The morning after five people were murdered at Club Q in Colorado Springs, I sunk into a booth with a childhood friend and her family at a gay-friendly brunch spot outside Miami. The news hadn’t made it to us, and the mood was light as we waited for our food. Ours was the only table in the place with little kids, and the waitress—a drag queen with fabulous sparkle lipstick—brought them bacon shortly after we sat down. Little sister ate hers and then stole a piece off her brother’s plate, and we all cracked up at her precociousness.
Dreaming forward. Moving backward.
Dreaming forward. Moving backward.
Dreaming forward. Moving backward.
The morning after five people were murdered at Club Q in Colorado Springs, I sunk into a booth with a childhood friend and her family at a gay-friendly brunch spot outside Miami. The news hadn’t made it to us, and the mood was light as we waited for our food. Ours was the only table in the place with little kids, and the waitress—a drag queen with fabulous sparkle lipstick—brought them bacon shortly after we sat down. Little sister ate hers and then stole a piece off her brother’s plate, and we all cracked up at her precociousness.