bid to simply enjoy some ramen on a cold day possibly keep reaching new levels of such failure? She took a deep breath and found it in herself to answer, “Not much.”

“What’s someone as beautiful as you doing here all alone?”

Oh God, this was it. She had always wondered what “inciting incident” might finally lead her to kill someone who had irritated her enough in the public space. Though she didn’t have a gun, there were enough sharp objects around her to make do. To stop this person from continuing to talk…permanently. Miraculously, however, she kept her cool and just sort of made a tittering sound by way of answering. Maybe he would interpret that as being part of her “coquettish shyness” and back the fuck off. Instead, he continued.

“Cat got your tongue?”

Still no answer.

“Well, I’d love to get your tongue—on my dick.”

That was it. The last straw. She stared daggers at him just as Fagola #2 was returning from the bathroom, slowly coming up behind Fagola #1 to sit back down (not, contrary to Sophie’s initial belief, to finally jump his bones). Taking the opportunity to detonate their dynamic, Sophie acridly returned, “I think what you’d actually like is your ‘special friend’s’ asshole on your dick.”

Fagola #2’s face immediately fell upon hearing this, and it was clear he didn’t even want to sit back down again, so affronted was he by the notion of being perceived as “homo” by association with Fagola #1. Even so, he slid back onto the chair and slumped his shoulders.

Fagola #1 went from stunned to irate in about one and a half seconds. “What the fuck is your problem, bitch?” Because a woman is always a “bitch” when she says something unpleasant to or about a man. Or deemed to be unpleasant.

“I might ask you the same. Why can’t you both admit that you’re clearly attracted to one another and you should just give up this macho charade. No one with half a brain is buying it.” Sophie then proceeded to rise from her chair before concluding, “But then again, that’s probably why no one will ever ‘suspect’ you in this town. Not many ‘sharp tools’ here, just the ones you both have when you see each other.”

Without waiting to see what either of them would say or do next, Sophie went up to the register so she could pay and get out of there tout de suite. Her only hope was that, someday, the pair might view what she had said as an act of kindness. Hitting them over the head with the bluntness they needed to at least start secretly meeting in the woods behind the Dick’s Sporting Goods to butt-fuck now and again.