I’d go home after this and try to finish the piece I’d been working on despite my wandering thoughts. Asher had kept popping up in my head, and I’d found myself doing sketches of him at odd moments, one of which I’d converted to pastels. It was of the day I’d seen him playing with Dali. Why that memory lingered, I had no idea.
I didn’t want to forgive him, and I didn’t want to admit that not everyone would be as comfortable with their sexual identity as I was. I had the “take no prisoners” attitude, and tended to look down on people hiding in the closet, pretending to be something they were not. But that wasn’t Asher anymore, it seemed. And he was the fucking out-and-proud mayor of this town. I hadn’t seen that coming in a million years.