Winter cast the hue of ash over the city, dingy and dim, until the fateful day when the clouds covered the gray by erupting into sheets of glistening white. As with everything, the snow stayed pristine for only a short time before it was sullied by gravel, salt, and the boots of men. The heavy leather of my shoes didn’t prevent my toes from being nipped by the cold as I walked the crowded block in Towertown. While the news broadcasted a litany of fear regarding the state of the economy, the pansy parlors hadn’t gotten the memo. Business for the bitches was still booming, which was advantageous for me. Guys in the outfit who had balked at servicing Towertown months earlier were suddenly taking an interest in the queer clubs now that the establishments they serviced were struggling. Lucky for me, I was bringing in a lot of cash and the bosses had no interest in disrupting the flow.

Christmas lights adorned the brick buildings, dispelling rumors that a lack of frivolous spending on excess electricity would minimize the merriment of the holidays. The traditional signs of the season never meant much to me, but I could not deny that the luminous orbs reflecting sparkling colors onto the dirty-in-the-daylight snow were beautiful. From time to time, I vowed that I would devote more energy into focusing on the many small wonders surrounding me, but then I’d come to my senses and remember that nothing, no matter how enchanting, remained untarnished forever. Eventually the filthy snow would melt, the lights would burn out, and the buildings would be empty. Decay was inevitable, trying to fight it was futile, yet the idealistic still did. I wasn’t like them, and I didn’t want to be. Blind confidence in beauty was a surefire way to live a life of disappointment.

A warm dense humidity hit me as soon as I entered The Gallery on State, the thick air a result of gyrating bodies and mouths agape with laughter. I was barely through the door when the slight singing queen with the rosebud lips approached me.

“You don’t come in here often, but I notice it when you do,” he told me in a way that was less a pick-up line and more a soft admission. “Your hair is as dark as squid ink, and your peepers are so light. It’s a nice combination.”

“I have business with Abe,” I said, glancing around the congested room to avoid his gaze. His dull cinder eyes were too sorrowful to regard.

“Maybe we could have business together too? We could party in the tea room if you’d like,” he propositioned, his voice vulnerable in a way that made me terribly uneasy. “I would give you a good rate.”

“I don’t come here to be solicited,” I huffed, tucking my hands deep into the pockets of my wool pants.