It seems that whenever us queers manage to finally find some bit of happiness, someone takes it away, someone straight.

My boyfriend and I were walking down the street in the wintertime, when the cold gusts cut through our thin windbreakers and freeze the marrow in our bones. The sky overhead was gray, faded, and constantly changing, the clouds shifting in the breeze. My Converse tap-tapped on the cold concrete of the sidewalk, while my boyfriend’s boots thumped ever-so-gracefully beside me. He always did wear those silly boots that looked so good on him; he also brushed his bleached-blond hair so that it was parted on the side, put on a little eyeliner on the weekdays, and put on some light eye shadow and mascara on the weekends. To me, he was a model, a gorgeous Greek beauty that illuminated the dark nights.

We were happy that day. It was my birthday, and we had gone out to celebrate at an expensive restaurant. You know, the kind with two forks, cloth napkins and tablecloths, classical music playing in the background, real wood chairs and tables, and waiters that were polite even to the rudest bastards who walked in there. When the check came, I just about had a heart attack, but my baby took it out of my hands and smiled with his crooked smile. He paid for it, even though I protested until I realized that I was getting nowhere, and we left in good spirits nevertheless.

We were walking back to our cheap apartment, holding hands tightly. I always admired the contrast in our hands: his were so pale, and though mine were not very dark, I had always liked to imagine that, together, our hands looked beautiful. I was staring at those pink lips of his, watching his soft hair in the breeze, looking everywhere but where we were going. We just happened to walk right by a crowd of drunk, twenty-year-old, straight men, and we were still holding hands, like the world could crumble beneath our feet and we would still be locked together, our secret connection.

The sky had gotten considerably darker since we had been in the restaurant, and the streetlights glowed amber in the foggy dark that had encircled the world. As we walked by, I accidentally brushed shoulders with one of the men, and though we kept walking, not looking back, I could feel his angry eyes on me.

“Hey faggots!” he shouted at us from behind. I felt that word penetrate my heart and the breath caught in my throat; dear God, anything but that word.

“You watch yourself, fags!” another shouted, “Don’t get so fuckin’ close!”

“Yeah, we don’t want any of you sick motherfuckers hangin’ ‘round here anyways!” the first man screamed, slurring his words. We had quickened our step and grasped each other’s hands tighter, but my heart still pounded and ached in my chest, my head was filled with a fog, my throat was constricted, and my mouth tasted of bile.

When we got to the front of the apartment, my boyfriend broke down, crying with his back up against the wall. He shook his head when I went to wipe the tears away, and I stood back awkwardly and watched him cry, wishing that I could do the same, just let all the emotion out at once.

“I’m sorry… it… it was… your birthday,” he finally choked out, and I understood all at once where the tears had come from. I hugged him close, then, whispered condolences in his ear, and deciding that from that day forward, I would find pleasure everywhere I looked in life, even in the little things. Take it when you can get it, I thought, because you’ll never know when something will take your happiness away.