Outburst by R.D. Zimmerman

pariah? Or merely a lightning rod of gossip? He still didn't have a handle on it, how he fit—or if he did at all—into the gay community.
    The host, a short man with short bleached white hair and wearing a white T-shirt and a pale green cotton vest, eagerly rushed up.
    Addressing Todd before he could even get a word out, the host said, “Good evening, Mr. Mills. Right this way, please. The other two in your party are already here.”
    The price of fame or notoriety—or both—was the lack of anonymity, a dear price that Todd had always been more than willing to pay. He followed the host along the side hall of the cafe, glanced through an archway, and saw both Rawlins and Todd's longtime and dear friend, Janice, seated at a corner table, a glass of white wine before each of them. This wasn't good, his being the last to arrive.
    The dining room was small, with muted yellow walls, dim lights, and a bustling kitchen at the rear. As Todd crossed to his table, several more heads turned his way, but he didn't let on that he noticed them noticing him. Keeping focused, he made a direct line to these two, his pals and family of choice—the hunky gay cop and the beautiful dyke lawyer, as he called them. They all spoke, all three of them, at least once a day, checking in with the slightest detail of life—who watched what on TV, who was out of cereal, etc.—and, of course, discussing ad nauseam just what course of medical action Rawlins should take in his battle against HIV and when, even if, he should tell Foster, his partner, or Lieutenant Holbrook, his superior, or anyone else at the police department about his health status.
    Janice, whom Todd had dated way back in college at Northwestern University, was tall and thin with short dark hair and a quick smile. She had pale skin that was very soft, very lovely, and a small mouth that looked for any opportunity to burst into a wide grin. Now dressed in slim blue jeans and a cream-color cotton knit top, she looked the very image of summer informality; by day, however, there was no doubt about it, she was one hell of a defense attorney. Upon seeing Todd, Janice's smile bloomed, and he realized what a change had come over her in the last year. He saw how much more real her happiness was, for not long ago she'd solved the greatest mystery of her life, which in turn had lifted some kind of awful cloud from her and actually had bound the two of them together with true familial ties. Yes, she was noticeably brighter. Much more at peace, no doubt about it.
    “Hi,” he said, bending over and kissing Janice.
    “Hello, doll,” she countered, proffering him a generous smack of her lips on his cheek.
    Rawlins sat in the corner, and Todd was going to reach out and squeeze his hand or kiss him—with any luck they had decades and decades left, but who knew, certainly not the doctors; and Todd didn't care if anyone saw him kissing another man, because the threat hovering over Rawlins had taught Todd once and for all what was truly important in life—but Rawlins was checking his watch and not moving. Instead, Todd sat down in the seat they always left him in any restaurant, the one that positioned him so his back was to the main part of the room, the one that left his face the least visible to the public.
    “Come on, Rawlins,” begged Todd, the tone of his voice trying to make light of things. “On a scale of one to ten, I'm not that late.”
    “What?” said Rawlins, looking up. “Late? No, not too bad, not tonight.”
    Todd glanced at Janice, who rolled her eyes as she took a sip of her wine. Okay, thought Todd. What's going on? What have I done?
    A gorgeous young waitress appeared at the side of the table, her body trim, her skin a midnight black, her hair as short as could be. Huge gold hoops dangled from her ears.
    “Would you care for anything to drink, sir?” she asked. “A glass of wine perhaps?”
    Todd had it in the genes, the booze thing, and he was always cautious, always