Lionel brought us dishes of pickled veggies. The menu was written in loose scrawl on the back wall. I asked for pie, even though I wasn’t sure they served it.

As I waited, I stared at my bud. His eyes were tired. I was greedy with new information about him. Somewhere in between the city of height and wealth and the city of sunlight and fantasies, my hatred of him had changed form.

Lionel wheeled over a glass box, and inside I could see perfect neon spheres resting in trays. They reminded me of edible lil’ Bio-meters.

No explanation was provided, and I chose a pink one. Why travel in the relative safety of another trans guy and not relish the opportunity to fuck with gender?

With an oven mitt on, Lionel reached in and grabbed it.

“Hold out your hands.”

The sphere was deposited.

It was creamy without having any particular taste. I nibbled at it like a wary bunny and hoped that a queer diner would not put too many weird chemicals in its desserts. I couldn’t eat it all, and finally Lionel came by in rubber dish gloves to remove the orb from the table.

A pink spot remained.

When Lionel brought the check, a note was paper-clipped to it.

Get moving, was all it said, stamped with a green seal.

We pulled up to a dilapidated motel. A hand-painted sign depicted what could be Rita surfing on a wave. The sound of our car doors slamming summoned a small group of people in sweatpants. After spending years in a city of wealth, I found it strange to see such unkempt and unhurried folks, all holding plastic travel mugs. A pioneerish woman in a white dress and hiking boots came up behind them, without a mug, holding a lit candle. Her hair was braided, and she reminded me of the frontierswomen I used to fantasize about as a child. She walked straight up to us with a sort of vigor the others did not possess. The flame shook with her steps. She was probably forty-seven, or sixty-seven and well preserved by the desert.

“I heard you were coming. Welcome. I’m Rita. Let me show you to your unit. Guys, these are Blithe’s friends. They are coming to get him.”

We introduced ourselves. I scanned the group for someone who could be Blithe, but I didn’t see anyone in the shapeless semicircle.

She led us up to Unit 13 and unlocked the door. There was a musty smell and only one bed.

“As I said, Unit 14 is the only other non-resting room, and it’s currently occupied by birders,” she explained.

“That’s okay, it’s just one night,” Aiden replied, and I wondered if he was trying to renegotiate our relationship with a revenge fuck.

“Put your stuff down and I’ll take you to him.”

Aiden picked up a laminated copy of guidelines for guests to follow when interacting with resters, amounting to: Leave them the fuck alone. He took a picture of it.