“How much is that small couch over there,” he asked.
I turned around to see if one of us would answer him and saw that I was closest to him. I walked toward him and noticed that he was about my height. He was older than me and I immediately knew he was gay. His white hat, casually but carefully draped sweater and his small leather bag hinted that he was a bit vain and when he spoke, he confirmed my assessment.
“It’s a nice size. Perfect for my bedroom, I think. What do you think? How much is it and does the store deliver?” he remarked as he bounced on the couch cushions.
“Hi. Let me see. The price is marked right here and it is $125. The larger couch is $175. Did you want to buy it?” I asked him. For the next fifteen minutes he talked about how he had finally cleaned out his apartment after the death of his partner in January. He had donated his friend’s clothing and other items to the shop in January. He said he was ready to donate his furniture and move to a smaller place and asked whether the store would pick up his items.
“He had aids but I don’t, he said. I almost died when he died in January, but now I’m starting to be able to function again. We were together for fourteen years. He was the art director at Bullocks in Westwood for many years and had so many nice clothes. Whatever happened to the red velvet shoes I donated? Do you know if anyone bought them because I’d like them back if they weren’t sold,” he said.
He spoke with the store manager about the red shoes, took another look at the sofa and then introduced himself to me. I shook his hand and as much as I felt empathy and a connection to him, I did not like his touch. His hand was damp and surprisingly small. I thought of his comments about how his partner had died. As if on autopilot, I walked to the employees’ bathroom and washed my hands.
I feel strange about my reaction, but just as I won't judge this man, I realize I won't judge my reaction to his touch. It is what it is, I guess.
