Not Getting Off on the Right Foot

I rubbed my head, partly to show my displeasure and partly to check for a goose egg. It was there, but I'd had worse. Ducking with me behind the cafe's counter Beth could only snicker and point.

After she mumble whispered I had to ask, "What about the radar?"

"I said your gay-dar is off." She giggled, a dance of mirth and fleeting sympathy in her eyes. Her laughter died as the door swung open with a swoosh followed by three or four pairs of squeaking sneakers on the linoleum. I think Beth mouthed around a tentative smirk, "_I bet you wish you had a laser._"

"Hope you didn't jet off," boomed the recently offended jock, "you nancy little goal-poler! My friends want to say hi."

There was no way out. I was doomed. Smalltown, USA apparently was not ready for my brand of humorous flirtation.

Despite Beth's protests I stood, hands raised, "Look, I didn't mean any offense. And for what it's worth I genuinely thought you might look lovely in a tastefully selected gown. Comment officially rescinded."