Conjuring Stories

I went to the bar that I usually frequented on a Friday evening. It was, as it proclaimed loudly from a blackboard outside, gay friendly, but it wasn’t one of those that encouraged overt exhibition, and its clientele was nearer to my age than others in the city. Denise, owner as well as barkeep this evening, asked me, “What’s your poison, sweetheart?” She called everyone sweetheart but kept her actual affection for a woma...