Monday night, W. and I go to La Cita for Mustache. On the way in, the bouncer asks us if we know it's "gay night". I look at W. as if scandalized. "Don't tell me you're gay!" I say. "No," he deadpans, "but the guys who suck my dick are."

We sit at the bar, catching up on our lives, plans, and, with our phones, internet stuff we've wanted to show one another. He confesses to loving Call Me Maybe, which delights me to no end, and I regale him with random animal trivia about baby aardvarks whose coloring matches their mothers and a lizard I read about that has two mates (one big and strong, to mate with, and one with a good nest, to raise her offspring with). We chat up the new bartender, from whom I win a bet and a shot (he doesn't believe I'm older than him). Sigh.

The music is lame, so dancing's a bust. We go to LA Cafe, order chili cheese fries, and socialize with tablemates. A. comes by to walk me home, even though he's exhausted from preparing for a show Thursday. I'm wearing a cropped t-shirt, and it's cold - he insists on giving me his sweatshirt. Before we leave, I get to hold the tiniest of tiny puppies (Chihuahua and Dachshund mix) named Maggie. She's 1/3 the size of Chaucer's head.

Today, sleeping way, way too late, then housecleaning, laundry, and a trip to Pussy and Pooch. Tonight A. and I go grocery shopping, and despite the fact that our cart is overflowing, he insists on self-checking. It takes a good fifteen minutes, is a ridiculous pain in the ass due to how much crap we have and how little room there is to bag it, and at the time, I'm pretty annoyed. Later I realize there'll come a day when I'll look back and would kill to be there, in a grocery store in downtown Los Angeles, relatively young and carefree, in the company of a cute boy who thinks it's fun to scan his own produce so he can sneakily combine three kinds of onions.