All Stories Are Love Stories by Elizabeth Percer Page A

Max. “Said you were expecting them? Tried to buzz you, but you didn’t pick up.”
    â€œSister who?
    Rafael narrowed his eyes. “They said you were expecting them. Nun? About six feet tall, bright pink hair, a wig? Ring any bells?”
    â€œThe Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence? But they were supposed to be here tomorrow.” How had he messed that up?
    â€œHere,” Rafael said, turning the paper toward Max, “they signed.” Max peered at the names: Friar Schmuck and Sister Coco. One in tight print, the other in flaring cursive, the acronym SPI and the date beside their names.
    â€œShit,” he muttered, “I had them down for tomorrow,” he told the waiting Rafael, whose last name he could never remember but who reminded him vividly of a tiny, squawk-prone bird, voluminous in his fierceness. “I must have double-booked.” He grimaced his regret. Rafael took a beat before nodding skeptically in return, still waiting for an explanation for what had seemed like an unacceptable entry into his world, one he didn’t quite feel like waiving for Max.
    Max couldn’t resist. “Never heard of the order?” Rafael returned his gaze blankly. “They’re a San Francisco original, Rafael!” he scolded mockingly. He was fond of this pair, an old gay priest and a transgender nun, and was more than ready to go up against the conservatives on his board to make the Masonic their permanent home for Play Fair. Raised as he was with a father whose religion separated him from those he loved, he found an order devoted to safe sex and universalinclusion nothing short of miraculous. “You must have heard of them!”
    â€œI’m a Catholic.” Rafael frowned, sitting down and turning back to his notes.
    Inside the auditorium, Max checked his watch again. Six minutes past four. Shit. She already had the kids in formation and warming up. And now he was going to have to manage two clients as well as her. Oh well. The kids sounded great, and no one had seen him yet.
    Max took a seat in the back, using the low light to remain anonymous for a few more minutes and take a breather. The only person near him a small girl slumped into her jacket, as if she were hiding in the dark.
Good idea
, he thought, leaning back and closing his eyes to listen.
    When his seat leapt beneath him, he had just begun to drift off.

8
    â€œHe must really be something. Or is it a she?”
    Vashti looked up at the waitress squinting down at her. She had small, dark eyes. Her skin was leathery from too much sun and smoke, but her mouth was kind.
    â€œExcuse me?”
    She poured more coffee into Vashti’s mug. “You’ve been sitting here all afternoon, hon, nursing that coffee like whiskey. Where I come from, we’d say you’re wound up tighter than an eight-day clock.”
    â€œI’m finishing up.”
    â€œOf course you are.” The waitress looked over her shoulder before leaning in. “You want to know something?”
    Vashti wasn’t sure she did.
    â€œI loved someone like that once.” They regarded each other. “He’s dead now.”
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    â€œDoesn’t matter.” Her earlobes were empty circles lined with silver.
Did it hurt?
Vashti wondered. Maybe once, but certainly not as much now.
    â€œI loved him the whole time he was alive, when all our friends were having one fling after another and getting married and then getting unmarried.
Why bother
, we used to say to each other”—she shook out a damp cloth and ran it acrossthe empty table near the window—“
falling in love if you don’t like what comes after?
Crazy, huh?” She looked up at Vashti, wanting a response.
    â€œI guess.”
    â€œYou
know
, I’d say”—she went back to rubbing the dirt and crumbs off the table and onto the floor—“a romantic streak ain’t nothing to be ashamed of, hon.